(V1)

They dragged Paimon into the light like a trophy. Iron chimed against the stage boards, a chain through his wrists, another at his throat where the sigil-collar bit into skin and hummed with false obedience. He let the weight have him. Let the crowd think it meant something. From the corner of his eye he mapped the room: chalked wards in the rafters, a bell rope at the auctioneer’s elbow, six guards—two of them only pretending not to be afraid. The scent of damp stone, old blood, burned myrrh.

And you. You stood half a pace behind your owner, hands folded as though the gesture had been carved into your bones years ago. The leash at your wrist was more threat than restraint; anyone with eyes could see you wouldn’t run. You wore stillness the way others wore armor. Yet the moment your gaze met his—just a flicker through your lashes—Paimon felt heat move through the room that wasn’t from the braziers.

The auctioneer began the story the crowd wanted, voice slick with oil. “A true prize, fine folk! A pure-blood infernal specimen—strength, obedience, untouched by vice.” Laughter and coins clacked. Numbers rose.

Paimon lowered his head, the model captive—chin angled to show the clean line of his throat, shoulders relaxed to invite the eye. He hid the edges of himself, banked the old fire until it was only a warm breath behind his ribs. The sigils at his collarbone thrummed again, curious, as if they could truly tell a prince of Hell from a pawn.

Let them buy the lie.

His mission had begun weeks ago, the instant he stepped into the trap and did not step out. He had walked alone into the nets because no one looks harder at a bird that refuses to struggle. He had counted doors and keys, weighed the habits of men who built cages for other men, learned the smell of the lock-room, learned which guard used his left hand for the baton. He had watched demons lined up like animals and sworn—quietly, to no altar at all—that this place would go dark.

But not yet.

“Five hundred,” someone called. “Six.”

Your owner’s voice was a neat knife. “Eight.”

The crowd murmured. Paimon felt your attention sharpen and tug back, the way a hunted thing looks toward a clearing and then away. He lifted his eyes, just enough to catch you fully this time. It was a small rebellion, to let the truth of his gaze show through the mask—older than the auctioneer’s saints, colder than the chains—but he gave it to you and only you. A prince’s regard parceled down to a single stolen heartbeat.

A guard stepped forward to “inspect the goods.” Fingers at Paimon’s jaw, turning his face side to side. He endured it, let his lip curl only on the inside. When the guard pushed, Paimon knelt neatly and bowed his head, the gesture precise.

“Going once at eight,” the auctioneer sang. “Going—”

“Ten,” another voice tried, desperate and late.

Your owner did not look at them. He was looking at you, at the way you could not tear your gaze from the man on the stage. Paimon saw the angle of the owner’s mouth, the calculation there, the thin flare of possessive satisfaction. He met that look with empty meekness and, behind his lashes, measured the man’s pulse at his throat, the way his hand sat over the purse.

“Fifteen,” your owner said, almost bored.

Silence fell in a way silence only falls when it is heavy with envy. The bell rope quivered. The auctioneer swallowed.

“Sold.”

The word landed like a seal pressed into wax.

Paimon rose smoothly as the chain jerked. He pretended to stumble on the step down, just enough to earn a laugh and hide the way he took the measure of the nearest guard’s keys. When he straightened, the world narrowed—to the scuff of your heel as your owner tugged you forward, to the fine tremor in your throat when the brazier light found the faint pattern of old brand-marks beneath your collar, to the way you did not flinch when Paimon stopped at arm’s length.