The box’s lid opened with a slight creak.

Nathan, crouched in front of it, looked inside with the specific caution of someone who knows that the image he’s about to see is going to be one of the most defining memories of his life—regardless of what exactly that image contains.

The interior was padded. Dark, thick fabric, clearly designed to minimize movement during transport.

And in the center, reclined against the padding in a position that suggested she’d been placed there without much care but also without visible violence, was a person.

A girl.

Young.

Very young.

Too young, Nathan thought, and that was the first thing he registered before even processing the rest.

She was sixteen or seventeen. Hard to tell precisely, because she was an elf, and elves aged at a different rhythm than humans, but her facial features were unmistakably youthful.

Green hair, long, disheveled from hours inside the box, falling messily over her shoulders. Pale skin with a slightly copper tone in her cheeks.

Long, pointed ears peeking through her hair. And most notably, clothing that was practically rags—a gray tunic that had clearly been good clothing at some point, now torn at the sleeves and stained at the hem. Bare feet. Her wrists had thin marks suggesting she’d been bound for long periods.

She was asleep.

Breathing.

Soul Sense confirmed to Nathan that the sedative was starting to wear off. She would wake in a matter of minutes, not hours.

Alright.

Alright.

Nathan sat on the alley floor, facing the box, with his back against the opposite wall. He stared at the sleeping girl.

Let’s process this.

Point one. She’s a child. She’s roughly the same age I was when I started working at the warehouse.

She’s roughly half my age now.

She’s an age that no reasonable jurisdiction considers an adult capable of making full decisions about her life—much less being transported in a box as property.

Point two. She’s an elf. The Northern Kingdom’s elves are recognized citizens of the neighboring realm under treaties that are centuries old.

This isn’t just trafficking.

This is a potential diplomatic incident.

Point three. Brenwick knew exactly what he was moving. The price he put on the paper—five silver coins—was laughable for merchandise of this value. Which confirms the paper was a decoy. The real operation was something else.

Point four. I, Nathan Voss, F-Rank Hunter, now have a kidnapped elven girl from the Northern Kingdom sitting in a box in a Greywall alleyway, and absolutely no institutional authority I can turn to without creating more problems than I solve.

Point five. This is not going to get easier.

The girl opened her eyes.

---

She did it abruptly, with the startled breath of someone transitioning from sedation to consciousness without a smooth transition. Her eyes were a lighter green than her hair, almost translucent. She blinked. Focused. And the first thing she did, before even processing where she was, was look at Nathan.

And give him a look of absolute contempt.

It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t confusion. It was pure, instant, categorical contempt—the kind of expression built over several generations of aristocratic privilege and applied with the reflex of someone who’s had centuries of practice categorizing people into inferior groups at first glance.

Well, Nathan thought. That wasn’t what I expected.

"Hello," Nathan said, in the calmest tone he could muster.

"Who are you?" the girl asked.

Her voice was clear, young, and surprisingly firm considering she’d been sedated in a box for hours. And the accent she used when speaking the common tongue was the specific one of someone who’d learned the language as a secondary tongue they considered slightly vulgar compared to their own.

"My name is Nathan. I’m a Hunter from the Greywall Guild." He raised his hands in a peaceful gesture.

"Before you say anything, let me clarify the most important thing. I’m not your buyer. I’m not part of the group that captured you. I’m not part of the organization that was going to receive you."

"Then what are you, exactly?"

"I’m the person who was paid five silver coins to deliver you." Pause. "Without knowing what I was delivering, I should clarify. I took the job thinking it was a normal package. When I discovered what the box contained, I decided to open it instead of completing the delivery."

The girl looked at him for a moment.

Then she sat up inside the box, slowly, with the specific dignity of someone who considers no situation—including being kidnapped and sedated—justifies abandoning proper posture.

"You’re an F-Rank Hunter."

"Yes."

"Your Seal isn’t visible."

"It’s covered. Yes."

"Why?"

"For reasons that aren’t relevant to this conversation."

She observed him a little longer. Her face still held that expression of contempt, but now with an additional component of calculating assessment—as if she were categorizing him within her internal system of useful people versus disposable people.

"Fine," she said finally.

"I’ll save you time, human. I am Liaraen Sael’thoryn, second daughter of House Sael’thoryn of the Northern Kingdom. My family carries the Seal of Yeva for fourteen generations. Our house controls three sacred forests and maintains trade treaties with the Crown of Vael’Karenth from before your kingdom had decent walls. My family will notice I’m missing. They probably already have. And when they discover where I am, someone will pay the appropriate price for my disappearance. Which concerns you directly."

Fourteen generations. Of course.

Of course she’s noble. Of course she’s from one of the oldest houses. Of course.

"I’m still listening," Nathan said, neutrally.

"If you have the minimum amount of intelligence necessary to survive in this kingdom," Liaraen continued, with an aristocratic calm that was almost insulting,

"you’re going to take me back to my home immediately. The journey to the Northern Kingdom takes approximately eleven days by the safe road. I am capable of enduring the journey. You will receive food and shelter along the way, and an appropriate reward upon arrival."

"What kind of reward?"

"That depends on how obedient you are during the journey." She looked at him with the coldness of someone evaluating livestock.

"If you prove to be a useful dog, my father can be generous. If you prove to be a troublesome dog, he’ll pay you the minimum and dismiss you. Which is still more money than you’ve seen in your life, considering your appearance."

There was a silence.

Nathan stared at the girl.

The girl stared back with the expression of someone who clearly expected immediate gratitude for the generosity of her offer.

Let’s see. Let’s see.

Five minutes ago, I was seriously concerned about this girl’s moral situation.

I was calculating how to protect a trafficking victim—a sixteen-year-old girl tied up and locked in a box, who was probably traumatized and terrified and vulnerable.

That girl doesn’t exist.

The girl who does exist just called me a dog three times in forty seconds and is offering me "food and shelter" as if it were a favor.