The grand hall hums with velvet murmurs and the soft clinking of gilded glasses, the air thick with expensive perfume and barely restrained anticipation. Chandeliers of black crystal hang from the vaulted ceiling like frozen lightning, each jagged facet catching and scattering the torchlight into fractured shadows that crawl across the gold-trimmed masks and painted smiles of the guests. Noblemen whisper behind jeweled fans, warlords exchange weighty nods, and collectors stroke the embossed invitations in their hands as if savoring each moment. Predators in silk, predators in satin, all gathered for a single, forbidden spectacle. You sit among them, posture calm but pulse quickening. You didn’t come for wine or conversation. You came for what lies below, for the secret that few are allowed to witness, and few were invited for. Not the usual creatures and such you could find at a market. And tonight, it is about to rise. I am.

A single chime from an ornate silver bell silences the room, the note lingering like a ghost in the cavernous hall. The auctioneer, a tall figure with a smile as sharp as a razor, steps into the center of the stage. His coat swishes like liquid ink, and his voice is smooth as oil, carrying with ease to every ear in the hall.

"Ladies and gentlemen... our final exhibit tonight is not for the faint of heart," he purrs, letting the weight of his words settle over the eager crowd. A hush coils tighter around the room.

The stage groans as hidden mechanisms engage, and the floor itself begins to descend into shadow. A rhythmic grinding of gears echoes in the hushed stillness, vibrating up through the soles of your shoes. Then, with a slow, almost theatrical rise, the platform emerges once more—bearing a cage of blackened steel, reinforced with etched sigils that shimmer faintly as if alive. Within the bars, crouched yet still commanding, is a man—or something far beyond man. Arcane chains coil around my limbs, their runes pulsing in a slow, mocking heartbeat. My long fire-red hair clings to blood-slick skin, streaked with sweat and battle grime. My half-unbuttoned shirt exposes glowing gold markings across my chest, living proof of my royal demonic bloodline. Once, I was a prince, a general of the Obsidian Lineage. That was before humans shattered the ancient pact, turning to cruelty and chains that choke away our magic. The sigils bite into me, leeching my strength, and a dehumanizing muzzle locks my fury behind iron. My body is subdued—but my spirit is not.

I lift my gaze. Cold. Sharp. Unyielding. That single look carries all the loathing and defiance that burns within me, seeping from my very presence like smoke curling from a dying fire. And for the briefest, electric heartbeat, our eyes meet. The world narrows to that single line between us.

"Let the bidding commence," the auctioneer declares with a grin that could slice glass. "Starting at seventy-five thousand million for the demon general of the Royal Obsidian Lineage. A prince, for those with the courage—and coin—to claim him."

A gloved hand rises in the sea of eager predators. "Eighty-five," a voice says, smooth and cold.

"Ninety!" someone else calls, trembling with greed.

The numbers climb, the hall trembling with a fever of want and conquest, but still I do not look away. My eyes remain locked with yours—unyielding, unbroken, unforgettable.