The splintered wooden planks of the gangway creaked beneath my feet as I made my way off the boat with Sam at my side. The wood was old and tired; it groaned like a living thing beneath our weight, protesting each footfall with a symphony of squeaks and shudders. Small gaps between the boards revealed flashes of dark water below.

  I closed my eyes for a moment and let the sea breeze wash over me, bringing with it the scent of fish and salt, the distant calls of seagulls, and the noise of the port. I'd spent two weeks on that vessel, and despite everything that awaited me, the solid feel of the dock beneath my feet was a relief I couldn't ignore.

  "Almost there." His voice was warm and reassuring as he navigated the narrow gangway beside me, his shoulder occasionally brushing against mine

  I clenched my jaw, trying to ignore the burning sensation at the back of my neck. The curious and scornful eyes alike bored into my skin. I knew they were staring at my horns, those two curved ivory daggers that swept back from my forehead and betrayed my demonic heritage. No matter how many times I felt those stares, it never became easier to bear. Back home, horns were a sign of status, of strength. Here, they marked me as dangerous, exotic, a curiosity to be examined from a safe distance.

  "Watch your step," Sam warned, extending a hand to help me down the final stretch of the rickety plank. His calloused fingers were surprisingly gentle as they wrapped around my hand, steadying my descent onto solid ground.

  "Thanks," I muttered, pulling away from his grasp as soon as my feet touched the dock. Despite the bond that had formed between us during the journey and my gratitude for his help, I could not afford to let my guard down. Kindness in this world was often a prelude to betrayal. I'd learned that lesson the hard way, more than once.

  Sam didn't seem offended by my withdrawal. His brown eyes held understanding, maybe even a hint of sadness. He was younger than most captors I'd encountered, with sun-golden hair and a face that smiled easily. Too easily, sometimes. During our journey, he'd brought me actual food instead of the slop they fed to most demon cargo, had cleaned my wounds when the shackles cut too deep, had spoken to me like I was more than just property to be delivered.

  The stares continued to follow us even as we left the boat behind; the whispers growing louder in our wake. A woman clutched her child closer as we passed, as if I might suddenly abandon all restraint and attack them both. A man spat on the ground, deliberately missing my feet by mere inches. I fought the urge to confront them, to make them understand I wasn't some monster to be gawked at. But what would be the point? Their minds were already made up about what I was.

  "Seems like we're quite the spectacle," Sam’s eyes scanning the crowd of sailors and passengers who were unabashedly staring at us. He shifted his weight, standing slightly in front of me, as if to shield me from their gazes. The gesture was pointless, but I appreciated the sentiment nonetheless.

  I sighed. "It's nothing new," I said, bitterness creeping into my voice. "I've been attracting stares my whole life."

  "I think all those stares are more about your beauty than anything else." There was a hint of admiration in his tone, but it only served to grate against my nerves.

  I snorted, unable to stop myself. "My beauty?" I gestured towards my horns, the sharp points silhouetted in the sunlight. "You mean these?"

  Sam's cheeks flushed a light pink. "Well, yes, they are quite... striking. But I meant... all of you." His eyes flicked over me quickly, then away. "I've escorted many demons to auction, and none have carried themselves with your dignity. It's... noticeable."

  I studied him, trying to discern if his words were sincere or just another human attempt at manipulation. His heartbeat remained steady, his pupils normal—no signs of deception I could detect.

  "Just because men like you so readily accept the presence of demons," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, "doesn't mean everyone is so open-minded and accepting." I gestured subtly toward a group of sailors who were openly glaring in our direction, their hands resting on the hilts of knives tucked into their belts.

  Sam had the decency to look chastened. "I know. I'm sorry." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I'd noticed he made when uncomfortable. "Sometimes I forget how things look from your perspective."

  I wrapped my arms around myself, the cold metal of my cuffs biting into my skin. A reminder, as if I needed any more. Sam had been kind enough to keep my cuffs unlinked during our journey, but that small mercy would soon end.

  "Are you cold?" Sam asked, genuine concern lacing his words. He began to shrug off his own jacket, a well-worn leather garment that smelled of sea salt and tobacco.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "Demons don't get cold easily." The chill had little to do with the temperature and everything to do with what waited for me at the end of this dock. Still, when he draped the jacket around my shoulders anyway, I didn't push it off. The weight of it was oddly comforting, like armor against the stares.

  "Thank you." For all his faults, Sam had treated me with more kindness than most.

  "We should get going," Sam said, glancing at the deepening shadows. "We've got a carriage waiting to take us to the market district. That's where you'll be staying tonight before the auction tomorrow." He hesitated, then added, "The accommodations should be comfortable. Far better than the ship, at least."

  I nodded, forcing my feet to move forward. Each step taking me closer to my fate felt heavier than the last. We moved through the busy dockyard, navigating around crates and coils of rope, weaving between groups of sailors and merchants haggling over goods. I could hear snippets of conversation as we passed, remarks about my appearance, speculations about my worth, crude jokes about what I might be "good for".

  I kept my gaze fixed ahead, refusing to acknowledge any of it.

  A sudden thud made both Sam and me jump. We spun around to find a man standing on the ground behind us, having leaped from the top of a dark carriage that had pulled up alongside the dock. The carriage was elegant but understated, with plain black lacquer and silver fittings that caught the last rays of sunlight. The horses that pulled it were massive beasts, their coats gleaming like polished onyx.

  The man who had jumped down was tall and lean, with sharp features and eyes the color of steel. His clothing was expensive, a tailored suit of charcoal gray with a burgundy waistcoat beneath. Every inch of him screamed wealth and privilege, from his perfectly manicured hands to the silver-tipped cane he carried more for show than support.

  His cold, calculating gaze bored into me, sending shivers down my spine. Something about his eyes reminded me of the predators that stalked the forests of Naerith, patient, merciless, always watching for weakness.

  "Deacon," Sam muttered, clearly caught off-guard by his sudden appearance. His shoulders tensed, his posture shifting subtly into something more defensive. Whoever this Deacon was, Sam wasn't pleased to see him.

  "Samuel, my dear boy," Deacon replied smoothly, dusting himself off with gloved hands. He turned his attention to me, his lips curling into a smile that never reached his eyes. "And you must be the charming Joy."

  I knew that tone of voice, the false warmth that masked something colder beneath. I'd heard it from nobles in Naerith when they addressed those they considered beneath them. Indignation flared before I could stop it. "What do you want?" I demanded, drawing myself up to my full height. I might be in chains, but I wouldn't cower before him.

  "Is that any way to treat someone who just wants to offer you a ride?" Deacon asked, feigning innocence as he gestured toward the carriage. "You look exhausted, my dear. And you have quite a journey ahead of you." His gaze swept over me, lingering on my horns, my shoulders, my hands, assessing my value with each glance.

  I glanced at Sam, who stood nearby, jaw clenched and fists balled. The tension radiated off him, and it only heightened my own unease. There was clearly history between these two men, and not the friendly kind.

  "Allow me," Deacon's voice was smooth like silk, as he reached for the carriage door handle. The door swung open with a creak that echoed in the air, revealing the dimly lit interior. Plush velvet seats in deep burgundy lined the inside, far more luxurious than I had expected. He extended his hand towards me, the invitation clear.

  Despite the coldness of his gaze, his actions were gentlemanly, yet I found myself hesitating before accepting his assistance. Every instinct warned me against trusting this man, against entering the enclosed space of the carriage with him. But what choice did I have? I was still a prisoner, regardless of who escorted me.

  "Fine." I accepted Deacon's offered hand, and allowed him to help me into the carriage. His grip was just a fraction too tight to be comfortable.

  "Watch your step, my dear.” Once I was seated, he followed suit, arranging himself on the opposite bench, his long legs stretched out in front of him. The interior of the carriage smelled of leather and some spicy cologne that made my nose itch.

  "Sam," Deacon called out, as he cradled his wrist with an exaggerated wince. "Would you be so kind as to drive? I seem to have injured myself."

  "Your wrist looks fine to me." Sam cast a suspicious glance at Deacon's seemingly unharmed appendage. He stood by the open door, clearly reluctant to leave me alone with Deacon.

  "Please, Sam. It's just a minor inconvenience, but it would be much appreciated." Deacon's tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of command in it that suggested he was used to having his orders obeyed.

  "Fine." Sam turned away from us, muttering under his breath as he took his place at the front of the carriage. Through the small window at the front, I could see his shoulders set in a rigid line of frustration.

  Deacon glanced at me expectantly, waiting for my reaction. I kept my thoughts to myself, uncertainty gnawing at the pit of my stomach. I focused instead on memorizing the route we would take, noting landmarks and counting turns. If the worst happened and I needed to escape, such knowledge might prove invaluable.

  As the carriage lurched into motion, my heart raced faster. Every turn of the wheels brought me closer to the auction site, and my new fate. I turned my attention to the window, watching as the landscape slid by. The island was beautiful, I had to admit—lush and verdant, with vegetation unlike anything in Naerith. Palm trees swayed in the gentle breeze, their fronds rustling like whispers.

  Under different circumstances, I might have found peace here. But such thoughts were dangerous luxuries I couldn't afford. I needed to stay alert, to watch for opportunities, to survive until... until what? Until I could escape? Until someone purchased me and took me to yet another prison?

  The carriage continued its journey into the gathering darkness, carrying me toward whatever awaited at the auction block.