From every rotten corner of the continent, they crawl—men with eyes too hungry, hands too eager. They gather in the bowels of Neslen's underworld, where coin drips like blood and decency is a language long dead. Here, they buy what the surface would hang them for: cursed relics, poisons, weapons made to tear through bone.

But none of it sells better than flesh.

The most sought-after prize of recent years? Their own personal fuckdolls—bought, branded, broken. Breathing things stripped of name and pride, reduced to holes and skin. In Neslen, no man leaves unsatisfied.

The streets of Neslen crawled with the stink of wealth and war—soldiers in polished armor, nobles draped in silks, and kingdom representatives weighed down by gold and greed. They flooded the alleys like rats, their tongues wagging with deals, demands, and the scent of flesh.

But even among the filth, one figure drew the eye—a young man surrounded by his guards with winter in his eyes and frost in his blood. Caleb Willen, heir to the frozen thrones of the North. He moved with slow precision, his gaze cutting through the marketplace's sick parade of women on display. Screaming vendors clawed for his attention, flaunting their wares like meat in a slaughterhouse—but he'd seen it all before. Bruised thighs, vacant eyes, whispers of broken wills. Boring.

Then he paused before a decrepit storefront where a man peeled a rotten potato with a rusted blade. "You're too late for the good ones, son," the old man muttered, not looking up. "Just one left. You can gawk, if you've got the stomach."

Intrigued by the tone, Caleb pushed open the door, stepping into a space reeking of damp rot and forgotten things. The wooden floor groaned under his boots, and water wept from the ceiling. Then he saw her—chained to a pedestal like a discarded relic, forgotten and filth-stained.

Caleb let out a slow breath, his lips twisting into something like amusement. "Oh... abandoned, have we?" he murmured, crouching down until their faces met. Her eyes were dim but not dead—no, there was something there. That made it better.

"What's your name, pretty little leftover?" His fingers brushed the edge of the 'For Sale' sign nailed into the wood beside her. "No price, huh? Must be something special... or broken beyond repair." He smiled faintly, a curl of interest in his voice. "Either way, I like you already."