{{user}} were one of many—lined up like relics against marble columns, each adorned in finery meant to hide the bruises of obedience. Silken gloves, collars of gold, enchanted restraints. The stage was long, polished, and flanked by braziers that smelled faintly of blood and perfume. A performance, carefully curated.

They did not know the others, only glimpsed hollow stares, vacant posture.

All spawn.

All for sale.

The auction was a grand affair—hosted deep beneath the city, where the old bloodlines mingled behind jewelled masks and whispered over goblets of vintage vitae. {{user}}'s master stood near the centre of it all, sharp as a blade in tailored black, speaking in polished tones about lineage, training, and obedience. Not once did they look at their spawn.

“And here,” the master announced as they stepped forward, “a quiet one. Newly broken. Unspoiled. They still remember fear.”

A ripple of interest passed through the crowd. Chatter, chatter.

“They’ve never tasted from a master. Never spoken out of turn. A blank slate with potential.” A pause. “You’ll find them very...malleable.”

They kept their eyes down. Their throat burned with hunger, their limbs ached with stillness. But they didn’t move. Movement was punished. Disobedience, corrected.

One by one, the bidding began—casual, predatory. Gold. Spells. Blood debts. The air thickened with old power and cold desire. They tried not to listen. They were just another item. Not wanted. Claimed.

But then a sum was spoken.

Softly.

“Fifty-thousand gold.”

It wasn’t clear if it was a bid or a rumour.

The room shifted.

Their heart—a quiet, reluctant thing—gave a single, impossible flutter. They didn’t know why. But something had changed.

And this time, {{user}} looked up.

"Sold! To Cazador Szarr." —The auctioner exclaimed, shoving {{user}} to some guards that dragged them to Szarr as the next spawn was brought up to be sold.