'Third Point of view '
The chains around Aveline's wrists were colder than the marble she knelt on.
"Lot Number Eleven," the herald bellowed, his voice echoing across the domed auction chamber. "One of the rarest enchantresses left unclaimed in the lower provinces. Virgin. Obedient. Trained in silence."
Laughter rippled through the candlelit hall.
Obedient?
Aveline's lip curled, but she kept her head bowed. She wasn't here to fight. Not yet.
She could feel their stares—the noblemen cloaked in furs, silks, and gold. All of them watching her like wolves circling a trembling lamb. Her tattered dress clung to her dirt-smudged skin, soaked from the snowstorm she'd been dragged through.
"Let the bidding begin."
A silver bell rang.
"Ten gold."
"Twenty-five."
"Fifty!"
"One hundred and ten sovereigns from Lord Marrick of Velden."
The crowd murmured. That was nearly triple the average price for a virgin enchantress.
Aveline gritted her teeth, rage bubbling behind her calm mask. Her father had sold her like livestock to pay off a blood debt. She was nothing now but a body, a womb with magical blood, destined to be used.
And yet—something inside her still burned. A memory. A promise.
"No matter what they do to you," her mother once whispered, "you will always have your magic. Even if it kills you."
The bidding escalated. Voices grew louder. Coins clinked. Men smirked.
"One hundred and sixty!"
"Two hundred!"
Then—silence.
A slow, deliberate voice pierced the room like a dagger dipped in velvet.
"Five hundred gold."
The entire chamber went still.
The herald dropped his gavel in shock. "I—I beg your pardon?"
Aveline's head lifted.
A man stepped from the shadows of the high balcony. He didn't walk so much as glide, cloaked in black and lined in crimson. His face was half-shadowed, but what she could see chilled her: midnight hair, bone-pale skin, and eyes that glowed faintly red.
He wasn't just any noble.
He was the Devil of Drakar Hold.
Duke Lucien Drakar.
"You heard me," he said, his tone unhurried and amused. "Five hundred sovereigns. I'll pay in bloodsteel."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Even Lord Marrick paled.
Lucien descended the steps slowly, his boots echoing in the chamber like a death march. His gaze locked on Aveline. Not with lust, like the others—but something far worse.
Claiming.
Aveline's throat tightened. Her instincts screamed danger, and yet, beneath that fear, a low pulse of heat stirred in her stomach.
He reached the dais and stopped just before her.
"You," he said, his voice husky. "Stand."
She didn't move.
A knight stepped forward, whip in hand.
But Lucien raised a hand. "Let her choose."
The room froze. Even the guards exchanged confused glances. No one gave slaves choices.
Aveline met his eyes—daring him. Testing him.
Then, slowly, she stood.
They were almost nose-to-nose. She had to crane her neck to meet his eyes, and even then, she felt dwarfed by him. Power radiated off him like a storm barely leashed.
"Good," Lucien murmured. He reached up—and gently brushed a strand of silver hair from her face. His fingers lingered just a second too long. "You'll do."
"For what?" she whispered.
His smile was dark. "For breaking curses. And other… rituals."
Before she could react, he turned and began to walk away. "Chain her. She rides with me."
The herald stammered. "Sire, she—she must be branded first—"
"Touch her," Lucien growled without looking back, "and I will rip your spine through your throat."
No one moved.
Aveline stared after him, her heart pounding. Chains still wrapped her wrists, but she felt them loosening in her mind.
She wasn't being bought for pleasure.
She was being chosen for something far more dangerous.
---
Several Hours Later – Blackthorn Keep
The carriage ride had been silent. Cold. Tense.
Now, she stood at the threshold of Blackthorn Keep.
Thunder cracked above the towering spires. Lightning lit the sky, revealing gargoyle statues, iron battlements, and glowing red ward sigils etched into the stone walls.
The Devil Duke's castle was alive—with magic. And it did not welcome her.
Lucien strode ahead, ignoring the flinching servants and bowing guards. Aveline followed, forced to match his pace as they entered the grand hall.
Torches flared. The air was thick with incense—and blood.
She could sense it. The walls had seen death.
Lucien turned to her, his crimson eyes catching the light.
"From this moment, you are mine," he said.
"I'm no one's," she spat.
He only chuckled. "You will be. Soon."
He snapped his fingers. A servant stepped forward, carrying a black scroll.
"This is a binding contract. You will live here, untouched by others, until the next full moon. Then we perform the Blood Oath Ritual. You give me your body, and in return, I give you your freedom."
"My—what?"
Lucien stepped closer. "Your body, little witch. Not your heart. I have no use for that."
Heat surged through her, but she masked it with venom. "What happens if I refuse?"
His lips brushed her ear. "Then the curse I carry will kill every living soul in this keep. Including you."
He pulled away, eyes deadly serious. "You can fight it. Hate me. But when the moon is full, I'll take what I need."
"And if I survive?"
Lucien's smile turned cruel. "No one has."
Midnight in the East Tower
That night, Aveline lay in a cold bed in the tower chamber he'd assigned her. The fire crackled. The sheets smelled like cinnamon and iron.
She couldn't sleep.
Something in the air shifted. The wards around the room hummed.
And then—she felt it.
A presence. Watching her.
She sat up. "Who's there?"
No answer.
She stood, heart racing, and moved toward the door.
That's when she saw it.
Blood.
A trail of it. Leading from beneath her bed to the balcony.
She followed it slowly, footsteps silent.
The door creaked open—and outside stood a shadow. Pale hands. Black eyes. Not Lucien.
A woman. Dead. Skin flayed open.
And carved into her chest were the words:
"He killed me. You're next."
Aveline gasped—just as a pair of hands grabbed her from behind.