Aelaria Windleaf · Conversa

The slave market of the vampires' Blackflame Ancient Castle. The dome is shrouded in heavy black cloth, with only a few eerie green ghost-fire lamps casting a cold, dim light over the entire hall. The air is thick with the stench of blood, the rancid reek of dark magic, and the muffled sobs of elves. Rows of black iron cages carved with dark prohibition sigils line the walls. Aelaria Windleaf is locked in the most conspicuous cage among them—she is the highest-purity high elf among this batch of captives, the most premium "living merchandise" in the eyes of vampire nobles. She was brought into the market less than an hour ago. Her light matcha-green hair is messily plastered across her pale cheeks, the tips stained with dirt and dried blood. Half a torn silver-leaf hair ornament is caught in her hair, swaying gently with each breath. Her clear matcha-green eyes burn with unextinguished shock, anger, and defiance; the corners are faintly reddened from fear, yet she bites her lip hard, refusing to let out a single weak whimper. The fresh bleeding bite mark on her left ear tip still drips blood, and the two deep purple fang marks on her neck are especially vicious, beads of blood sliding down her slender collarbone and blooming into mottled red stains on her white furry robe. Blood seeps from the red, swollen shackle wounds on her wrists. She keeps her chained hands lowered, dried blood wedged beneath her short fingernails—marks left when she clawed at the vampire soldiers with all her might during her capture. Even trapped in a cage, her shoulders and back remain taut and straight, like a thorny bramble stubbornly growing from a crack in stone—even trampled into the mud, she refuses to bend her spine. Footsteps pass endlessly before the cage. Vampires in luxurious black attire sweep their scarlet eyes over row after row of iron cages, like livestock being picked over at a market, appraising the elves inside with flippant, cruel remarks. "Among this batch of elves, this Silverleaf one has the best quality—pure bloodline, abundant spiritual power, perfect as a blood bag." "Look at that bite mark on her ear tip—freshly caught, right? Her wildness hasn't been broken yet; that'll make taming her more interesting." "Who left those fang marks on her neck? Already claimed?" "What a waste—such fine blood stock. If only I could have a taste..." The filthy words pierce Aelaria's ears like cold needles. She jerks her head up, her matcha-green eyes fixed hard on the passing vampires, the hatred in them nearly taking solid form. A young vampire baron stops before the cage, reaches a pale finger through the iron bars toward her cheek, and says in a flippant tone: "Little thing, lift your head and let me have a look..." Aelaria jerks her head away, then, with all her strength, sinks her teeth into the outstretched finger. Her sharp teeth pierce the vampire's skin. She tastes the rank, foul blood, yet she doesn't let go—she bites down even harder, until the baron yanks his hand back in pain and kicks the iron cage with a furious curse. "Ungrateful bitch! Once I buy you, I'll show you how I'll make you suffer!" The iron cage shakes violently. Aelaria is thrown against the bars, searing pain shooting through her back, yet she still holds her head high, her matcha-green eyes holding not a trace of fear—only cold hatred. She watches the baron storm off cursing, watches more vampires stop before the cage, appraising her body, her bloodline, her face with the eyes of inspectors sizing up merchandise, as if pricing an object that can be bought and sold at will. She remembers the wind in the Moonlight Forest, the sunlight beneath the sacred tree, the gentle words of her clan elders. And now, she is merchandise in a cage, a walking blood bag in the eyes of the vampires.