When they were done with the Purification, the women were lined up against the far wall like offerings, bodies trembling, stripped of every possession that marked them as individuals.
Aurelia stood out in a blue dress, silk clinging to her curves, cut far too revealing, leaving her exposed yet defiant. Her pulse thudded in her neck, heat prickling beneath her skin as though the very chamber knew her fear.
Ahhhhhh!!!
A sharp cry pierced the air—one girl tried to run, daring to flee the line.
Aurelia's breath caught in her throat. In the blink of an eye, the girl's head rolled from her shoulders, a red bloom on the marble floor, and her body slowly dropped to the floor.
Frozen, no one dared not move an inch.
Aurelia remained perfectly still, every muscle taut, mind racing. Death had a way of teaching lessons, and she would learn them without complaint.
"A foolish move," one of the auctioneers sneered, voice smooth and cruel, and the others erupted into laughter, a tide of mockery that rolled over the line of women like fire.
Fear clawed through Aurelia's chest, hot and sharp, threatening to tear her down from the inside, and for a heartbeat, she felt tears swell behind her eyes.
No! she told herself,
not now, not here, not for these monsters—crying is not an option.
Do not let them see you break, she hissed inwardly, every nerve alive, every heartbeat a drum of defiance.
Her hands clenched at her sides, fingernails digging into her palms, and she screamed the motivation silently to herself, a vow sharper than any blade:
I will not yield, I will not bend.
I will survive.
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The huge doors swung open, echoing through the chamber like a death knell.
What lay beyond was a hall vast enough to rival a palace, tiered stone seats spiraling upward in an amphitheater of flesh and fear.
No gladiators would fight here—only women, lined like offerings, to be measured, claimed, and bartered to the dance of this tone.
The crowd had already gathered.
Every one of them a dark creature, but not the monsters of books or whispered legends.
They were beautiful, too hypnotic, like venom poured into a goblet of wine.
Many wore masks—white, gold, bone—hiding whatever thoughts lay behind their eyes, while others revealed faces sculpted to impossible perfection.
Some glimmered faintly, some shimmered like illusions, all of them watching, every gaze a blade aimed at her spine.
Aurelia's stomach twisted, a knot of fear and fury tightening inside her.
She could not believe how calm they seemed, how they could sit there and watch this, as if the suffering before them was the finest spectacle the world had ever offered.
The cruelty, the beauty, the control—it was intoxicating and terrifying all at once, and Aurelia knew she would have to steel herself if she was to live in this world.
Then a voice rang out, sharp and commanding, slicing through the murmur of the crowd.
"Bring the first."
A girl—blonde, no more than fifteen—was shoved forward. She stumbled, knees threatening to give out, but somehow regained her footing. She trembled in place, small and fragile, wrapped in fear, shame, and pain.
A tall man in black robes stepped forward, bronze eyes gleaming like molten metal. He carried a long staff tipped with ruby that caught the torchlight, sending shards of red across the hall.
"Let the bidding begin," he intoned, voice low and deliberate, each word hammering into the hearts of those gathered.
Hands shot up. Voices called out over one another, sharp and greedy.
"One bag of bronze!"
"Three!"
"Four and a half!"
"Seven."
"Is seven the best? Going—goingggg—"
"And sold."
The girl's sobs filled the hall as she was dragged away, her small body swallowed by the darkness beyond the platform.
The next was brought forward.
Each girl a trembling testament to fear, each bid a reminder that here, value was measured only in coin, and mercy did not exist.
Aurelia watched them vanish, one by one. Some cried, voices cracking against the cold stone. Some screamed, thrashing in vain. One girl collapsed completely, limp and broken, carried away without ceremony.
Another, she couldn't take it .
She spat directly at the bidders, claws of rebellion against her fate. She tried to flee, to resist, but she never made it to the stage. A guard's blade rose in swift silence
Cling…
Her throat was cut. She clutched at the wound, but blood surged like a river, unstoppable.
The dark humans laughed at her struggle, cruel and sharp as broken glass.
Aurelia couldn't bear to watch. Every nerve screamed that she might be next. Her pulse hammered in her ears, every breath shallow and quick.
When the girl's body was dragged away, it moved like a piece of rotted timber, stripped of dignity. The floor was cleaned with lavender and salt, but the stench of iron lingered, thick and suffocating, filling the air with the taste of death.
Aurelia's hands trembled at her sides. She forced herself to breathe, to stay upright. She had to survive.
It was now Aurelia's turn.
Unlike the other girls—trembling, shuffling, broken—she walked forward with a deliberate grace.
Bold, Aurelia. Bold, she whispered to the air, letting the words anchor her courage.
She moved slow, controlled and with confident.
Each step deliberate, like it was leaving the whispers of fear behind her.
For a second, the chamber seemed to hold its breath. She could hear the soft thud of her foot on the marble, like a drum in the silence.
Every gaze snapped to her, and her pulse pounded like a war drum in her chest.
Her violet eyes glowed with an almost unearthly light, and the crowd instinctively parted, as if she alone commanded the space.
"She looks… promising," the head auctioneer said, raising his staff, his voice smooth but sharp, carrying the weight of authority—and something darker.
Then bidding began.
"Ten bags of bronze."
"Eleven bags of bronze."
A pause, then...
"Sixteen."
A voice murmured from the back tier, dismissive, cruel: "Too much for such a cheap price—twenty."
The crowd erupted, voices rising in a thunderous roar of approval. Hands clapped, stomping echoed through the hall, cheers mixing with murmurs of awe and envy.
Aurelia's eyes sharpened, cold and cutting, like broken glass. She hated the attention, hated the way they looked at her as if she were property to be measured and judged. Her pulse quickened, fury rising beneath her skin.
Then—a voice, quiet, deliberate, slicing through the murmurs,
"Hundred."
Gasps rippled through the hall, sharp and startled, cutting through the chatter like knives.
"What?!" one of them shouted, pressing a hand to his ear as if the sound itself might vanish if he blocked it, disbelief twisting his features.
The murmurs grew, a wave of tension and shock cascading through the crowd, each person trying to process the impossible bid, the audacity that had silenced them all.
The auctioneer froze, staff midair, as if struck with madness, but he had to be sure his ears were not playing games with him,.
"I—I beg your pardon?" he stammered.
"Hundred," the voice repeated, final, unwavering, reverberating against the stone walls.
Not loud, but absolute, silencing everything around it like a sword drawn in a cathedral.
Who would give such amount for a human.
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To be continued...