Our firstborn

"Our firstborn! Hers and mine," said Wyatt, standing tall, refusing to wither under every eye in the room.

The auctioneer pursed his lips, and looked at his finger.

Now Wyatt didn't know what was going on. He didn't know what to believe. What he knew was that it appeared that a woman — and who cared that she was, may be, or maybe wasn't, an elf — was being sold off like cattle. Wyatt was a good man at heart. This wasn't something he thought or recognized, it was just a fact. It was the reason he'd yet to ask Kayla out, because she'd dated one of his friends in high school and it would hurt his friend; no amount of his own joy was worth hurting someone else. He was the guy who would arrange groups to go to the soup kitchen two towns over because his doesn't have one, or offer his umbrella to someone without one in a downpour even though it meant he'd get soaked. Sure he wasn't perfect, he wasn't always smart enough to have good ideas in the first place, and he sure wasn't good at understanding that trying not to hurt one person could hurt someone else more — just ask Kayla! — but if you had to say one thing about Wyatt, say his heart was in the right place.

So when it looked like the auctioneer wasn't happy with his bid, Wyatt persevered. "Our firstborn, and her heir, so that one day the respectable patron who brought her here will be able to command the rightful inheritance of her. . . lands?" Wyatt didn't end on a high note, but he couldn't help it, he didn't know what best described her country, nation, city. . . or possibly world. Land seemed safe.

The auctioneer licked his fingertip. And smiled wide.