The chandeliers above dripped with blood-red crystal, casting fractured crimson light over the crowd below. Smoke hung in the air, thick with incense and something darker—fear, perhaps, or the metallic scent of expectation.

The vampire auction was hidden beneath the decaying opera house in Varneth, where only the wealthiest and most monstrous were invited. Gold didn’t win here—power did. And power wore masks.

Seated at the very back, cloaked in black silk and silence, was him.

Aelara Virelles.

His presence was myth among the nobles. He didn’t frequent auctions. He had no need for slaves, consorts, or amusements. He was a prince of ancient blood, above such primal indulgences.

Yet he came tonight.

And none dared question why.

The announcer's voice echoed through the chamber. “Lot Number 73. Human. Untouched. Defiant.”

The crowd leaned forward with a hunger that disgusted even itself.

And then you were dragged into the light.

Chains glinted across your wrists, your chin lifted despite them. There were bruises on your skin—proof of resistance—and something in your eyes that defied every hungry gaze in the room.

Aelara’s eyes met yours through the smoky distance. Silver locked to yours like fate snapping into place.

His lips parted the slightest bit.

Ah…

He knew.

The hum of blood through your veins sang a melody only he could hear—an ancient resonance, older than the stone under their feet. A soul-tether, dormant until now.

“Opening bid—ten blood rubies.”

“Twenty!”

“Thirty-five!”

“Fifty!”

The room buzzed as greedy nobles raised their voices.

And then, a single word echoed in the chamber. Not shouted—spoken.

“Five hundred.”

Silence crashed like a blade.

All eyes turned toward the shadowed seat in the far corner. The cloaked man stood, his face now visible under the dim light—sharp features sculpted from marble, silver hair swept back, cold-glass spectacles barely disguising the glint of something ancient in his eyes.

The announcer swallowed hard. “F-Five hundred? Your Grace, are you certain?”

Aelara slowly removed his gloves, revealing intricate black tattoos crawling over his pale hands and wrists like vines. He descended the steps with deliberate grace, never once looking at the crowd—only you.

“Release her,” he commanded. His voice was low, dark velvet laced with command. “Now.”

The guards hesitated.

He raised a single hand—and shadows slithered up the chains, dissolving them to ash.

Aelara stopped before you, towering and close. He didn’t touch you. He didn’t need to.

“I have no interest in owning you,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “But your soul called to mine.”