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I walk slowly but am tugged forward, beyond the threshold of the hay-covered stable floor and onto the stone tile plaza. The fountain in the center of the square barely sputters, clogged by algae and by the creeping forward motion of lotus vines. The auction audience watches me expectantly as I am led onto the auction block.
I feel more naked than I have ever been in my life, laid bare before the prying eyes of this auction crowd. They examine my every imperfection, discussing amongst themselves and scrutinizing me with undying focus. A strand of my dark, wavy hair falls into my eye, and I long to brush it aside, but with my limited mobility, am not able to bend my elbows far enough to reach it.
The eyes of the male dark elves are especially fixated on me, admiring my bare form, raw hindquarters, and full lips. I know the one thing they all have in mind. I would gladly exchange my beauty for even a little bit of liberation.
“Quite a wondrous creature we have here for you today!” the auctioneer announces. “This human woman is only twenty-five cycles into her lifespan and is barely harmed by the rigors of captivity!”
I look down at the scars and cuts adorning my arms and stomach, some of which ooze fresh blood even now. I would not consider myself ‘barely harmed.’
“Why, just look at the fight in her eyes!” the auctioneer continues. “Wouldn’t you love to be the one to break her in?”
The only relief, and it is a small comfort, is that Lord Everan Medrai is nowhere to be seen. From the moment I was brought to the Dark Market, I have witnessed his prying, scheming eyes on me, from daybreak until dusk.
The things I have witnessed him doing to his subjects terrifies me. So many servants and slaves have fallen under his ownership.
I see the toll it takes on them.
They advance years in days, becoming shells of the people they were when they entered his care. There are even rumors that he performs twisted magical experiments on them, leaving them for dead under the Dark Market’s hollow fountain.
“With a specimen of this utter splendor, we shall start the bidding at two-hundred mena!”
The market is silent at first, as the crowd grumbles. As disgusting as I feel for it, the fact that my starting bid is so high does flatter me a bit.
My mind turns to hope as I think that perhaps nobody will want to purchase me, and I will be brought back to the stalls, where I can plot my escape.
That inkling is dashed, however, as a portly dark elf with an eccentrically coiffed hairstyle raises his hand.
“Two-hundred-fifty mena!” he calls out.
The price hangs for a moment as the crowd staggers to comprehend the cost. I hear muttering in the audience.
“She isn’t worth thirty,” one of them says.
“That’s more than five months of my pay,” another objects.
“Now remember!” the auctioneer interjects. “The creature we have on display is young and virile. When you pay for her, you pay not only for her superior beauty and stature but for her excellent breeding capabilities and for the chance to pluck her frisse for yourself!”
I think the bidding has concluded, when a lanky dark elf with flowing white hair interjects.
“Three-hundred mena!”
From there, the bidding erupts into a flurry of offers. With each offer, I consider how terrible it might be to live under the ownership of each potential buyer. The only comfort is that none of these elves are Lord Everan, who is still nowhere in sight.
I find it relieving but unusual. He is generally the biggest spectator at these events. I’ve heard him confess, in passing, that he likes witnessing the hope draining from the eyes of every subject.
In the distance, I hear the loudening cries of an aquila as it soars through the sky.
“I believe bidding has ceased at eight-hundred mena,” the auctioneer states. “If anybody would like to contest this, now is your chance!”
“Nine-hundred mena!” one of the figures in the audience, an elderly female dark elf, says. I can see that her fragility belies a fierce penchant for cruelty and know that I would not be safe in her care.
The cries of the aquila grow closer, and I can see it flying above us, descending to the ground.
My heart stops.
There, saddled on top of the savage-looking aquila, guiding it with the sharp heels of his boots, is none other than Lord Everan.
“And here comes our honored Lord Everan with another majestic entrance!” the auctioneer announces.
