The entrance to the auction was hidden behind a tavern cellar, through a narrow, rusted metal door set into the far wall. It groaned open with a low, metallic screech, revealing a staircase that descended into darkness. Two heavily armored guards flanked the passage, inspecting each guest with quiet, impassive eyes.
They didn't ask questions. Only checked the seals, tokens, and masks.
The guests entered one by one.
All of them wore the same smiling joker mask.
Nobles in thick cloaks trimmed with gold, merchants in fine but gaudy robes, and stone-faced aristocrats who carried a casual cruelty in their posture. Some came with bodyguards, others alone. But all of them walked with confidence, as if the filth of the world belonged to them by right.
Each guest passed through without a word. Some murmured to one another, voices low and amused. Some laughed. A few said nothing at all, stepping into the darkness below as though they'd done this many times before.
The staircase led to a vast underground chamber—a basement turned into a theater of flesh. Cold brick walls lined the circular space, lit with enchanted lamps that flickered in unnatural shades of blue. Rows of chairs formed concentric circles around a black marble platform at the center.
Azel watched everything from beneath a dull metal collar, his wrists bound by chains, shirt torn to expose the curse mark on his chest but hidden properly in the dark. Dirt had been smeared across his face to dull his features, and his expression was blank, practiced. He didn't speak. He didn't look around. He played the part of a broken thing.
Beside him, Piero Macedona was dressed like every other buyer—black overcoat, matching gloves, and a silver-edged joker mask that gave him the look of someone who enjoyed theater a little too much.
At the base of the stairwell, near the checkpoint, a man stood behind a desk littered with scrolls and wax stamps. He was short, rotund, and smelled of perfume and dried meat. The conductor of the auction. His mask had a twisted grin carved into it—larger than the others—and he wore velvet robes that did little to hide the sweat soaking through them.
"Name?"
Piero gave a shallow bow.
"Macedona. I'm here to submit a last-minute entry. Elf. Gifted body, good structure."
The conductor raised a brow behind his mask.
"Doesn't look like much. Dirty. Gaunt."
"Will be useful. He has strong build."
The conductor circled Azel, inspecting him with greasy interest. He lifted Azel's chin, squinted at his eyes, then stepped behind him and yanked down the back of the collar. He indeed has a good stature.
Then a low whistle.
"Ah… a branded one. You nobles always bring the interesting toys. We haven't had a proper ones lot in months. What's he do?"
"Strong constitution. Can take pain, doesn't cry out. Ideal for demonstrations or more… exotic requests. I'll leave the details to the buyers' imagination."
The conductor grinned.
"Very well. You'll get a token for the entry. Once he's on stage, he belongs to the auction. Any interference and we cut ties with your house—understood?"
Piero nodded without hesitation.
"Understood."
The conductor snapped his fingers. A pair of attendants stepped forward, both masked, both silent.
"Put him in Holding Chamber Three. He'll go up third round."
They took Azel by the chains and pulled him forward.
He didn't resist.
Didn't speak.
He kept his head low and walked as they led him past the crowd, toward a curtained chamber behind the stage. The scent of incense mixed with blood and sweat filled the air. Slaves lined the walls—some drugged, others terrified. A few looked numb, eyes empty.
Azel took it all in.
Every detail.
And he waited.
Azel scanned the holding area, but Anna wasn't there. Just rows of caged bodies—slaves bound by chains, their eyes hollow, shoulders slumped like wilted leaves. The air was thick with incense and fear, a sickly-sweet perfume masking rot.
In one corner, he spotted her—Mary, the elf Piero spoke of. Her silver hair was matted, her expression lifeless. He'd free her later. But now, only one name echoed in his mind: Anna.
A rough hand shoved him into a cage. Cold metal slammed shut behind him. The murmurs of despair around him were quieter than death, heavier than silence.
_____________
The lights above the stage burned like a spotlight, casting long shadows across the floor. The masked crowd leaned forward in their seats, attention fixed on the figure being led onto the platform.
Chains rattled as the young man stepped into view. He moved with calm steps, head slightly bowed, but not broken like the others before him. His wrists were bound, a heavy collar around his neck, a long iron chain trailing behind, held by one of the guards.
The crowd whispered behind their joker masks. Some tilted their heads. A few chuckled.
The auctioneer stepped up, dressed in a gray, spotless suit. His voice rang out smoothly across the room.
"Lot number twelve. Nameless. Male. Late 10s. Excellent condition. No scars, no brands. Strength confirmed. No known behavioral issues—yet."
A few buyers chuckled at that.
"We begin the bidding at five hundred gold coins."
A masked hand rose—one with red fingertips and a gold ring.
"Six."
"Seven"
"Ten."
"twelve."
The numbers kept climbing.
The crowd grew more focused, more eager. Some whispered among themselves, others simply watched in silence.
The auctioneer raised his hand.
"2000 gold coins. Going once…"
Azel suddenly moved.
Without warning, he yanked the chain from the guard's grip and spun. The guard tried to grab him, but the slave moved faster. A knee to the joint, an elbow to the throat, and the man crumpled to the floor.
Gasps shot through the room.
From the stage, Azel grabbed the key ring from the fallen guard's belt and unlocked the collar with a sharp twist. It hit the floor with a loud clang.
He tossed the chain into the crowd, hitting a bidder in the chest. Someone screamed.
"Help! we have a problem here. Hurry to the stage!"
The auctioneer barked, backing away.
Guards rushed forward, but the slave didn't run toward the exit.
He turned to the crowd.
His eyes scanned the room—not with panic, but purpose.
He wasn't here by accident and he wasn't leaving empty-handed.