The negotiation does not begin with shouting.

  It begins with comfort.

  The dining hall empties with practiced grace. Chairs slide back without scraping. Patrons leave coin without counting it twice. The door closes behind the last of them with a soft, expensive sound.

  Only then does the room change.

  Servants remain — not hovering, not attentive, simply present. Wine is replaced. Plates are cleared and returned with different food, heavier and richer. Meat still steaming. Bread torn fresh instead of sliced thin.

  Veylan settles into his chair like a man prepared to be patient.

  Aurelian takes his time sitting.

  Neither of them speaks at first.

  Silence stretches — not awkward, not hostile. Measured.

  This is not haggling yet. This is positioning.

  Finally, Veylan lifts his cup, swirling the contents once before setting it down untouched.

  “Let’s not pretend,” he says pleasantly. “You didn’t bring me here for atmosphere.”

  Aurelian inclines his head. “Of course not.”

  Veylan’s eyes flick briefly to the servants. Aurelian gestures once. They withdraw to the perimeter — close enough to serve, far enough not to hear.

  Now the room is theirs.

  “How many?” Veylan asks.

  “Forty-three,” Aurelian replies. “From this intake.”

  Veylan hums. “You’ve been efficient.”

  “We plan ahead.”

  “So do miners,” Veylan says. “And yet we still pay them per shift.”

  Aurelian smiles faintly. “Children aren’t ore.”

  “No,” Veylan agrees. “Ore is easier to replace.”

  He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table.

  “Thirty Realm-One cores per head.”

  The number lands like an insult delivered politely.

  Aurelian does not react immediately.

  Thirty Realm-One cores. Scraped from touched beasts. Barely more cursed energy than a marked human carried naturally. Useful for lamps. Pumps. Wards that didn’t need to last.

  Veylan continues, unbothered.

  “They’re young. Underfed. Untested. You know as well as I do that most never awaken. Those that do tend to panic, make noise, and die.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Aurelian folds his hands. “Thirty barely powers a block for a cycle.”

  Veylan laughs softly. “Exactly. What would I do with more? Power my toilet for a week?”

  The hyperbole is deliberate.

  Aurelian lets it sit.

  “You’re paying for yield,” Aurelian says calmly. “Not bodies.”

  “I’m paying for probability,” Veylan replies. “And your probabilities are inflated by reputation.”

  He tilts his head.

  “You sell the idea that your gutter produces harder stock. But ideas don’t mine ore.”

  Aurelian’s smile does not reach his eyes.

  “You didn’t come for bulk,” he says. “You came for selection.”

  Veylan’s gaze sharpens. “Go on.”

  “There are two,” Aurelian continues. “You’ll want marked at premium.”

  Veylan raises an eyebrow. “Already?”

  “Not awakened,” Aurelian clarifies. “Don’t misunderstand. But intelligent. Disciplined. One plans. The other follows when it matters.”

  Veylan considers this.

  “Leadership qualities,” he muses. “In children.”

  “They survive longer,” Aurelian says. “And when they break, they break usefully.”

  That earns a quiet laugh.

  “Fine,” Veylan says. “Adjust the rate.”

  He taps the table once.

  “Three Realm-Two cores per head. Flat.”

  The room tightens.

  Realm-Two cores were different. Taken from awakened beasts — creatures that had chosen violence, learned it, wielded it. Their cores carried density. Stability. Enough cursed energy to power infrastructure for months instead of days.

  Aurelian does not hide his interest.

  “But,” Veylan adds lightly, “those two you mentioned are included. No bonuses.”

  Aurelian shakes his head once. “Unacceptable.”

  “Why?” Veylan asks. “You just told me they aren’t awakened.”

  “They’re rare,” Aurelian says. “In a way that survives.”

  Silence stretches again.

  Veylan studies him.

  “You’re asking me to pay for potential,” he says finally. “Potential that statistically disappoints.”

  “I’m asking you to invest,” Aurelian replies. “In a city that has never failed to deliver return.”

  Veylan exhales through his nose.

  “One Realm-Two bonus core,” he says. “For the pair. Together.”

  Aurelian considers.

  “No,” he says. “One each.”

  That earns a pause.

  “Bold,” Veylan says. “For a gutter lord.”

  Aurelian’s smile sharpens. “For a supplier.”

  Veylan leans back.

  Outside, the inner city continues uninterrupted. Lanterns burn. Water flows. Children laugh.

  Finally, Veylan nods.

  “Fine,” he says. “Three Realm-Two cores per head. Two additional for your planners.”

  He lifts his cup again.

  “Delivery tomorrow.”

  Aurelian mirrors the gesture. “Agreed.”

  Night bleeds into morning underground without ceremony.

  The dungeon does not sleep.

  Chains scrape. Someone coughs until they gag. Water drips steadily, indifferent.

  When the guards come down, they bring food that isn’t meant to nourish — only to preserve.

  They bring water enough to rinse blood, not wash it away.

  They bring bath buckets.

  Riven knows immediately what that means.

  He sits upright when the footsteps descend, spine stiff, breath shallow. The pressure under his skin hums — quiet now, coiled, resentful.

  Preparation.

  Transfer.

  Sale.

  A guard stops in front of his cell. Young. Unawakened. Riven can tell now — there’s a hollowness where cursed presence should be. A dimness.

  He could kill him.

  The thought is not dramatic. It’s factual. A point of focus. A squeeze.

  Riven’s jaw locks.

  Not yet.

  The guard unlocks the bars and gestures sharply. “Out.”

  Riven rises slowly, every muscle screaming restraint. He keeps his eyes down. Keeps breathing shallow. Keeps the pressure caged.

  Water is dumped over his head.

  Cold. Shockingly cold.

  Hands scrub him hard, efficient, careless. Dirt comes off in layers. Blood flakes away. Bruises remain.

  The guard turns his back to fetch another bucket.

  Riven’s vision sharpens.

  One thought. One look—

  “Riven.”

  Kael’s voice. Hoarse. Absolute.

  Riven looks up.

  Kael meets his gaze through the bars. No words. Just command.

  Not yet.

  Riven exhales slowly.

  The moment passes.

  By the time the guards finish, the dungeon smells different.

  Cleaner.

  Wrong.

  Children sit in rows, damp, shaking, fed just enough to keep them standing. Hair cut roughly. Nails scraped clean.

  Preparation.

  Kael watches everything.

  The guards. Their patterns. Their numbers.

  Tomorrow.

  He doesn’t say it aloud.

  But everyone feels it.

  Someone whispers, “This is it.”

  Another answers, barely audible, “Probably die.”

  Kael closes his eyes for one breath.

  Then opens them.

  “Not here,” he says quietly.

  And the dungeon listens.