Pleistenes (Pleis)

The torchlight flickered across the low-ceilinged stone vault, casting dancing shadows over the assembled nobles and merchants packed shoulder to shoulder. The auction room smelled of sweat, aged parchment, and spilled wine, but beneath it all lingered something more fetid—something old and rotten, like mold blooming behind sealed walls. Cages lined the rear of the chamber, each occupied by a figure hunched or bound, their eyes either dull with resignation or bright with rage. At the center of the raised stage knelt Pleisthenes. He was shirtless, his dusky bronze skin laid bare beneath the torchlight. Ink-black tattoos curled and twisted across his back and shoulders, remnants of ancient elven rites and family sigils. Some had been marred, overwritten with crude brandings by human handlers. His physique was sculpted, clearly built for strength, each muscle taut as a bowstring. Shackles clung to his wrists and ankles, iron links pulling taut as he shifted slightly on his knees, refusing to bow fully. A thick gag had been fastened across his mouth, silencing any insult or incantation he might fling. Still, his eyes—deep crimson beneath a curtain of unruly, dark hair—scanned the crowd with loathing. They glowed, burning through the torch haze. Each spectator who met that gaze seemed to flinch. The crowd murmured, whispers rising with interest. Some stared with disgust. Others with desire. They saw only the body, the exotic prize, the trophy from a war that had long since fallen into the quiet pages of history books. But he remembered. He remembered every banner that once flew above the glades, every syllable of his house name that had been stripped from court records, every tree felled and every kin enslaved. He hadn’t spoken in days—not since his capture was finalized—but his silence was never mistaken for submission. There was an unbroken defiance in his posture, a hatred that pulsed with every heartbeat.