Chapter 152: A Foolish Thing to Do

Silvie’s head snapped up, her emerald eyes blazing with fury. "Release us, you filthy bandit scum!" Her voice echoed off the damp stone walls, raw with anger and defiance.

Beside her, Lyrian closed his eyes briefly, a soft sigh escaping his lips. ’I told her to conserve her energy...’

Amar didn’t even glance in her direction. He gestured sharply to the guards behind him. "Move them. Now."

Rough hands grabbed chains, yanking prisoners to their feet. The elves stumbled, their weakened bodies protesting. Those who moved too slowly were shoved forward with brutal efficiency. Silvie’s anger burned hotter at being completely ignored—her words meaningless to these brutes.

"Silvie." Lyrian’s voice was quiet, meant only for her ears. "Patience. Save it."

She bit her tongue, her jaw aching with the effort of holding back another outburst, and allowed herself to be pushed along with the others.

The procession moved through the winding cave corridors, the guards showing no mercy. One elf, an elderly male with haunted eyes, stumbled and fell behind. A guard’s boot connected with his ribs with a sickening thud. "Move it, you worthless pointy-ear!"

The elf cried out but forced himself up, shuffling faster despite the pain.

They emerged into Kuan’s chamber, the torchlight revealing the bandit lord in all his brutal glory. He sat on his throne of bones, studying the elves as they were herded before him like livestock. His eyes moved over them slowly, appraisingly.

"Excellent quality," Kuan murmured, stroking his chin. "You’ll fetch a high price. Are you from a superior bloodline? Purebloods?"

Silvie’s mouth opened, fury rising again—but before she could speak, Lyrian stepped forward as much as his chains allowed. His voice was steady, controlled, though it carried an undercurrent of desperate pleading.

"Please. Release them. Take me instead. I am a skilled spirit mage—I can be useful to you. Let the others go. I’ll do whatever you ask."

Silvie stared at him, disbelief flooding her features. This was her brother. The one who had always been strong, always defiant, always their pillar of hope. And now he was begging these animals?

"Brother... what are you—"

Kuan’s eyes narrowed. "I asked a question. You didn’t answer." He rose from his throne, each step deliberate, heavy. "You elves and your arrogance. Even in chains, you think you can dictate terms?"

Lyrian pressed on, ignoring his sister’s shock. "I’m worth more alive and willing than dead or broken. Please. I’m begging you. Let them go."

Silvie’s voice cracked. "Brother, stop! We don’t beg these—!"

Kuan reached them. His massive hand shot out, not striking, but grabbing Lyrian by the hair and forcing his head down. Then his boot came up, slamming onto Lyrian’s skull with brutal force, pressing his face into the dirt.

"I don’t care about your magic," Kuan growled, grinding his heel. "Even if you’re strong, you won’t sell if you’re ugly. I was going to be gentle—keep the slave pristine. But maybe I was wrong." He pressed harder, Lyrian’s body tensing with pain but making no sound. "Maybe you need a lesson."

"Stop it!" Silvie screamed, lunging forward despite her chains. Guards grabbed her, holding her back. "Leave him alone! Get your filthy foot off my brother!"

Kuan’s eyes drifted to her, studying her with new interest. His gaze traveled over her form—slender, graceful, her face contorted with fury and fear. Small-chested, yes, but beautiful. Exquisite. Worth a fortune.

He smiled, slow and cruel. "Your brother has lost hope, little elf. That’s why he’s groveling like this. Pathetic, isn’t it?" His eyes locked onto hers. "But you... I still see hope in your eyes. You’re waiting for rescue, aren’t you?"

Silvie’s breath caught. For a fraction of a second, her defiance wavered.

Kuan laughed, a deep, ugly sound. "It won’t come. You will be slaves. Resign yourselves to it." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a mockingly intimate whisper. "How am I so certain? Because I’ve sold dozens of your kind. Elves always hope at first. Always believe someone will come. And then days pass. Weeks. Months. The hope rots. It festers. And eventually..." He glanced down at Lyrian, still pinned under his boot. "Eventually, even the proudest realize the truth. Your brother understands now. No one is coming. That’s why he begs. Wise, really. Just... futile."

Silvie’s gaze dropped to Lyrian. His face was pressed into the dirt, his body still. But she could see his expression—the utter defeat in his posture, the resignation in his visible eye. He wasn’t fighting. He had given up.

’No...’ Her heart clenched. ’That can’t be...’

Around her, the other elves were silent. But she could feel it—the same despair radiating from them. They had heard Kuan’s words. They believed them.

Kuan straightened, satisfied with the crushed hope he saw in their eyes. "Because you groveled so prettily," he announced, reaching up. Space shimmered, and a sword materialized in his grip—summoned from some storage artifact. "I’ll give you a reward."

Lyrian barely had time to look up.

The blade drove down, punching through his back and out his chest in a single, brutal stroke. Blood sprayed across the dirt floor. Lyrian’s body jerked once, twice, then went still.

"B-BROTHER!" Silvie’s scream tore from her throat, raw and primal. "NO! BROTHER, PLEASE! GET THE SWORD OUT! KAK, HOLD ON!" She thrashed against the guards holding her, her strength meaningless against their grip. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the dirt. "LYRIAN! LYRIAN, PLEASE! DON’T LEAVE ME! LYRIAANN!"

Lyrian didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

Kuan withdrew the blade with a wet sound, letting the body crumple. He looked at the remaining elves—at their horror, their despair, their utter brokenness—and smiled with satisfaction.

"This is what happens when you’re foolish enough to beg," he announced, his voice carrying through the chamber. "Behave like good slave, and you might survive long enough to be sold. Understood?"

No one answered. No one could. Silvie’s screams had faded to choked sobs, her body shaking uncontrollably as she stared at her brother’s still form. The other elves looked away, unable to meet her gaze, unable to offer comfort—too consumed by their own despair.