Chapter 161. Traditions

The boys stepped out into the controlled chaos of the Adventurer District, and Adom began murmuring under his breath.

"Left at the fountain with the dragon motif, straight past the weapons quarter, right at the tavern with the blue door..."

"Are you reciting directions?" Sam asked.

"Memorized the layout yesterday," Adom said, not breaking stride. "Habit."

The district buzzed with activity. Job boards lined every major intersection, covered in notices that ranged from the mundane to the obviously suicidal. Karion paused to read a few as they passed.

"'Seeking experienced party for basilisk extermination. Previous applicants welcome to reapply if still breathing,'" he read aloud. "'Wanted: Someone stupid enough to investigate mysterious singing in the Whispering Caves. Good pay, terrible survival odds.'"

"Cheerful," Damus commented.

They'd made it maybe three blocks when a large lizardman stepped directly into their path. He was built like a siege engine wrapped in scales, with arms that could probably bench press a small house.

"Hold up there, friends," he said in a voice like gravel grinding against stone. His eyes fixed on Karion's mace and Damus's sword. "Those are some nice pieces of steel you're carrying."

"Thanks," Karion said carefully.

"My party's looking for a couple more fighters. We've got a job lined up in the Sunken Crypts—good money, proper dungeon work. You look like you know which end of those weapons to hold."

The lizardman's smile revealed teeth that belonged in a shark's mouth. "Name's Thrakk. I run a tight operation. Professional work, professional pay."

Adom stepped slightly forward. "We appreciate the offer, but we're already committed to another job."

"What kind of job?" Thrakk's eyes narrowed with interest.

"Private contract," Sam said smoothly. "Already signed the paperwork."

"Shame." Thrakk looked genuinely disappointed. "You sure I can't change your minds? The Crypts have been picking off solo adventurers for weeks. Could use fighters with your look about them."

"We're honored by the offer," Damus said with polite firmness, "but we have to decline."

Thrakk shrugged, causing his scales to ripple. "Fair enough. If your 'private contract' falls through, ask around for me. I'll be here through the week."

He stepped aside, and they continued walking.

"Think he was legitimate?" Karion asked once they were out of earshot.

"Probably," Adom said. "The Sunken Crypts are a real dungeon about two days south of here. Moderately dangerous, good training ground for mid-level parties."

"How do you know that?"

"I read the job boards while you were all sleeping."

They passed more taverns, more weapon shops, more groups of adventurers haggling over contracts and arguing about loot distribution. The smell of cooking food mixed with the metallic tang of weapon oil and the occasional whiff of something alchemical.

"Right at the enchanter's shop with the glowing sign, straight past the training yards..." Adom continued his quiet navigation.

The training yards were exactly what they sounded like—open areas where adventurers practiced their skills under the artificial sky. They could hear the clash of metal on metal, the twang of bowstrings, and the occasional explosion of magical energy.

"Left at the statue of the guy with too many swords..."

"That's supposed to be Kaelen the Bladedancer," Sam said, reading the plaque. "Says here he could wield seven weapons simultaneously."

"Show-off," Karion muttered.

The crowds began to thin as they moved away from the commercial heart of the district. The buildings here were still carved from the living wood, but they had a more residential feel—smaller shops, quieter streets, actual trees growing alongside the structures instead of being the structures.

Finally, they emerged into what could only be called a park.

It was a circular clearing where the heartwood opened up to reveal soil and plants. Benches carved from polished stone sat beneath smaller trees that provided comfortable shade. A stream ran through the center, fed by some underground spring that babbled peacefully over smooth rocks.

"Let's go sit over there," Adom said, pointing to a bench that offered a good view of the park's entrance while keeping their backs to a cluster of flowering bushes.

They settled onto the stone bench, and Zuni immediately began investigating the interesting smells coming from the nearby flowers.

These smell like honey cakes, he announced.

"Don't eat the landscaping," Adom said absently, his eyes on the park's entrance.

Now they waited.

They sat in comfortable silence, each pulling out something to occupy their time. Sam produced a small journal and began sketching the park's layout with quick, precise strokes. Karion unfolded a letter from home and read it for what was probably the third time. Damus pulled out a slim volume of poetry and flipped to a bookmarked page.

Adom kept his eyes on the entrance while pretending to review a set of merchant receipts.

Minutes passed. Then more minutes.

These flowers definitely taste like honey cakes, Zuni reported from somewhere behind the bench.

"I told you not to eat the landscaping," Adom said without turning around.

I'm not eating them. I'm just... sampling. For science.

More time crawled by. The stream continued its cheerful babbling. A pair of elves walked through the park, deep in conversation about potion ingredients. Someone's familiar squeaked from a nearby tree.

"Your contact is late," Sam said, closing his journal.

"Yeah," Adom replied, still watching the entrance.

"I think I see him," Karion said suddenly, nodding toward a figure approaching the park.

Adom looked up. A man in a dark traveling cloak was walking toward them with the measured pace of someone who knew exactly where he was going. Average height, brown hair, the kind of unremarkable appearance that made for good spy work. He matched the description perfectly.

The man's eyes swept the park, found their bench, and he started walking directly toward them.

Adom straightened slightly. This was it.

The man walked right past them and sat down at a bench twenty feet away, where three other people were waiting for him.

"Well," Damus said after a moment. "That was anticlimactic."

"Maybe we should—" Sam started.

"Gentlemen? Sorry I'm late."

They turned to find another man standing behind their bench—this one also matching the description exactly. Same average height, same brown hair, same unremarkable face that probably got lost in crowds on a regular basis.

"The crystal archives were more heavily guarded than usual," he continued. "And then I had to deal with a Guild bureaucrat who apparently thought my paperwork needed to be filed in triplicate. In three different languages. With witnesses."

The man settled onto the bench and took a proper look at them for the first time. His eyes moved from Sam to Karion to Damus, then landed on Adom and stayed there.

"I was told the boss was young," he said slowly. "But wow." He tilted his head. "What are you, like, seventeen?"

"Nineteen, actually," Adom replied without any particular defensiveness.

"Well then." The man extended his hand. "Name's Kellan—false, of course, but it'll do for our purposes. Pleased to finally meet you, sir."

Adom shook his hand. "Likewise."

"Did you get a lead on our target?" Adom asked.

"I did indeed." Kellan lowered his voice slightly. "There's a place she went through. A slave market. It's possible some of the people there might have information about her movements. She bought quite a few slaves during her visit—warriors among them, from what I could gather."

Adom blinked. "Slave market?"

Kellan looked at him with mild surprise. "Ah. You really are new to elven territories, aren't you?" He glanced around to make sure no one was listening. "This isn't the human kingdoms, sir. Elven society runs on different rules. The Silvandrosi especially have built entire economies on slavery. Has been that way for centuries."

"I wasn't aware this place had that, though," Adom said.

"Well, it's not exactly advertised." Kellan's tone took on a cynical edge. "They opened their borders to everyone about fifty years ago—good for trade, good for their reputation. But it would be rather bad for business if all those tourists from more... modern societies knew they still kept slaves. Most elves, especially the Silvandrosi, are quite conservative about their traditions. They just keep the ugly parts out of sight."

Sam and Karion exchanged glances. Damus closed his poetry book with a soft snap.

"So they hide it?" Adom asked.

"Very carefully. The market operates in the old district, down where the tree roots are thickest and the tourists don't usually wander. Perfectly legal by their laws, perfectly invisible to anyone who doesn't know where to look."

"How can we get there?" Adom asked.

"That's why I was late." Kellan reached into his coat and pulled out a small leather pouch. "Getting these took longer than expected."

He opened the pouch and poured five smooth crystals into his palm. They were about the size of coins, each one carved with intricate runes that seemed to shift slightly in the light.

"Transportation crystals," Kellan explained. "Only locals and a few privileged people have access to these—they're distributed by the city council and tracked pretty carefully. The tourists are supposed to walk everywhere, experience the 'authentic tree city adventure' and all that."

He held up one of the crystals. "These are enchanted for specific levels of the tree. This set will take us down to the root market in seconds."

I was wondering what kind of legs these elves must have to make all that walking practical, Zuni's voice drifted from somewhere near Adom's shoulder. Glad that mystery is solved.

Adom smiled slightly.

"What are we waiting for then?" Karion asked.

"Nothing, really." Kellan tucked the crystals back into the pouch except for five, which he kept in his palm. "I've already arranged meetings with a few slave traders. Maybe we can have a productive conversation, pay them for their time and information." He looked at Adom. "You did bring the gold I requested?"

"Yes."

"Excellent." Kellan handed each of them a crystal. "Just press your thumb to the runes. The crystal already contains the needed mana to activate it. Should take us straight to the market."

Sam turned his crystal over in his hand, examining the runes. "How do we get back?"

"Same crystal works both ways. Press it again down there and it brings you back exactly where you left from." Kellan stood up from the bench. "Everyone ready?"

They all stood, crystals in hand.

"Press on three?" Damus suggested.

"Sure." Kellan counted down. "One... two... three."

They pressed their thumbs to the runes.

The world blurred and snapped back into focus. Adom's feet found solid ground without the nausea that came with portal travel. He'd have to figure out how to replicate that. Portals tore you apart and rebuilt you across vast distances—the longer the journey, the more time your consciousness spent scattered across the void, which explained the disorientation and sickness afterward. Crystals worked differently as they were designed for shorter hops.

There had to be a way to modify portal magic to reduce the trauma, maybe by creating smaller jumps or finding a gentler method of reconstruction.

"Well," Sam's voice cut through his thoughts. "We're here."

They were indeed.

The market sprawled before them in a vast hollow between the great tree's roots, lit by glowing fungi that cast everything in warm amber light. Vendors had carved their stalls directly into the living wood, creating an organic maze of commerce that seemed to breathe with the tree itself. The air carried the rich scents of roasted chestnuts, cinnamon bread, and exotic teas. Children ran between the stalls clutching sugar-dusted pastries while their parents examined bolts of silk and fine jewelry.

It looked like any prosperous market in any civilized city.

Except for the platforms.

Adom's gaze found the first auction block almost immediately. A human woman stood there with her hands bound behind her back, wearing a simple white shift that had clearly been chosen to display rather than conceal. The auctioneer—a well-dressed elf in burgundy velvet—was speaking to the small crowd gathered below.

"Note the excellent muscle tone," the elf said, running his hand along the woman's arm like he was examining a horse. "Twenty-three years old, all her teeth, no diseases. Previous owner reports she's literate in three languages and has basic healing knowledge."

He gripped her chin and forced her mouth open, displaying her teeth to the bidders. A few leaned forward for a better look. One asked a question about her temperament.

"Spirited when we acquired her," the auctioneer replied with a practiced smile. "But properly trained now. Observe."

He snapped his fingers. The woman immediately knelt, eyes fixed on the ground.

"Excellent obedience training. She'll make a fine addition to any household staff, or"—his voice took on a more suggestive tone—"for those seeking more personal companionship, she's proven quite... adaptable."

A middle-aged elf woman in the crowd raised her hand. "Has she been bred?"

"No children yet, but the previous owner's physician confirmed she's fertile. Perfect for establishing a breeding line if that's your intention."

The woman nodded thoughtfully, as if considering the purchase of a prize mare.

Adom's hands slowly curled into fists. On the platform, the human woman's face remained completely blank. Whatever had once lived behind her eyes had been methodically crushed.

To their left, another auction was concluding.

A young orc male, probably no older than sixteen, was being led away by his new owner—a portly elf merchant who was already discussing work assignments with his steward. The orc followed without resistance, but Adom caught the brief moment when his shoulders sagged in defeat.

A third platform featured a dwarf family. Father, mother, two children. They were being sold as a lot, the auctioneer explaining how keeping families together often improved productivity and reduced escape attempts. The children clung to their parents' legs while potential buyers discussed their mining experience and whether the investment in feeding four mouths would be worthwhile.

Adom noticed something else. Every face on every platform was human, orc, dwarf, halfling, or some other non-elven race. Not a single elf among the merchandise. The buyers, the auctioneers, the guards—all elves. The sold—everyone else.

The casual nature of it made his stomach turn. A well-dressed elven couple strolled past the dwarf family's auction, sharing a bag of candied nuts and debating whether to bid. They looked like they were considering buying a new dining set.

Sam had gone pale except for two bright red spots on his cheeks. His freckles stood out like paint spatters against white canvas. Karion's jaw was clenched so tight the muscles in his neck were standing out like cords. Even Damus, whose face usually carried a permanent frown, looked darker than Adom had ever seen him.

In Sundar, slavery had been abolished three thousand years ago when Law had helped unified the empire. The First Emperor had declared it "a disease upon the soul of civilization"—that no thinking being should own another, that the moment one person claimed absolute dominion over another, both became less than human. The philosophy had become so deeply embedded in their culture that even criminals condemned to hard labor retained basic rights and the possibility of redemption.

The few black market traders who still dealt in human flesh operated in absolute secrecy, knowing they'd face not just legal consequences but mob justice if discovered. Adom remembered a story from his childhood about slave traders found operating near the capital. The city guard had to protect them from the crowds long enough to reach trial.

Here, families brought their children to watch the auctions like it was entertainment.

The casual cruelty of it was worse than outright malice would have been.

Adom could buy them all, probably. Wangara's purse was heavy enough, and he could portal back to Sundar for more gold if needed. The thought gnawed at him as he watched the human woman being led away by her new owner, a thin elf in expensive robes who was already discussing her duties with a stern-looking steward.

But what would be the point?

Tomorrow there would be others. Next week, more shipments would arrive. The machine would keep grinding, feeding the endless demand that made slavery profitable. He'd save a few dozen people and condemn thousands more to take their places.

The real horror wasn't the individual cruelty—it was the system. The casual acceptance. The way slavery had been woven so seamlessly into elven society that it was simply part of the landscape, like the great tree itself.

"Keep your hoods up," Adom said quietly, his voice rougher than he'd intended. "Don't try anything."

"Smart advice," Kellan murmured. "The guards here don't ask questions first. And even if we could free everyone here today, there are five more markets just like this one in other parts of the city."

Five more. Adom felt something cold settle in his chest. This wasn't even the only one.

They walked deeper into the market, weaving between stalls selling everything from enchanted trinkets to exotic foods. The sounds of the auctions followed them—auctioneers calling out bids, the casual chatter of buyers discussing their purchases like livestock.

"We should do something about this," Karion said quietly, his voice tight with barely controlled anger.

"Focus on the mission," Adom replied without looking back.

"How can you stay calm in this situation?" Karion's voice rose slightly. "They're selling people like cattle."

Sam and Damus said nothing, but Adom could feel their tension. They were all wound tight as bowstrings.

This would be a problem if not addressed now.

Adom stopped walking and turned to face Karion. His expression was granite.

"You want to do something? Fine. Draw your weapon. Start a fight. Free a few slaves. Then watch as every guard in the city hunts us down, our mission fails, and by tomorrow morning they're selling twice as many people to make up for the lost revenue." His voice was level. "Stop acting like a child and letting your emotions override your common sense. Trying to play hero here would only antagonize them and make our mission infinitely more difficult."

Karion's face flushed. "So we just walk past like it's nothing?"

"You want change?" Adom stepped closer. "Real change? Then understand how systems actually work. They don't crumble because someone had a fit of conscience and struck a single heroic blow. They change when the foundations shift, when the economics stop working, when the people who benefit from them start seeing them as liabilities instead of assets. That takes time. That takes planning. That takes being smart instead of being righteous."

He gestured back toward the auction platforms. "Eventually, the day will come when things like this are seen as evil by everyone. But not today. And not because we risked our mission on a gesture."

The group remained silent. There was still defiance in their eyes, but it seemed contained now.

Good.

Adom turned and resumed walking. "Let's go."

Kellan led them toward a quieter section of the market where several well-dressed elves sat at small tables, conducting what looked like business meetings. The slave traders, Adom realized. The real power behind the platforms and auctions.

"The emotional outburst is understandable," Kellan said quietly as they approached. "But your friend was right to shut it down. These people have been doing this for centuries. They're not going to be shamed into stopping by a few angry foreigners."

A commotion erupted near one of the merchant tables. Shouting voices, the sound of something crashing to the ground, and then a clear voice rising above the noise.

"You're all sick! Every one of you! How can you sit there drinking wine while people are being sold like furniture?"

Adom turned toward the disturbance. An elf was being hauled to his feet by two burly guards, his fine clothes torn and a trickle of blood running from his split lip. He looked young, with deep amber eyes that burned with fury.

"This has to stop!" the elf shouted, struggling against the guards' grip. "We're supposed to be civilized! We're supposed to be better than this!"

One of the merchants he'd apparently been harassing stood up, brushing wine stains off his robes. "Get this lunatic out of here before he scares away my customers."

"You can't just ignore what's happening!" The young elf's voice cracked with desperation. "These are people! Thinking, feeling people with families and dreams and—"

A guard backhanded him across the face. The crack echoed through the immediate area.

"Enough," the guard growled. "You've caused enough trouble for one day."

"I'll keep causing trouble until you listen!" the elf spat blood. "Until someone with a conscience stands up and—"

The other guard drove his fist into the elf's stomach. He doubled over, gasping.

The nearby merchants and customers watched with mild interest, like they were observing street performers. A few shook their heads with the patient exasperation reserved for village idiots and ranting prophets.

"Poor thing," one elven woman murmured to her companion. "Completely lost his mind."

"Tragic, really," her friend agreed. "Such a good family too."

The guards began dragging the still-struggling elf toward what looked like an exit. His protests grew fainter as they hauled him away, but he kept shouting about justice and dignity until his voice disappeared into the market's general noise.

"Ah," Kellan said, watching the scene with something that might have been sympathy. "That would be Lyralei."

"Friend of yours?" Sam asked.

"In a manner of speaking." Kellan gestured for them to keep walking. "Tragic story, actually. He's the ninth son of House Brightleaf—one of the most powerful merchant families in the city. About seven years ago, his older brothers convinced him to take a little trip to the human territories. Told him it would be educational, help him understand the family business better."

They moved closer to the merchant tables, following Kellan's lead.

"Instead," Kellan continued, "they sold him to human slave traders. Kept him for a year before he managed to escape and make his way back home."

Karion's eyes widened. "His own brothers sold him?"

"Family politics among the merchant houses can get rather... cutthroat. Lyralei was always the idealistic one. His brothers decided he was a liability." Kellan's voice was matter-of-fact, like he was discussing the weather. "The plan was probably to leave him gone permanently, but he had the poor taste to survive and return."

"And now he does this?" Damus nodded toward where the guards had dragged Lyralei away.

"Every few months. Shows up here, makes a scene, gets beaten and thrown out. The merchants tolerate it because his family still has influence, but they think he's gone completely mad from his experiences." Kellan paused. "Maybe he has. Slavery does things to people's minds."

Adom watched the exit where Lyralei had disappeared. Something about those amber eyes nagged at him, like a half-remembered dream. Had he seen the elf somewhere before? The face seemed familiar in a way that—

"Kellan!"

A jovial voice cut through his thoughts. One of the well-dressed merchants had spotted them and was rising from his table with a broad smile. He was a tall elf with silver hair and expensive rings on every finger, the kind of man who probably owned half the market.

"Master Oberys," Kellan replied with a respectful bow. "Good to see you again."

The merchant—Oberys—approached their group with a confident stride. His eyes moved over Adom and the othersas if he was evaluating them in terms of profit and loss.

"And who might these young gentlemen be?" Oberys asked, his smile never wavering.Chapter 161. Traditions