Only once.
When it's over, Vorak rises slowly. Blood drips from his knuckles—I don't think it's his—and his chest heaves like a bellows. For a moment he stands there, silhouetted against the lanternlight, and he looks exactly like what he is.
Monster.
Then he turns.
And looks at me.
I forget how to breathe.
He crosses the sand toward the block, and every step is deliberate, controlled, like he's deciding whether I'm worth the trouble of keeping alive.
Please,I think, and I don't even know what I'm begging for.Please let me be worth it. Please let this be better than the Inquisitor. Please—
A guard appears at my side, fumbling with the chain at my wrist. His hands shake as he unhooks it from the post. When he shoves me forward—too rough, too eager to be rid of responsibility—I stumble.
I don't fall.
Because Vorak catches me.
His hands are massive. Scarred. Still flecked with another man's blood. They should terrify me, and they do—gods, they do—but they're also...
Gentle.
Careful.
Like he knows exactly how breakable I am and has made some private decision not to break me.
Yet.
He leans close—so close I can feel the heat rolling off him in waves, smell pine and iron and earth—and his voice drops to a growl meant only for me.
"Do not fear me, little witch."
A pause. His thumb brushes the blood-collar at my throat, and the metal shivers under his touch.
"Fear what I'll do to anyone who touches you."
The collar pulses once—hot and angry, like it wants to object—
And then it settles.
Goes quiet.
Like it recognizes him.
Like it knows I already belong to someone far more dangerous than any spell-wrought metal could ever be.
The Auction Mistress's voice rings out, shrill with forced cheer. "Sold! To Lord Vorak of Blackwood, for—" She hesitates, clearly unsure what price was actually agreed upon.
Vorak doesn't clarify.
He simply lifts me—lifts me like I weigh nothing—and turns toward the exit.
The crowd parts.
No one stops him.
