Children for Sale

Days in Grenhal village grew heavier with each passing dawn. The autumn wind carried a bone-chilling cold, and the morning mist lingered longer than usual. But it wasn’t only the weather that darkened the atmosphere—it was the murmurs growing too loud to ignore.

“Two children disappeared last night.”

Lyselle learned this from a tearful woman named Vanya who came knocking at Lethia’s door, clutching a scrap of cloth she claimed belonged to her daughter, Alia.

“The house door was open early this morning… and they were gone. Alia and her younger brother, Marek. They were only seven and five….”

Lethia soothed her with herbal tea, but Lyselle stood mute, anger surging through her veins once more.

“Are you sure there was no trace?” she asked quietly.

Vanya shook her head. “None. But… neighbors saw a black carriage pass by the night before—silent, without a lamp. They said… it belonged to the castle’s mage.”

Lyselle filed that away in her mind—black carriage, castle mage. Rumors she had heard before, but this was the first confirmed disappearance.

Once Vanya left, Lyselle turned to Lethia.

“Why does no one act?”

Lethia sighed deeply. “Because they know—but they pretend ignorance. You think this is the first time?”

Lyselle stood frozen.

“Since Baroness Lethia took power, more than a dozen children have vanished. Each time... their families were handed a sack of grain and told to say nothing.”

Lyselle ground her fist. This was unbearable.

That night, she sat behind their home, the Nethra crystal clasped in her hand. She could produce small sparks, even flickers of flame—but control was still weak.

“I need more power,” she whispered.

She pored over Reian’s notes. Most were in ancient script, but one page caught her eye:

> “If body and soul resonate, Nethra will answer your call without hesitation. But if you waver... it will consume you.”

Closing her eyes, she saw the tear-streaked faces of the missing children—Alia and Marek, whom she had never met, but whose suffering weighed on her.

“Body and soul in harmony...” she murmured.

This time, steadying her breath, she focused her energy into the crystal.

ZRAAAAK—

Lightning struck the ground—stronger than before. But she remained upright, unscathed. The crystal glowed more steadily in her hand.

—

The next morning, Lyselle slipped quietly through the village’s back alleys—where the tax collectors usually passed. She found Garel, a young man responsible for the tax warehouse, loading sacks onto an old carriage.

“Garel—is that you?”

He turned. “Who are you?”

“I’m Lyselle—Lethia’s foster daughter.”

His eyebrows rose. “Oh... the new girl.”

Lyselle stepped closer. “I saw the black carriage the night Alia and Marek disappeared.”

Garel tensed. “I don’t know anything.”

“You do.”

“I swear I don’t.”

Lyselle leaned in, voice cold: “Speak now—maybe you can save other children. If not, you’re part of it.”

Garel stared, then whispered, “They don’t go to Ardellon. They go to old ruins to the north... There’s a secret path. Each month, they choose weak children. They say it’s for a... ‘Purification Rite.’”

“Who commands it?”

“A mage named Vaeril. Not the castle’s mage, but an envoy from the Outer Tower.”

Lyselle fixed the name in her memory. Vaeril.

Garel lowered his head. “You heard nothing from me.”

—

That night, Lyselle confided in Lethia.

“I’m going to the ruins.”

“Are you mad?”

“I can’t stand by. Even if I have only this little power—if I can stop it, I must.”

Lethia looked fearful, yet there was a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “Reian wanted to stop it, too.”

Lyselle squeezed her foster mother’s hand. “But I am not Reian. I am Lyselle—and I will return.”

Clad in tattered cloak and with the Nethra stone hidden in her pouch, Lyselle set out under the moonlit sky toward the northern woods. Darkness swallowed her as she pressed forward—until, in the distance, faint torchlight glowed upon the ancient ruins.

She approached gently, concealed by trees. There—standing in a circle of old stones, two children bound in its center—were Alia and Marek.

A robed mage chanted in a foreign tongue.

“No... you must not succeed,” Lyselle whispered heavily.

With a determined breath, she raised her hand, channeling her magic with pure intent.

ZRAAAAMMM—

Lightning blasted from her fingers toward the mage’s staff, knocking him off balance. The children cried, though unharmed.

Furious, the mage stood and spat, “Who are you!?”

“My name is Lyselle. And I’m here to reclaim what you took.”

A brief but fierce struggle unfolded. Lyselle was struck several times, but as the fight raged, the crystal in her hand pulsed stronger, syncing with her will.

With a final surge, she shattered the circle of stones and brought part of the ruins down on top of the storm-wracked ground. The mage vanished into the night, but Lyselle carried Alia and Marek to safety.

As she held them close, trembling, Lyselle whispered, “You’re safe now.”

For the first time in this world... she felt worthy of her life here.

The resistance had begun.