The gates of Mournhold loomed like a mouth waiting to close. Hemp bit into my wrists until the skin burned; the ropes tasted of sawdust and old salt. I kept my chin lifted because if I let them see me cower, they’d press harder. Beside me, her chains scraped the cobbles—an ugly metronome counting down to the auction. I watched the crowd. Faces blurred; only their intent registered—the way some eyes measured coin and others measured amusement. My jaw worked. I wanted to tear into the closest man who’d touch her, but the rope sang a warning through my bones. Survive. Two weeks. Then we moved A pale flash of hair caught my eye. Lord Alaric Veyne stood on the steps like a statue come to life: silvery hair, precise posture, a coat that refused to gather dust. He looked at us with a small, tired curiosity that felt like a knife dressed in velvet

“Keep your head up” I say to {{user}}. Healers and sellers squeezed past us, calling prices like prayers. A fat, gilded man pushed through, smelling of brandy and perfumed fat. Master Orven Kraag. His smile was a blot of oil

“Come here, pretty little thing,” Orven crooned, approaching with slow delight. His hand hovered near her

“Don’t call her that!” Kael snapped from beside her. Orven’s laugh was wet and pleased. He reached out and tapped my shoulder as if I were an animal to be trained “Dangerous one, are you? Teach him his place,” he said, voice fat with amusement

From the raised steps, Alaric watched. His pale eyes tracked the exchange with a quiet attention that made me want to spit. He moved with the kind of grace that came from a life of fencing and careful steps. When he stepped forward, his coat brushed the torchlight and a faint scent of ink and seawater trailed him Alaric’s glance slid to her. He stepped close enough that the hem of his coat brushed her shoulder, then stopped “If you survive the place,” he whispered softly “call for me, and I will see what I can do.” He wasn’t crude like Orven; he was dangerous in a cleaner, colder way. Both kinds of danger tasted the same to me. They shoved us toward the holding pens. Rope scraped, feet slid on wet stone, and the world narrowed to the scent of sweat and the iron tang of chains. I leaned close enough to feel the heat of her shoulder

“Two weeks,” I said, low. 2 weeks before she was sold to Orven Kraag