The room fell still.Silence hung heavy after his bold declaration.
Elara stared, her expression unreadable—somewhere between amusement and disbelief.
The boy was usually silent, careful with his words. Yet now, he had said more in moments than he had since she took him in.
Borin recovered quickly."Listen to this little rooster," he scoffed, folding his arms. "Ten times what the Lady offered? Getting two hundred silver for a pretty face and a sharp tongue would already be a miracle."
He shot Elara a crooked grin. "You're not actually buying into this, are you?"
Still, Elara said nothing. Her eyes stayed on the boy, narrowing—not in suspicion, but curiosity.
"What did you just say?" she asked at last, her voice low with disbelief. She stepped closer, as if trying to solve a riddle written across his face. "Ten times? do you even understand what that means? That's a fortune."
The boy stood still, iron collar catching the light. His pale eyes met hers, steady and unflinching. "I understand your concern, Mistress Elara," he said calmly. "But two hundred silver is a pittance—it doesn't reflect my true value."
Borin snorted, shaking his head. "His value? He's a magic-less street rat who spat on a noble's boot. He's worth less than the mud on it."
Elara leaned in slightly, ignoring Borin. She studied the boy. No flicker of doubt. No twitch. No lie. He wasn't bluffing. He was serious—scary serious. The kind that made her wonder if he already had a backup plan… in case she didn't listen.
The boy glanced at Borin, a flicker of pity in his eyes, then looked back to Elara. "With all due respect, Guard Borin is shortsighted. He sees only the obvious, missing the dormant potential."
Borin's jaw clenched. "Shortsighted?" he snapped. "You arrogant little—" He stepped forward, but Elara raised a hand to stop him. His glare lingered. "You've got a lot of nerve for someone who sleeps in a cell and eats scraps off the floor."
This time, neither Elara nor the boy gave him so much as a glance—ignoring him completely, while he stood fuming with silent rage.
Elara's skepticism lingered, but a flicker of intrigue sparked in her eyes. Desperation was a potent motivator, and profit always tempted her. "Untapped resources? What in blazes are you talking about? You can't swing a sword, can't conjure a spark, and your only talent seems to be insulting buyers."
The boy tilted his head slightly, his tone calm but cutting. "Actually, Mistress... I believe Lady Meredith would be disappointed in you if you keep saying that."
Elara's brow furrowed. "Meredith? What are you talking about?"
"She could've taken me," the boy said. "But she didn't. Not because I'm not worthy enough—but because she didn't want to swindle you. She knew you needed the money…"
Elara stared at him, blinking once.
"…Meredith?" she repeated, this time more to herself.
The boy gave a faint shrug. "She didn't say it outright. But I saw it in her eyes. She didn't want to take advantage of you—knowing there'd be others willing to pay more…"
Elara looked away for a moment, chewing the inside of her cheek. A small scoff escaped her lips. "What you mean…" she muttered.
The boy, calm as ever, added "She asked Roderick for his opinion, fully aware of how he would react—knowing his disdain for slaves and his arrogant attitude. She needed a reason to step back, both now and in the future."
Her eyes returned to the boy, sharper now, more guarded. "So what? You spit on Roderick's boots just to force her hand?"
He nodded once. "I made the choice she couldn't. Gave her a reason to walk away, so later she'd have an excuse for not buying at this time—cleanly. She keeps her conscience," he paused, locking eyes with Elara, "and you… you get a second chance to realize what you're holding."
The boy's voice lowered, softer now, almost thoughtful. "I don't know why she did it... but I'm certain of one thing—you trust her. And she didn't want to break that."
Elara was silent.
There was a long pause.
Then—
She let out a slow, bitter laugh. "God, either you're the cleverest rat I've ever met… or I've gone completely soft."
She stepped forward again, gaze fixed on him. "Alright then," she said coolly. "If you're so certain of your worth… tell me what you have."
The boy stood tall despite his thin frame and iron collar. "It's true that I have no magic," he said quietly. "And my body is weak. But in that auction, I can still catch the interest of the bidders."
Elara raised a brow, arms folding. "Oh? And how exactly do you plan to do that?"
He met her eyes. "I have knowledge..."
A beat of silence passed.
Elara let out a dry chuckle. "That's what you're bluffing about now? Knowledge—"
"I know how to read and write," the boy said, cutting her off calmly.
...
It had happened just a few days earlier.
He was slumped in the corner of his cell, the damp stone walls closing in around him. Like always His stomach was empty, gnawing at him, but his eyes were drawn to the markings etched on the wall.
At first, they seemed like meaningless scratches—some carved deep into the stone, others smeared with what he could only guess was dirt or something darker. He had seen them countless times before, ignored them as just another sign of the madness of the prisoners around him. But this time, something was different.
He stared, and slowly... they began to make sense.
Not just one script, but three. Each line, each curve, each symbol—it was like pieces of a puzzle slipping into place. He couldn't explain why, but the meanings clicked, as though he had always known them.
He blinked in shock, his fingers hovering over the wall, then slowly, as if testing the feeling, he reached down to the floor. The dry dirt beneath his hand felt cold and rough, but it also held something familiar—like it was part of a memory he hadn't fully remembered yet.
With tentative fingers, he traced out the characters he'd seen on the wall, slowly at first, almost unsure. His hand wavered, but then something else took over. The motions of writing, forming the symbols, came faster. Cleaner. More confident.
He wasn't learning how to write. He was... remembering.
It wasn't his knowledge, not from this life at least. No, it was the previous owner of this body—someone who had known these languages. Known these scripts. The knowledge had been there all along, dormant but still present.
Not lost with death, but inherited, as if it had been waiting to be unlocked.
And now, it was his.
...
The sound of Elara's voice snapped him back to the present, her question ringing in his ears.
"What did you just say?"
Elara stared at him for a long, tense moment, eyes narrowed in quiet scrutiny. Her mind replayed every word he'd said, weighing the impossible.
Borin, who was halfway through another insult, froze. His lips parted, but no sound came for a moment.
Then he scoffed—louder than before, like he was trying to shake off what he'd just heard.
"There's no way," he muttered. "He's only thirteen. You expect me to believe some street rat—barely out of childhood—knows how to read and write? He's making that up. Has to be."
"…You can read?" Elara asked slowly, almost skeptically.
"And write, Mistress," he replied, voice steady but respectful.
Elara raised an eyebrow. "And what use is that to someone like you?"
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "It means I can keep records properly—grain stores, tools, names, debts. I can copy letters, understand noble documents, and notice if someone alters them."
She watched him closely, saying nothing.
"I could help draft messages, formal or private. I know how to follow structure, etiquette… even seal them right. If needed, I could teach others, or translate with enough time."
Still calm, he lowered his gaze just slightly—submissive, but not timid.
"I can preserve old knowledge, Mistress. Copy books, draw maps, record what happens before it's forgotten. Even small things—weather patterns, planting cycles, trade routes."
Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "And I can keep the tallies, too—calculate tithes, track trade ledgers, balance account scrolls. I know how to manage coin, even without touching it."
In this world Literacy wasn't forbidden—but it wasn't common either. Not among the lowborn. And certainly not among slaves.
The few who could read were old, worn-down men—former stewards, scribes, or record-keepers who'd once belonged to great houses before falling into disgrace. Their knowledge was valued, but mostly dust-covered and forgotten.
But this boy?
Young. Sharp. Unbroken.
It didn't make sense.
Books were rare and expensive, mostly copied by hand and guarded by the wealthy like heirlooms. Ink and parchment cost more than a servant's monthly wage. What slave had the time, tools, or permission to learn letters when their lives were spent breaking their backs?
Even among peasants, reading was a luxury. Most couldn't afford to waste daylight on ink when there were fields to plow or beasts to tend. Reading was for priests, merchants, or clerks tied to nobles—not boys like him.
Elara's brows furrowed, suspicion blooming behind her eyes.
"Either he was lying…" she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. "Or someone went to a great deal of trouble to teach a slave something the world doesn't believe he should ever know…"
She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to something cautious—almost wary.
"Go on, then," she said. "Prove it."
Elara reached across her cluttered desk and pulled out a creased slip of parchment. It had been wedged between an unused quill and a dusty inkpot—half-forgotten, smudged at the edges, and yellowing with time. The handwriting was hers. Sloppy, rushed. A simple ledger entry.
Without a word, she held it out to the boy.
"Here. Read this." Her tone was flat, but her eyes watched him like a hawk. Not just for whether he could read it—but how.
he boy accepted the parchment delicately, his eyes tracing the curl of the ink as if it were something sacred. then read aloud:
"One male slave—age estimated twenty—sold to merchant Haldor of Blackhill for sixteen silver coins. Buyer accepted insurance clause. Contract sealed under witness."
Elara's eyes flickered with a faint flicker of surprise. "He read it correctly..."
But she wasn't satisfied. She leaned forward, her fingers drumming lightly on the desk. She wasn't going to make this easy.
Without a word, she handed him another parchment, "Try this one."
The boy took it, eyes skimming the parchment quickly. Then he read aloud:
"Acquisition (Young Male): 1 individual - 14 silver coins
Sale (Skilled Artisan - temporary): 1 individual - 6 weeks - 4 silver coins/week = 24 silver coins Rental (Strong Back - daily): 5 individuals - 1 silver coin/day (total 15 days) = 15 silver coins Sale (Elderly Female - domestic): 1 individual - 5 silver coins
Purchase (Apprentice Weaver): 1 individual - 18 silver coins
Medical Expenses (Treatment of Injury): 10 individuals = 64 silver coins."
He paused, brow furrowing.
Elara folded her arms. "What do you understand from this?"
The boy lowered the parchment slightly, then spoke, his tone matter-of-fact. "It's a transaction log. Labor acquired, sold, or rented. Fairly routine. Apprentice weaver's cost."
His finger pointed to the last line.
"This is the outlier. Medical Expenses: 64 silver coins for ten individuals. That's over six silver coins per person. Either something serious happened—injury or illness—or someone's overcharging."
She blinked, uncertain how to react.
She narrowed her eyes. "Let's try something else. Write a letter. Address it to House Velcroft. Inform them their shipment is delayed three days due to river flooding. Apologize—gently."
The boy didn't hesitate. He reached for the parchment and pen she gave him and began to write.
His script was smooth. Elegant. Rounded characters with just the right formality. Even the spacing was neat.
When Elara took the letter, she scanned it once, then again. No blotches. No spelling errors. Just… clean, professional correspondence.
The handwriting was impeccable—elegant yet readable, with flourishes that spoke of education in the finest scribal traditions. It looked like the work of a royal court scribe, not a slave boy with an iron collar.
She exhaled through her nose.
Then she opened a rarely-used drawer and pulled out a bundle of scrolls tied with a sturdy string. The pages were yellowed at the edges, bearing witness to frequent use and the passage of time."These are my records for the past three months. Purchase contracts, sales ledgers, debts, rents, taxes, and fines."
She sat down quietly, leaned back against her chair, then picked up the cup of tea between her fingers, as if granting herself a brief moment of rest before placing the burden on the one in front of her.
"I want a full accounting for each month: profits, taxes, and unpaid debt. I've already given you the amounts... You have the whole day."
A small smile formed on her lips—not mocking, nor malicious, but more like a hidden test. As if she expected the task to overwhelm him, and was calmly waiting for him to fail. Deep down, she thought:
"Even if he can read, write, and count, these records are complicated, tied to the trade guild's laws… even I get exhausted trying to interpret them."
But the boy showed no sign of confusion. He murmured with quiet confidence, without even lifting his eyes: "I don't need a day…"
Borin watched in silence, mind foggy, understanding none of it—wishing he could disappear.
As for Elara, a faint trace of surprise began to creep into her features.She herself required half a day—and the aid of Meredith's daughter Serelinne—just to sort through the records and make sense of them. Some were written in dense legal script; others, in an entirely different tongue.
The boy extended his hand and pulled the bundle toward him. The scrolls contained a variety of contracts—sales, leases, debt receipts, and ledgers stamped with the guild's seal.
His hands moved quickly and precisely. The only sounds in the room were the rustle of parchment and the soft clinking of the chains that bound his wrists.
He began sorting them in silence: Sales contracts in one stack. Lease agreements in another. Tax and fine records set aside with meticulous care.
He murmured as he worked,"Step one… organize the data. Everything is kept, but there's no consistent system."
Without pausing, he mentally calculated the first month's accounts: revenues, costs, taxes, and gains. Then he stopped for a moment, eyeing the seal of the guild, deep in thought.
"The Baron's seal… this resembles the feudal privilege system. The tax here is not a percentage of the profit, but a fixed sum—ten silver coins each month."
He reflected for a moment, the realization forming. "It seems it's paid for the right to work within the Baron's lands. The merchant pays, the tax collectors gather, and the kingdom profits."
He sifted through the rolls of parchment until he found something resembling a loan contract.
"This… this is no ordinary contract. The wording is precise, almost like a noble's personal agreement."
He paused at the number written.
"267 silver coins? A relatively large sum."
He continued examining the document, his brow raised.
"The payment was manual, monthly. And the penalty for delay? Five silver coins for every month overdue."
The boy turned towards Elara and said, "The first month: costs, 83 silver coins, which include rents and fines. Revenues, 120. Gross gains, 37 silver coins.The tax—10 silver coins—was paid according to clause six in the tax register. So, the gains: 27 silver coins."
He flipped to another page and pointed:
"The debt has decreased from 267 to 247. So, you've paid off 20 silver coins."
Elara's hand froze in mid-air as she lifted the cup, and her eyes widened in shock, unable to comprehend. She nodded silently, signaling for him to continue. Those calculations had taken her hours of work and external help to even begin to understand, while he, without any assistance or tools, had arrived at them in moments.
The boy continued in a steady voice:
"The second month: the costs remained unchanged—83 silver coins. But the revenue was only 75. That means a loss of 8 coins. Still, you paid the full tax."
He raised his gaze towards her:
"This means you withdrew 18 Silver coins from your savings. The debt decreased from 247 to 237. A loss and a hit to your reserves. Something wasn't right."
"You've started draining your savings."
Her features stiffened, as though the words were striking at sensitive nerves inside her.
"The third month..." He opened a small ledger, its pages nearly empty.
"The revenue isn't listed. Costs: 30 coins. The tax is unpaid. The debt remains unsettled."
He slowly lifted his head:
"This violates Clause Ten of the debt contract with... Lord Valen Astern."
Elara flinched slightly upon hearing that name, but she quickly reclaimed her calm.
The boy continued, "The clause specifies a minimum monthly payment of 30 silver coins, Failure to comply adds a monthly fine. You now have a cumulative fine of 9 silver coins and 5 more for not paying this month. The total: 14 additional silver coins."
He wrote in the margin in small, precise handwriting:
"Current debt value: 237 + 14 = 251 silver coins, along with 321 bronze coins."
He stared at the final page, then muttered as if talking to himself:
"The third month is empty. No profits, but the costs continue. Perhaps the activity has temporarily stopped… or her reserves are being exhausted. This is no longer a business; it's a struggle for survival."
He paused, then continued in a low voice:"251 silver 321 bronze coins... in favor of Lord Valen Astern."He closed the ledger quietly, then said in a firm tone:"This is your complete summary. No errors. No falsifications."
Elara slowly raised her gaze. In her eyes was a look that had completely changed, as if she were seeing the boy for the first time.
"Now I understand why everyone was obsessed with the boy, the slums gangs and Lady Mederith..."
She fell silent for a moment, as though weighing her next words. Then she whispered, with a tone that wasn't without bitterness:"But why didn't you do this before? With Lady Meredith, for example? I don't think you'll find a better master than her... She always kind to slaves..."
The boy didn't answer.
His eyes were fixed on somewhere distant... not far in the room, but far within himself.
The silence settled, and even though Broin started shifting in his seat, it didn't break the tension that hung in the air.
Finally, the boy muttered, his voice barely audible, closer to a whisper:"Because what I wanted..."
In his heart, he knew… "Master? Freedom? Food? Wealth? Fate?..."
All of those were trivial compared to what he sought. His goal was one thing, and one thing only. To reach her.
Even if he had to crawl through the mud.Even if he sacrificed everything he owned.Even if he burned along the way...
Elara looked at him, but he didn't continue.
She sighed slowly, as though she had grown accustomed to this kind of stubborn silence.
"Well, as I told Broin, In a week, the Gilded Cage holds its auction."
She looked directly at the boy, trying to pierce the veil of his silence. "Even with all your knowledge of this, your chances of success are slim... The high-end auction is not a typical slave market," she explained. "Only the most valuable slaves are presented—those with rare skills, unique talents, or exceptional qualities. Before bidding, each slave must demonstrate their abilities in front of many competitors."
"This auction, this city is famous for it, even slaves from other kingdoms participate in it. There's exams to pass..."
Then she smiled. "But there's no harm in trying."
But then she remembered. "Damn, I forgot the 10 silver coins for the participation fee… ah..."
Her words carried a mix of realism and cautious hope. She fully understood the obstacles a slave with no clear past, no known magical or physical abilities, would face in an auction that included several kingdoms. But the boy's gaze offered her a glimmer of hope.
She scoffed, "All that chatter before the cat got your tongue—you clearly want something. So, what is it?"
He answered simply "Books... Access to books, manuscripts, knowledge. Whatever you have. That will be my condition."
Elara rose from her chair, having made her decision. "You've made your point," she said, gathering the papers and notebooks. "You have... valuable skills."
Elara looked at him, a flicker of something akin to respect—and perhaps a hint of unease—in her gaze.
"We leave in five days for the city of Tarvain, Broin," she stated, her voice carrying a newfound weight.
Her eyes lingered on the boy, no longer seeing just a slave, but something more complex.