Chapter 5: The Auction Block of Despair (1)
The auction house had once been beautiful—gilded molding still clung to the ceiling, and faded frescoes of dancing gods watched from the walls. Now it served a different kind of theater, one where the merchandise screamed and the audience applauded.
Seraphina stood in the holding pen with fourteen other captives, her bare feet cold against filthy straw that reeked of old sweat and terror. Dawn had broken an hour ago, bleeding pale light through high windows designed to showcase the "products" while keeping the worst shadows at bay. Around them, the auction house filled with the wealthy and corrupt—merchants in silk counting purses, minor nobles adjusting enchanted rings that glowed with casual displays of awakened mana, a few hooded figures whose presence suggested business too dark for even this place to name aloud.
The boy from the wagon pressed against Seraphina's leg, his small hand clutching the hem of her filthy rag dress. He couldn't have been more than ten, and he'd stopped crying sometime during the night, which was worse. Children shouldn't learn silence that quickly.
"Lot Thirty-Two!" The auctioneer's voice boomed across the space—a portly man named Veros with gold rings on every finger and the kind of smile that never reached his eyes. "Fine specimen, strong back, recently awakened earth affinity. Perfect for mining operations or estate guard work."
A middle-aged man was dragged onto the raised platform at the room's center, his wrists shackled with iron that suppressed his newly awakened magic. The mage-light fixtures blazed brighter, illuminating every detail of his body for the buyers' inspection. Someone in the third row shouted a number. Another voice from the back raised it. The bidding war lasted three minutes.
Fifteen gold coins. Sold to a mine owner whose reputation preceded him—three slaves dead in the past year alone, all ruled "accidental cave-ins" by bought magistrates.
The man was led away. He didn't struggle. That was the worst part—none of them struggled. They'd all learned the same lesson Seraphina had learned in that cellar: resistance only made the pain last longer.
"Lot Thirty-Three! Young, trainable, suitable for domestic service or..." Veros paused, letting the unsaid implications hang in the air like smoke. "...specialized establishments."
A young maid, barely sixteen. Eight gold coins. Purchased by a brothel master whose smile made Seraphina's stomach turn.
One by one, the captives were called. One by one, they were sold.
The boy beside Seraphina began to shake when his number was announced. "Lot Forty-Two! Child labor, factory suitable, already accustomed to obedience."
"No," the boy whispered. "No, please, I want my mama—"
Guards yanked him away from Seraphina's side. He screamed for his mother as they dragged him onto the platform, his small voice breaking on every syllable. The audience laughed—actually laughed—as if his terror was entertainment designed specifically for their amusement.
Seven gold coins. Sold to a textile factory master known for sixteen-hour shifts and "disciplinary measures" that left children crippled.
The boy's screaming stopped the moment the guards handed him over. He went silent and limp, a small body that had learned fighting was futile.
Seraphina felt something crack inside her chest. Not her heart—that had broken long ago. Something deeper. Something that had been holding her together through pure stubborn refusal to let them see her break completely.
"Lot Forty-Seven!"
Her number.
Guards gripped her arms and hauled her toward the platform. Seraphina's legs moved mechanically, her mind floating somewhere above her body, watching this happen to someone else. It had to be someone else. This couldn't be real.
The platform was higher than it looked from the pen. The mage-lights were brighter. Hotter. They illuminated every bruise on her face, every tear in her clothing, every visible rib beneath her too-thin frame.
"Now here's an interesting piece!" Veros circled her like a merchant appraising livestock, his voice pitched to carry to every corner of the room. "Defective noble trash—daughter of Count Sterling herself, if you can believe it. Unawakened at twenty years old. Completely useless for any work requiring magic, which is to say, any work that matters."
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Someone threw a rotten apple that hit Seraphina's shoulder and splattered across her collarbone.