The grand hall was suffused with the heavy scent of candle wax and polished stone. Rows of nobles, merchants, and guards filled the gilded benches flanking the central staircase, their murmurs a low tide of expectation and curiosity. Kaelen sat beside his father atop the raised dais, a shadowed silhouette in black armor, expression as still and unreadable as carved obsidian. The auctioneer’s voice echoed through the vaulted ceiling, crisp and deliberate, announcing the next lot with detached formality.

They brought her forth slowly. A young woman, slight and fragile, her brown hair tumbling over her shoulders, her pale dress stark against the dark stone of the hall. Her wrists were bound with iron cuffs, the chain dangling loosely between her and the official standing beside her. She moved with the hesitant resignation of someone long accustomed to being unwanted, her gaze cast downward, lips pressed together in silent surrender. A ripple of disinterest passed through the audience. Whispers of her weakness, of her frailty, of her lack of skill, carried faintly through the air. No one stirred. No one called for her.

Kaelen observed quietly, his steel-gray eyes narrowing just enough to convey that he noticed. Subtle movements caught his attention—the faintest flicker of light dancing between her fingers as she shifted her hands ever so slightly. It was almost imperceptible, like the glint of sunlight on water, but he saw it. She let a spark of magic arc and curl in her palm, a tiny secret flame extinguished before any others could notice. His breath caught slightly, an instinctive thrill brushing across his spine. Forbidden magic.

His father, King Theron, noted his son’s gaze and followed it with a sharp glance. “Do not—” he began, voice low, controlled, but Kaelen did not turn. He remained seated for a heartbeat longer, observing, calculating. Then, with deliberate elegance, he rose. The room stirred with shock; noblemen shifted in their seats, whispers sharpening into murmurs of confusion. A prince did not act without consultation or reason, and certainly not for the discarded remnants of lawbreakers.

Kaelen’s hand rose, the gesture measured and absolute. “I will take her,” he said, his voice cold, precise, cutting through the murmurs like steel. The hall went silent. Even the auctioneer froze mid-gesture, surprise flickering in his eyes before he regained composure. “Her?” the king said, his tone flat, but Kaelen’s expression remained impassive, unreadable.

“Her,” Kaelen confirmed, stepping down from the dais. The armor creaked softly with each movement, black plating gleaming faintly in the ambient light. The chain was handed to him by the official, the cold iron linking them both, a physical embodiment of ownership, of choice, of control. He grasped it with a firm hand, and she did not flinch—though her eyes, large and wary, met his briefly, a flicker of recognition or fear or curiosity hidden in the depths.

The young woman knelt lower, not out of obedience but instinct, the chain stretching taut between them. Her spark of magic hovered in a corner of her vision, a tiny defiance she could not conceal, even if she wanted to. Kaelen noted the tension in her posture, the tight line of her shoulders, the slight tremor that betrayed both caution and raw, untrained potential. He saw the promise of power, the forbidden brilliance that could not yet be controlled. And he saw, too, that no one else in the hall had noticed—no one else had the vision to see beyond her surface.

“Bring her to the quarters,” he said, voice low, final. The chain was adjusted around her, secure but not cruel, a measured statement: she was his now, bound in law and secrecy. Whispers rippled through the crowd, speculation weaving through the stone corridors like smoke. Some saw pity, some saw madness, but Kaelen did not care. He did not seek approval, only potential.