After saying goodbye to Syrren, the very next morning, Nox and Torven were ready to continue their search.
They had barely exchanged words since waking, each busy checking their gear and eating a quick meal. The tension hung quietly between them. Nox also couldn't shake the feeling that something about Torven's behavior had changed. He seemed distracted, restless, and Nox couldn't help but wonder if it had something to do with the Syrren from the day before. That wink she gave Torven felt unsettlingly intentional. Was Torven attracted to her?
Trying to shake off the thought, Nox turned his focus to the task ahead. The second part of the town still needed to be explored. They moved methodically, stopping at every house, every shop, asking questions, studying faces. As the hours passed, the fatigue began to show in their movements
In one small, cluttered shop near the outskirts of town, something unusual happened. Just as they were about to leave, Nox stopped. His eyes locked onto a dusty shelf near the counter. He took a step closer, frowning.
Torven, curious, followed his gaze.
"What is it?" he asked.
There, nestled between a stack of old books and a cracked lantern, sat an ugly little wooden figurine. It was brown, roughly carved, and vaguely shaped like a bull, though its proportions were off, almost grotesquely so.
"I'm not sure," Nox said slowly, reaching for it. "But it looks... kind of cute. Don't you think?"
Torven gave him a sideways look and arched an eyebrow.
"Cute is not the word I'd use."
He didn't realize that for Nox, the figurine triggered a memory, something half-buried. He had seen something like this before, in a painting that hung in the dim hall of Torven's estate. A strange creature, part bull, part... something else. The resemblance was undeniable.
"I want to buy it," Nox said firmly, a flicker of something nostalgic in his eyes. He handed the shopkeeper a few copper coins and tucked the figurine into his satchel with care.
"You've got weird taste," Torven muttered with a smirk.
Nox said nothing, but inwardly let out a short laugh. He thought the same of Torven.
They stepped outside. The sky had darkened, and a drizzle had begun to fall. The air smelled of damp stone and moss. As they quickened their pace, the drizzle turned to a downpour. Rain lashed the cobblestones. They sprinted toward the nearest cover: a narrow wooden awning that barely shielded them from the rain.
Nox fit neatly beneath it, but Torven's broad shoulders and height meant half of his back was still exposed to the rain. Water trickled down his shirt and onto the muddy ground.
They stood close, too close. Their faces were inches apart. Torven looked into Nox's eyes, his expression unreadable. Then he lifted one hand and gently brushed a soaked strand of hair from Nox's forehead.
Nox inhaled sharply. He felt the touch linger just a moment too long.
'Is he going to kiss me?' he wondered. His heart thudded in his chest.
But Torven didn't. Instead, he reached out and pulled Nox close, pressing his head against his chest. Nox froze for a moment, stunned. He could hear Torven's heartbeat: fast and strong, a rhythm that matched his own.
They stood like that, the rain pounding behind them, both pretending it wasn't happening.
...
"It's stopped raining," Torven murmured eventually, stepping back. "Let's go."
But Nox didn't move. Something had caught his eye behind Torven, a partially open stable door. Inside stood a mare, unmistakable even at this distance. Abram's horse.
'It's her. It has to be her,' Nox thought, his pulse quickening.
She had a distinct coloring he could never mistake.
Abram's mare's coat was a deep, solid black, but what made her unmistakable was the small gray streak at the front of her mane. On one side of her body, a patch on her hind leg was faded to almost white, a discoloration that had always set her apart from other horses. Nox had to check if it was her.
Nox stepped closer, squinting through the gaps in the stable wall. The mare flicked her tail and shifted her weight. Even the way she moved was familiar.
"It's her," he whispered. "It really is her."
"Torven, Abram is here," Nox said, voice taut with urgency. His heart pounded in his chest.
Without a word, they approached. The stable looked abandoned, the wood weathered and warped. They waited. Minutes passed. An hour. Then another. Still no sign of Abram.
Then, finally, someone appeared. But it wasn't who they were expecting.
A lone man in a dark cloak emerged from a side street and entered the stable. His hood was pulled low, obscuring his face. The rain had soaked the hem of his garment, leaving a trail of water on the stable floor. He didn't look around. He moved with purpose and began feeding the mare from a nearby sack of oats.
"That's not Abram," Nox said quietly.
There was nothing suspicious in the man's movements. He didn't hurry. He didn't seem to be hiding. But something didn't sit right with Nox. He watched the man closely, trying to sense anything out of place.
'Could this be the one holding my brother? Why else would he have the horse?'
When the man turned to leave, Nox signaled silently to Torven, and they began to follow.
They kept their distance, blending with the shadows. The stranger walked calmly, never looking back. The streets narrowed. The buildings here were older, and some were boarded up.
Eventually, the man stopped in front of a townhouse that looked completely deserted. Every curtain was drawn tight. But a faint light glowed behind the front door.
Torven hesitated.
"Wait," he whispered. "We don't know who this is. We should think this through."
But Nox was already moving. He descended a set of narrow stone steps leading down to a cellar entrance. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword, every muscle tense. Torven followed reluctantly.
At the bottom, they found a corridor lined with old wooden doors. They didn't have time to deliberate. Nox picked one of them, grabbed a doorknob, and twisted.
It gave way.
The two of them slipped inside and closed the door quietly behind them. Nox locked it with a soft click, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes adjusted to the dim light.
They pressed themselves into the shadows at the back of the room, hearts pounding, trying to remain unseen. From their hidden place, they could make out the scene beyond a large open archway: an auction floor.
It was a slave auction.
The raised platform was bare wood, scarred from years of use. Lanterns hung low, casting flickering light on the rows of captives lined up beneath them. Men, women, and children all stood shackled and silent, their eyes looking down or nervously scanning the room.
An auctioneer with a gravelly voice paced the stage, calling out descriptions and prices. The crowd's reactions were sharp: some nodded approvingly, others whispered or laughed with cruel satisfaction.
Torven's gaze lingered on the shackled figures, his jaw tightening as a flicker of memories he'd tried to bury washed over him.