Chapter 23 — The Spotlight
It was time.
The guard took hold of Lucien's chain, tugging it gently but without hesitation. The cold links shifted against his skin as he stepped forward—one pace, two.
The curtain parted.
And light—blinding, blistering light—slammed into him.
Lucien flinched. His vision bleached white, then pulsed with afterimages. He blinked rapidly, head bowing slightly as his eyes adjusted. The dim world of the backstage vanished. Ahead of him, the auction hall stretched wide and endless.
A sea of faces blurred into darkness beneath chandeliers and hovering lamps. Tiered balconies wrapped the vast dome of the theater. Marble floors gleamed. Golden railings framed every level. All eyes were turned to him.
The spotlight etched a circle around his feet—bright, absolute. It trapped him like a symbol carved into stone.
The announcer began.
A voice, low and measured, echoed from somewhere unseen. Not mechanical. Not shouted. Just… controlled. Confident. Perfectly paced.
Lucien didn't understand the language, but the rhythm was unmistakable. Each syllable landed with the grace of a well-rehearsed story. The voice wrapped around him, weaving something mythic—he could feel it in his bones.
He wasn't being sold as a prisoner.
He was being unveiled.
A tale unfolded behind him: a warrior torn from the sands of death, molded by the crucible of combat, shaped into something rare. Dangerous. Coveted.
A thing of worth.
Bids began almost quietly. As if the crowd were testing the waters, measuring each other's interest. Numbers rose with sharp clicks from bidding stones, soft murmurs of attendants repeating offers from the private boxes above.
Then someone challenged.
The tension cracked.
What followed was no longer a transaction. It was a hunt.
Lucien stood still in the center of it all. Unmoving. His breathing slow. But inside, his pulse was drumming through his ears.
The auction ignited.
Voices clashed. Offers rose. Again and again, higher and hotter. The announcer's tone quickened—never hurried, just more alive. The words rose and fell like music, like fire rising through dry grass.
Lucien didn't blink.
He studied the silhouettes in the front rows. Some leaned forward, eager. Others leaned back, calculating. Many were masked. All were silent now, letting their wealth speak for them.
He felt none of them.
Not yet.
He looked up toward the upper balconies, where the richest bidders watched from behind veils and shadows.
And then the air changed.
The voice ceased mid-sentence.
A final bid.
A silence fell, absolute.
And from the far left balcony, a figure stepped into the light.
A woman.
Her presence cut through the stillness like a knife through silk. She wore no mask, no veil. Her hair was dark and braided high, coiled like a crown of thorns. Her dress was stark, almost militaristic—tailored to her frame with uncompromising precision.
But it was her eyes that claimed him.
Sharp. Focused. Burning with something that wasn't quite desire or curiosity—but command.
Lucien felt it instantly.
She had already decided.
She had already owned him, long before the bid had ended.
Her smile flickered—thin, dangerous.
Not pleased. Not cruel. Just sure.
Lucien didn't look away.
The guard beside him shifted, then began to move. The chain pulled gently, guiding him off the stage.
The spotlight followed.
The crowd murmured, a hundred eyes already losing interest, already moving on.
But Lucien kept his gaze on her.
And she never stopped watching him.
The auction was over.
He wasn't afraid.
He didn't even feel sold.
Just… chosen.
And as the light narrowed, and the curtain fell behind him, Lucien stepped into whatever came next—no longer a number.
No longer a prisoner.
Just a weapon, walking toward its new wielder.