Aveline knew the scent of betrayal before the leather touched her face.
It smelled of damp wood, cheap ale, and the sour breath of a man who had traded away his conscience long ago.
"Uncle, please—"
Her voice shook despite her effort to keep it steady. She tore the dark leather mask from her face and sucked in air, lungs burning.
"You've already taken everything," she said hoarsely. "Father's estate. Mother's jewels. Her dowry. You don't have to sell me too. I'll work. I'll leave. I'll disappear. Just… not this."
She fell to her knees.
The floorboards bit into her skin through thin, worn skirts. Once, she had danced across these floors in silk. Now she clutched at Mortimer Willowgrave's boots like a beggar.
"Enough."
His boot slammed into her shoulder.
Pain exploded through her body, knocking the breath from her lungs before his hand struck her face. The crack echoed through the hall like a thunderclap.
"You dare speak to me of mercy?" he snarled. "Ten years. Ten years I wasted keeping you alive."
The blow sent her vision reeling into darkness. Pain exploded across her cheek, hot and immediate, and for a moment the world tilted into black silence.
---
When awareness returned, it did so in fragments.
The smell of mold... The scrape of boots against wood... The suffocating weight of leather, pressing against her eyes again...
Her wrists burned; they were tied behind her back with coarse rope that bit into skin already rubbed raw from years of labor unfit for a noblewoman.
Two men hauled her up the narrow staircase as if she weighed nothing. Through the thin slit beneath the mask, she caught glimpses of crooked beams and trembling cobwebs. Her uncle stood at the foot of the stairs, watching without hesitation.
The mask stank of sweat and fear. How many girls had worn it before her?
Her lips curved slowly.
So… begging hasn't worked.
It never had.
Ten years ago, she had watched her parents die beneath moonlit steel. Since then, she had learned to endure. Hunger. Silence. The whip.
She had believed that if she endured quietly enough, they would grow bored of breaking her.
They hadn't.
They were selling her.
A slave.
Beneath the mask, her eyes sharpened as she decided to fight back. Her body went slack on cue, her head falling. The man holding her under the arms adjusted his grip, muttering a crude joke to his companion about fetching a better price if she remained unmarked.
The mask slipped slightly.
That was all she needed.
Aveline twisted and sank her teeth into his forearm with everything she had. Warm blood flooded her mouth.
The man screamed, stumbling. "You little wretch—!"
She bit harder. Flesh tore beneath her teeth. If she died tonight, she would take something with her.
The man roared and grabbed a fistful of her golden-blonde hair, wrenching her head back with brutal force. Strands tore from her scalp. White-hot pain shot through her skull, but she only laughed, the sound low and unhinged, her lips smeared crimson.
"Let me go!" she shouted hoarsely, kicking her legs with wild precision, striking shins and knees as the staircase groaned beneath the chaos. She would rather die than kneel in chains before strangers.
For a heartbeat, hope flared.
Then something hard collided with the back of her head.
The world shattered into darkness once more.
As Aveline's consciousness slipped away, she made herself a promise in that falling void.
If I survive this night, the men who have tried to sell me will one day kneel at my feet.
The world went black.
***
When Aveline regained consciousness, the first thing she felt was the cold.
It seeped through her knees where they pressed against wood. Iron circled her wrists now instead of rope, heavy chains biting into her skin as her hands were fastened behind her back. The leather mask still smothered her face. Lantern light glowed through the narrow slit beneath it.
She was on a platform.
Before her stood a sea of masked men.
They were all different. Fat. Thin. Rich. Ragged. But their gazes were the same.
Hungry.
Even through their masks, she could feel the weight of their leering.
"Thirty shillings!" a voice called lazily from the crowd.
The auctioneer scoffed loudly, pacing beside her like a merchant showing off prized livestock. "Thirty? For this?" His gloved fingers seized her chin, forcing her face upward, though it remained hidden.
"She is a noble lady. Untouched. Look at the softness of her skin."
His hand slid down to the exposed curve of her neck, rubbing in slow, possessive strokes meant not only to display her but to degrade her.
Aveline's stomach churned.
Thirty silver coins.
That was what her life had opened with.
Not even worth the price of a decent horse.
Fury rose sharp and immediate, drowning the humiliation that threatened to suffocate her. She jerked her head violently and snapped at him, teeth bared.
"Get away from me, filthy swine!" she shouted, her voice cracking through the hall.
The auctioneer stumbled back with a startled curse, and laughter erupted from the gathered men.
"She's feisty! I like her!" a fat man wheezed. "One hundred shillings!"
"Two hundred!"
"Two hundred fifty!"
The numbers climbed as though they were discussing a prized hunting dog.
The auctioneer's eyes gleamed behind his ornate mask. He had discovered what excited them. He circled her again, this time tugging at the ribbon in her hair until her golden-blonde strands spilled down her back in a cascade. He let his fingers trace the curve of her waist, deliberately slow, as if savoring the crowd's reaction.
"Stop this, you vile beasts!" Aveline cried, twisting against the chains.
Their laughter only grew louder.
Humiliation was too small a word for what she felt. It was not merely shame. It was erasure… a slow stripping away of dignity until nothing remained but flesh and a price tag.
"Five hundred shillings!" an old, heavy man barked. "I could buy ten cows for that, but I fancy this fiery whore."
The insult struck, but she did not react this time. She forced herself to go still. If defiance increased her value in their eyes, then she would give them nothing.
Her silence displeased them.
"Which family is she from?"
"Let us see her face!"
"Is she truly a woman? Show us her tits!"
"You claim she is a virgin. Prove it!"
Each demand was more unhinged than the last, their voices overlapping in a frenzy of entitlement and lust. The hall felt smaller, the air thicker, the lantern flames trembling as though even they were repulsed.
The auctioneer bent down beside her, his breath hot against her ear. "Our rules forbid revealing the merchandise's face," he said theatrically, projecting his voice to the crowd. "But…"
His hand slid to the neckline of her worn dress.
"No…" The word escaped her in a broken whisper before she could stop it.
Her heart pounded so violently she thought it might burst through her ribs. She had endured years of degradation. But this… this public violation… It felt like the final destruction of something sacred inside her.
The crowd began to chant.
"Tear it!"
"Tear it!"
"Tear it!"
Their voices merged into a single monstrous roar. The auctioneer's grip tightened on the fabric, ready to rip.
Tears gathered but could not fall properly beneath the tight mask. She wanted to faint. To disappear. To let the darkness take her before their eyes could.
Then a voice cut through the hall.
Deep.
Commanding.
Powerful enough to drown the collective squealing of men who thought themselves predators.
"One thousand ducats for the lass with her clothes intact."
The chant died mid-syllable.
Even the lantern flames seemed to steady.
The auctioneer straightened as though a blade had been pressed to his spine.
A thousand ducats.
Not silver.
Gold.
For a slave.
For her.
The crowd stirred, shocked murmurs rippling outward. Even the fattest bidder fell silent, calculating the absurdity of such a sum.
Someone in the crowd muttered, "Is that—?"
No one finished the name.
Aveline lifted her head slowly.
Whoever had spoken did not sound like a man accustomed to losing.