JL Chapter 16 Grenda

Slave Market, Varnhelm

The air in the back of the slave market hung heavy, cold, and damp, carrying with it the faint scent of sickness and old blood. Mitchell’s boots scraped softly against the stone floor as he moved between the dimly lit cages. The torchlight flickered, casting fleeting shadows across the pale faces of those too weak to stand. Some barely stirred at his passing; others didn’t even look up.

He hated this part. Every step felt like walking through a graveyard.

Behind him, the merchant woman, Hanna, followed at an easy pace, the faint clack of her heeled boots echoing in the gloom. She held a small lantern that illuminated each cage they passed. “As I said,” she spoke in her composed, professional tone, “most of these won’t see the end of the week. High fevers, infections, internal damage… even the healers won’t waste their time here. Still interested?”

Mitchell nodded quietly. “I am.”

Hanna gave him a sidelong glance, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “You really do enjoy making me curious, don’t you? Most buyers flinch the moment they smell death.” She gestured vaguely toward the cages “I wonder what’s your secret.”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t want to. Instead, he just kept walking, his eyes moving from one figure to another, humans, beastkin, all reduced to the same state of frail misery. Each one stirred a twist of guilt in his gut, but he forced himself to focus. ‘Someone here has to be secretly strong.’ He told himself. ‘I just need to find them.’

Then, something caught his attention.At the far end of the corridor, in a larger cage separated from the rest, lay a figure that immediately stood out. 

The woman, if he could call her that,  was massive. Even slumped against the wall, she was clearly taller than him by at least a head. Her skin was a muted green, pale from blood loss and fever, while long strands of black hair fell messily over her face. A faint steam rose from her body, from the cold sweat that clung to her.

Mitchell stopped in front of her cage, staring silently. Her breathing was shallow, uneven, every exhale sounding like a struggle. But what struck him most wasn’t her condition — it was the faint traces of muscle beneath the exhaustion. Even in this pitiful state, he could tell she had once been powerful.

Hanna followed his gaze, her expression changing slightly when she realized which one he was looking at. “Ah,” She said with mild surprise. “That one.” Her tone shifted, becoming sharper, a mixture of irritation and disappointment. “Of course you’d pick her.”

Mitchell glanced back. “You know her story?”

“Oh, very well.” Hanna’s polished professionalism faltered for a moment as she crossed her arms. “She’s from Cravarnox, a city north of our kingdom famous for its grand battle arena. She used to be a fighter in the Crimson Pit, a barbaric arena that’s their most famous attraction.”

Mitchell raised a brow. “The Crimson Pit?”

“It's where they throw prisoners and slaves into blood matches.” Hanna said, her tone carrying a mix of disdain and intrigue. “Apparently, she was a crowd favorite for a time. Half-ogre blood in her veins, strong, fast, durable. A perfect spectacle. But she started losing fights recently. Got careless, they said. Too much pride.”

Mitchell’s eyes softened slightly as he looked at the woman again. Her arm bore deep scars — some old, some fresh and her left shoulder was wrapped in filthy bandages. “And after that?”

Hanna sighed. “After her last loss, they sold her off. We were supposed to make a profit reselling her here, half-ogres from the Crimson Pit go for a good price even when they’re broken. But…” She gestured irritably toward the cage. “The idiot caught some infection on the way. Fever hit hard. She hasn’t been able to stand in days.”

Her irritation bled into her words, frustration simmering beneath her otherwise composed demeanor. “A complete waste. All that potential is worthless now. She’s too weak to fight, too stubborn to die quickly, and too expensive to just throw away. We’ll probably end up feeding her to the dogs if she doesn’t croak soon.”

Mitchell’s jaw tightened. The way she spoke, calm, casual, like she was discussing spoiled meat, made his skin crawl.

But he said nothing. He just looked at the half-ogre again, his mind already working through what he knew. ‘Half-ogre,’ he thought. ‘If her body’s that resilient, then maybe… maybe I can fix her.’

He took a slow breath, then turned to Hanna. “How much?”

The woman blinked, as if she hadn’t heard him correctly. “Excuse me?”

He repeated, “How much for her?”

Hanna’s brows shot up. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

She stared at him for several seconds before letting out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “You’re unbelievable.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling sharply. “Fine. You want to throw your money away again, that’s your business. But you remember the rules, don’t you?”

“No refunds,” Mitchell said flatly.

Hanna smirked faintly. “Exactly.”

She turned to a nearby assistant and snapped her fingers. “Bring the keyss for the half-ogre. The one from Cravarnox.”

As the assistant hurried off, Hanna gave Mitchell another curious look. “I don’t know what your game is, but I’ll warn you again, she’s got one foot in the grave. You’ll be lucky if she survives the night.”

Mitchell’s gaze lingered on the woman in the cage, his tone quiet but steady. “Then I guess I’ll just have to be lucky again.”

Hanna raised an eyebrow but didn’t press him further. She’d long stopped trying to understand this strange customer who bought the dying.

As the assistant returned with a set of keys, Mitchell reached for his coin pouch. “Let’s hurry and make it official,” He said, his voice calm, though inside, he could already feel the familiar churn of guilt twisting in his gut.

Hanna returned with a small ledger and a folded slip of parchment, flipping through pages while muttering under her breath. The faint scratching of her quill echoed in the cold room until she found what she was looking for.

“Alright,” she said, tapping the page. “Let’s see… with her current state, infection, and the transport costs from Cravarnox… that will be fifty coppers.”

Mitchell blinked, caught off guard. “Fifty?!”

Hanna looked up from the ledger, her expression bored. “Yes. Why? Is that a problem?”

He frowned, crossing his arms. “That’s more than what I paid for Lovel.”

A faint smirk tugged at Hanna’s lips. “Yes, well, the wolf girl you bought before was a frail beastkin no one wanted. This one—” she gestured to the half-ogre slumped against the bars, “—is worth far more than that, even in her state. Healthy, she could fetch a few silvers easily. Half-ogres from the Crimson Pit are rare. She might be sick and dying, but strength like hers isn’t cheap.”

Mitchell groaned quietly, rubbing his forehead. “Great.”

Hanna shrugged, her tone smug but not unkind. “That’s how business works, dear. You knew the rules the first time.”

Mitchell exhaled slowly, staring at the green-skinned woman one more time. She was barely conscious, her head resting weakly against the wall, chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm. He wasn’t sure if she even knew what was happening. 

“Fine,” He said finally, digging into his pouch and counting out the coins. “Fifty coppers.”

The metal clinked dully against the counter as Hanna gathered the payment and began filling out the ownership papers. She didn’t look up as she spoke, her voice steady and professional. “I still don’t understand you, boy. You seem determined to waste your coin on lost causes.”

Mitchell gave a faint, hollow smile. “Guess I have a type.”

Hanna snorted softly but didn’t press further. Once the coins were counted. She nodded as the purchase was done. “Just do it like last time. Touch her collar and put a drop of blood to register yourself as her owner.”

He nodded. “Got it.”

She gestured to one of the assistants nearby. “Unlock the cage.”

The assistant obeyed, kneeling to turn the heavy lock until the door creaked open. The sound startled the half-ogre slightly, her eyes fluttered open, a faint growl escaping her lips before she coughed weakly. Her pupils were a dim amber, clouded with fever, but even in her broken state, there was strength in her gaze.

Mitchell stepped closer and knelt beside her. “Easy,” he said quietly. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

She didn’t answer, just stared at him, unfocused and untrusting.

Taking a steadying breath, Mitchell reached for his sword. He drew it slightly and pricked his finger on the edge, wincing as a bead of blood welled up. 

Mitchell pressed his bleeding fingertip to the dark metal of her collar. The iron hissed faintly, reacting to the drop of blood. Red lines of light traced along the runes etched into it, flaring for a brief moment before dimming.

A small pulse of energy flickered through the air. The collar’s markings shifted from dull gray to a faint crimson, signifying the bond had been made.

“There,” Hanna said, folding her arms. “It’s official. She’s yours now.”

Mitchell exhaled and wiped the blood on his coat. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Lucky me.”

He glanced at the half-ogre again. Her breathing was heavy and her eyes still remained half-closed, heavy with exhaustion.

“Can you walk?” He asked her gently.

She blinked once, her lips parting as if to answer, but only a faint rasp escaped. It was clear she didn’t have the strength to stand.

Mitchell sighed, slipping his sword back into its sheath. “Figures.”

“Need a cart?” Hanna offered, her tone casual.

He shook his head. “No. I’ve got it.”

Bending down, he carefully slid one arm under the half-ogre’s knees and another behind her back. She was heavy, very heavy and his knees buckled slightly under the weight.

“Damn,” he grunted, tightening his grip. “You’re… definitely not light.”

Hanna chuckled faintly. “True ogres are twice the size of a man.”

Mitchell adjusted his footing, steadying her against his back until he found his balance. “Alright,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’ll manage.”

Hanna tilted her head, watching as he began walking toward the exit with the unconscious woman on his back. “May we meet again.”

He didn’t reply — just adjusted the weight on his shoulders and stepped out into the night.

The chill air hit him immediately, carrying the scent of rain and smoke from the city. His breath came out in short, tired bursts as he walked through the dimly lit streets, every step heavy with exhaustion and doubt.

The half-ogre’s faint breathing brushed against the back of his neck, reminding him that she was still alive.

“Hang in there,” He muttered under his breath as he trudged toward the Silver’s Spoon Inn. “I’m not letting you die.”

The streets were quiet now, the city’s noise fading behind him as he carried his new slave through the dark, another life, another gamble, another sin he would have to live with.

But just like before, Mitchell told himself the same thing he always did when he didn’t know if he was doing the right thing. ‘Survive first. Regret later.’ And with that, he disappeared into the night.

—----------------------------------

The Silver’s Spoon Inn, Mitchell’s room

The room of the Silver’s Spoon Inn was silent, save for the faint crackle of the candle on the bedside table. Lovel sat quietly near the small wooden desk, her tail curled around her chair, her golden eyes fixed on the closed door. She had just arrived from their old room at the Hollow Hearth, picking up anything they left behind and returning the key back. Now she had already finished organizing the supplies they had purchased earlier, the folded clothes, the dried food, and the few tools for travel. Everything was ready and neatly placed, yet her mind was far from calm.

She glanced toward the door again, her ears twitching at every muffled sound in the hallway. It had been some time since Mitchell had left for the slave market, and though she trusted him, her chest felt tight with unease.

‘He went back there… to that place,’ she thought, her tail flicking lightly against the floor. ‘The same place where I…’

Her thoughts stopped as a faint knock echoed through the door, three short raps, firm but slightly uneven.

Her head rose immediately. “Master?” She called softly.

“It’s me,” Came Mitchell’s tired voice from the other side.

Lovel stood quickly and crossed the room, unlocking the latch. The door creaked open, and she froze for a moment at the sight before her.

Mitchell stood there, breathing heavily, his brown coat damp with sweat. Across his back hung a figure, a woman, large and heavy, her long black hair hanging limp, her green skin pale with fever. The half-ogre’s body looked lifeless at first glance, her arms dangling loosely at her sides.

Lovel’s breath caught. The sight hit her like a ghost from the past. For a moment, she wasn’t standing in a clean, quiet inn — she was back in that filthy cage, weak, shivering, waiting for someone to decide her worth.

‘Just like me…’

“Let me place her on the bed.” Mitchell said quietly, his voice strained. “She’s… heavier than she looks.”

Lovel stepped back quickly, letting him in. Mitchell entered the room with slow, uneven steps, his boots thudding softly against the floorboards. He carried the half-ogre to the bed and, with a tired grunt, carefully lowered her onto the sheets.

The bed creaked under her weight.

Mitchell straightened, stretching his aching shoulders with a quiet groan. “There,” he muttered. “Made it back in one piece.”

Lovel’s gaze lingered on the half-ogre. Even from a distance, she could see how sick the woman was, her breathing shallow, her skin clammy with sweat. Fever had drained the color from her dark green complexion, and faint scars marked her arms and shoulders. But beneath the weakness, Lovel could sense it, a deep, dormant power.

“This one…” Lovel said softly, her voice low. “She’s strong.”

Mitchell nodded, moving toward his bag and pulling out a small towel to wipe his forehead. “Yeah. She’s a half-ogre and used to be a fighter in some place called the Crimson Pit, according to Hanna.”

“The Crimson Pit…” Lovel murmured, frowning slightly. “I heard of it from other slaves. Always with fear that they hoped that they would never be sent there. That is where slaves are forced to fight for sport.”

“Yeah, the slaver mentioned that.” He said with a sigh. “She was one of them and I guess she lost one too many fights.”

Lovel stepped closer to the bed, her expression solemn. “She is…just like I me.” She said quietly. “Sick, injured, left to die.”

Mitchell paused mid-motion, looking up at her. The sadness in her tone made him hesitate before he forced a small smile. “Yeah. You could say that. Since I have the skill Cure, I thought we could save money by buying someone sick but strong.”

Lovel’s golden eyes softened, but she didn’t smile. Her gaze returned to the half-ogre, then to her master. “Will she survive?”

Mitchell glanced down at the motionless woman on the bed, his expression hardening with determination. “She will.”

He moved closer, kneeling beside her. “Whatever infection or illness she’s got, I’ll burn it out before it kills her.”

Lovel nodded silently, stepping back to give him space.

Mitchell took a deep breath, steadying his hands. He could already feel the familiar warmth of his ability stirring within him, that faint pulse of light under his skin, the quiet hum of energy waiting to be released.

He placed his hand gently on the half-ogre’s shoulder. Her skin was burning hot to the touch.

“Alright,” he whispered. “Hang in there. Let’s see if I can pull you back from the edge.”

Then, with a focused exhale, he activated his skill.

A soft green glow flared from his palm, spreading across her body in gentle waves. The light shimmered like ripples on water, washing over her wounds and sinking into her skin. The room filled with a low hum — not loud, but powerful enough that Lovel felt it resonate in her chest.

Mitchell’s eyes narrowed in concentration as he guided the flow of energy. He could feel the sickness within her, fever, infection, torn tissue, and internal bruising, all like knots of darkness trying to resist the light. But his magic pressed deeper, breaking through each one, purging the corruption bit by bit.

The half-ogre’s breathing hitched sharply, and for a moment, Mitchell thought she might wake — but then her body relaxed, her breaths evening out.

The fever began to fade.

Lovel watched in quiet awe as the color slowly returned to the woman’s skin. The veins that had stood out under her skin softened, and her labored breathing steadied.

Mitchell finally let out a long breath, the light from his hand flickering out as exhaustion began to weigh on him. “There,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “That should… keep her alive.”

Lovel stepped forward, kneeling beside him. “It worked,” she said softly. “Just like before.”

Mitchell nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Yeah. Though… I think she’s tougher than you were. This one’s built different.”

Lovel glanced at him with a small, faint smile. “And you are still too reckless.”

He chuckled weakly. “Wouldn’t be me otherwise.”

The two of them looked at the sleeping half-ogre in silence for a moment, the tension easing from the room.

Mitchell leaned back against the bedpost, closing his eyes briefly. “She’ll need rest. Food, too, once she wakes up.”

“I will prepare it,” Lovel said gently, standing up. She hesitated for a moment, her gaze softening. “You did well, Master.”

He smiled faintly without opening his eyes. “Thanks, Lovel.”

As Lovel moved to fetch fresh water and towels, Mitchell remained seated beside the bed, glancing once more at the unconscious half-ogre. Her chest rose and fell steadily now, the faint traces of life glowing faintly under the candlelight.

—------------------------

The next day

The morning light crept gently through the curtains of the room, its golden rays cutting through the faint mist of the early dawn. The room was quiet except for the rhythmic sound of slow breathing, two figures sleeping on the wooden floor beside the bed.

Mitchell lay on his side, one arm loosely draped over Lovel’s waist. Both were fast asleep, exhausted from the busy day and then night before having claimed them completely. The bed above them was occupied by the half-ogre, who lay still beneath the covers, her once-pale complexion now showing signs of returning warmth. The fever had broken, her breathing steady, though the toll of her recovery still weighed heavy on her body.

The calm was broken by a soft, low groan.

At first, Mitchell stirred slightly but didn’t react. Then came another, louder this time, followed by the faint rustle of the bedsheets.

Lovel’s ears twitched. Her eyes fluttered open, disoriented for a moment until she realized where she was. She blinked, finding herself resting against Mitchell’s chest, his arm still around her. Her cheeks warmed immediately. “M-Master…”Sshe whispered, trying to nudge him gently.

Mitchell blinked awake at the sound of her voice. His vision focused slowly, and for a moment, all he saw was silver hair and gold eyes staring right back at him — far closer than he expected.

“…Morning,” He mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

Lovel’s face flushed deeper. “We… fell asleep on the floor.”

Mitchell blinked again, then looked around before groaning softly. “Right… the bed was taken.”

Another sound interrupted them, a quiet groan of discomfort, this time from the bed itself. Both of them turned immediately, their drowsiness vanishing in an instant.

The half-ogre was moving.

Her head shifted slightly against the pillow, her dark hair spilling over her face as her eyes blinked open for the first time. Confusion clouded her expression, her breathing quickened, and her large, calloused hand weakly gripped the blanket.

“Wh… where…?” she murmured, her voice rough and deep, like gravel rubbed between fingers.

Mitchell and Lovel rose quickly from the floor. Lovel steadied herself while Mitchell brushed the sleep from his eyes and moved closer to the bed, his tone calm but reassuring. “Easy there,” He said. “You’re safe.”

The woman blinked at him, her amber eyes struggling to focus. “Safe…?” She echoed, her tone uncertain.

“Yeah,” Mitchell said with a small smile. “You’re in the city of Varnhelm. I bought you at the slave market yesterday and you were pretty sick. We brought you here and I healed you with my skill. You’ve been out cold ever since.”

The half-ogre stared at him for a long moment, trying to process his words. Her gaze shifted slowly to Lovel, who stood beside him with a gentle smile and her hands folded neatly in front of her.

Mitchell continued, his tone even but kind. “My name’s Mitchell. I’m an adventurer. This here’s Lovel, my partner.”

Lovel gave a small bow. “It’s good to see you awake.”

The half-ogre’s brow furrowed slightly, confusion mixing with faint realization. “You… bought me?”

Mitchell’s smile dimmed just slightly. “…Yeah,” He admitted, his tone quiet. “Though after I healed whatever sickness was attacking you.”

Her lips parted, her expression softening as she stared down at her hands. For a long moment, she didn’t say anything. Then, with visible effort, she tried to push herself up, her muscles trembling as she attempted to sit.

Mitchell quickly raised a hand. “Whoa, hold it! Don’t push yourself. You’re still recovering.”

She paused, breathing heavily, then sank back down into the mattress. “I… see,” She muttered, her voice weak.

Mitchell’s tone gentled again. “Don’t worry about anything right now. You’re safe, you’re alive. Just focus on resting.”

The woman blinked slowly, her eyes darting between them. “You… healed me?”

“Yeah,” Mitchell said with a small grin.

Lovel nodded in agreement, her tone calm and sincere. “He saved me once too. You were very lucky, just like I was.”

That seemed to strike something in the half-ogre. Her expression softened a little — a flicker of something like gratitude in her eyes.

“…Then,” she said slowly, her voice rough but steadier now, “thank you… for saving me, Master.”

Mitchell blinked, then sighed, waving a hand dismissively. “You don’t have to do that.”

She blinked, confused. “Do… what?”

“The whole ‘Master’ thing,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I get that it’s part of the whole slave thing, but you don’t need to force yourself. You should be lying down, not worrying about formalities.”

Her brows furrowed slightly, uncertain, but she nodded. “As… you wish.”

Mitchell smiled faintly. “That’s better.”

He leaned against the bedpost, relaxing slightly as the tension in the room faded. “By the way… what’s your name?”

The half-ogre hesitated, her gaze dropping to the blanket. “My… name?”

“Yeah,” he said with a nod. “You do have one, right? I’d rather call you something other than ‘hey you.’”

She was silent for a moment, as if trying to remember. Her voice came out softer, almost unsure. “...Grenda.”

Mitchell repeated it slowly. “Grenda, huh? A good name.” He smiled. “Nice to meet you, Grenda.”

Lovel gave a polite nod. “It suits you.”

Grenda’s lips twitched faintly, almost — but not quite — forming a smile. “Mitchell… Lovel…” she murmured their names as if testing them.

“Yeah,” Mitchell said lightly. “That’s us. And for now, you just focus on getting your strength back. We’ll handle the rest.”

Grenda closed her eyes briefly, nodding weakly. “Understood…”

Mitchell exhaled, glancing over at Lovel with a relieved smile. “Looks like she’s recovering.”

Lovel smiled softly in return. “Hopefully she's strong enough to go adventuring soon.”

“We’ll see how she does once she’s on her feet. Healing her was the easy part.” He said, rubbing the back of his head. 

Finally done. Tell me what you think and if I made any mistakes.