The blonde woman's face is stricken with terror as the servants tug on the leash around her neck, dragging her forward across the gleaming marble floor. Her sobs pierce the hall, fragile and sharp. Tears soak the thin white fabric of her dress, barely hiding what should be private, shivering over pale skin.
Her amber eyes dart desperately across the crowd, catching every gaze that lands on her. Some guests lean forward, curiosity sharp in their posture; others smirk behind jeweled masks, amusement dripping from their gestures. The sound of laughter rises, cruel and bright, echoing beneath the lanterns.
"Mom," she cries, voice trembling, hope and despair tangled.
"Hush, pig." The crier's slap lands across her cheek, resonating in the hall like a bell toll. "Monsieurs, behold! Fresh from the main continent! See her amber eyes. She is a Rozarian."
She is not Ashlynn, yet she carries her features. The resemblance tugs at something in my chest, a cold knot of recognition.
Suddenly—
"Ten phens!" a man shouts.
"Twenty!"
"Thirty!"
The numbers climb, overlapping, a chaotic chorus of greed and desire.
"Fifty!"
"Seventy!"
"Ninety!"
The hall vibrates with tension, voices sharp and eager, competitive and hungry.
"One hundred twenty."
The voice cuts through the chaos like a blade.
A man without a mask.
I recognize him.
He sits in the front row, opposite me, beside another unmasked man. Both are Aram's disciples—one pale, dark hair, amber eyes like flint; the other olive-skinned, brown hair, brown eyes.
"Going once… twice…"
The hammer falls.
"Sold."
The sound cracks through the amphitheater like a gunshot, reverberating along the vaulted ceiling. Silence settles for a heartbeat before the next motion begins.
The servants lead the woman to the winner. He does not hesitate, taking her with ease, his hands claiming her as if she has always belonged. She does not resist. Each step she takes is careful, deliberate, a performance of compliance, as if the world itself had taught her her place.
Another woman is brought forward. Brunette, amber eyes catching the lantern light.
"More Rozarian stock!"
The guests cheer and bid again, voices overlapping, coins clinking, the air vibrating with excitement.
One after another, the women—each with amber eyes, each with fear woven into their posture—find new masters. They settle onto laps or kneel at feet, a subdued chorus of obedience.
Then the most expensive one appears. Blonde hair, amber eyes, elegance crafted like sculpture.
"Rozarian noble!" the crier proclaims.
"Cultist pig!" someone shouts.
"Imperial swine!" another adds, voices mixing with awe and envy.
The bids climb rapidly, almost frenzied. Eight hundred phens—forty times a laborer's monthly income. The auction room thrums with anticipation, the tension stretching every second.
Finally, the last woman appears. The one deemed the most beautiful. The servants pull back the drape, and she steps forward, her blonde hair catching the lantern light in molten waves. Her amber eyes gleam with quiet defiance, distinct from all the others. A mole under her left eye marks her as singular, unforgettable.
"Fifty!" I shout, voice carrying.
"One hundred!" the pale Aram disciple counters.
"One hundred and ten!" I respond.
"Two hundreds!"
"Two hundreds and ten!"
Xandar leans closer, voice low, intrigued. "You're persistent. I can help you win, since you intrigue me enough."
I meet his gaze and whisper, calm, assured. "You don't have to. Watch."
I place my bid.
"Five hundreds!"
The crowd murmurs.
"Ooooh, her beauty makes her value close to a noble," Xandar murmurs, voice soft, a thread of admiration threading through the clamor.
I allow a faint smirk to spread across my face.
The crier's eyes meet Xandar's eyes. He nods once, deliberately. The crier nods back, hammer raised.
"Sold!"
The hall erupts again, voices clashing in celebration and envy, but my attention is singular.
The servants bring Ashlynn forward. Each step she takes is measured, almost hesitant, until she reaches me. Her body trembles lightly, the leash barely guiding her and the world—the lanterns, the shouts, the gleaming coins—fades into the background.
I draw her close, holding her tight. Her warmth presses into me, small against my chest, quivering with exhaustion and fear. She's too weak to speak, too weak to resist. I let her arm drape over my neck and guide her gently as her legs falter and she drifts toward semi-consciousness.
Before I can leave the crier approaches me.
"It's time to pay," he says.
"You don't expect me to carry my money with me surely?"
Xandar steps beside me. "How come a man not prepared enough to bring money to another man's house?"
"How many times have you carried money to purchase something on a whim?" I reply.
Xandar places his fingers on his chin, considering my words.
Not long.
"You do have a point. But on one condition..."
"what is it?"
"You come again maybe two or three days from now with another tea. Consider it a favor."
"Done!"
We share a knowing smile, a quiet agreement that passes unspoken judgment.
Suddenly, two men step forward. The Aram disciples. Each drags his own prize forward, like hunters displaying their catch—or worse, like collectors parading objects.
"What is it?" I ask.
"We just wanna check your new toy."
The two leans closer, scanning Ashlynn. From her face to her chests.
I step back instinctively, shielding her fragile body. "I bought her. She's mine!" My voice carries enough to silence the nearest murmurs.
Xandar moves in, calm but authoritative. "Behave, you two."
"Yes, Father!" they reply in unison, their tone forced, immediate.
Xandar turns to me and nods. I nod back, understanding that he might have helped me.
I leave the mansion, Ashlynn resting at my side. We slip into the dark, quiet streets of Eldenmere. Shadows stretch long under the liquid lanterns, each step swallowed by the cobblestones.
Just when I think we are alone, a presence behind us makes the air tense. I pivot.
One of Aram's disciples—the pale one, dark hair, amber eyes—moves closer, a predatory grace in his step.
"Monsieur," he says, voice low. "I apologize for being so sudden. But that… pig you carry… she is too beautiful. Let me have her for one night."
"No."
"I can pay you."
He closes the distance—two steps away, close enough to smell him. I set Ashlynn gently on the side, then advance. His attempt to reach her falters as my hand grips his arm like iron.
"What are you doing?" he hisses, struggling.
I pull sharply, forcing him back to his own space. He stumbles, regains balance, glares, teeth clenched. "You will regret this!"
"Is that a threat?" I ask, voice calm, deliberate.
"My father will learn of this—"
The word barely leaves his lips before my left eye flares. The pulse hums beneath my skin, deep and alive. Abyssal Eye awakens. Its darkness coils outward, seizing his gaze.
In that instant, he is marked.
"You will not," I say.
He stiffens. The air around him thickens with awareness. Then he spins and bolts, feet hammering against the stones, vanishing into the night.
Ashlynn leans against me again, fragile but safe. The streets stretch empty, silent, ours alone.
We soon arrive at my house—the one she never knew existed. The house I acquired in secret. The house that grants me entry to the masquerade, that hides my power behind its walls.
Inside, I guide her upstairs to the master bedroom and set her gently on the bed. I watch her chest rise and fall with tentative relief.
Carefully, I remove the leash from her neck. Her breath eases as the weight lifts, the restraint gone.
After I remove my mask and coat, I lie down next to her and slowly close my eyes.
Fatigue seeps into my bones. My body surrenders.
I drift to sleep.
—
I stand in my abyss. The darkness is mine, shaped by the Abyssal Eye itself—a void that bends to my will. It coils and pulses around me, a silent ocean awaiting my command.
This time, I do not wait. The man I marked is already there, reflected in the water beneath my feet. His eyes dart, wary, every muscle taut, searching for escape that does not exist. A mouse frozen before inevitability. His insolence toward Ashlynn sealed that fate.
I bend and tap the water. It ripples, twists upward like a living spine, swallowing me, dragging me silently to his side. The liquid spine spills me behind him. The surface quivers under my presence, and he pivots abruptly, breath quick and uneven.
"Who—who—who are you?"
"I am Monsieur Abyss." My name coils around him like smoke, writhing in the water beneath his feet.
He can only swallow.
I tilt my head, deliberate, cold. "You're not going to call your father?"
"Don't play with me! I'm an alchemist!" he snaps, eyes blazing.
I chuckle. His face twists with anger, every line burning with fury. He steps forward—then another, then a sudden run.
I do not move.
He closes the distance, knee rising sharply toward my stomach. The blow lands with force, but I do not flinch, not even a flicker.
Before he can recover, he pivots low, sweeping his foot toward my face. It connects again. Still nothing.
The other foot swings, and I catch it with my hand, yanking sharply. He stumbles, momentum carrying him closer. My elbow strikes—bone cracks beneath the hit.
"AHHHHHH!" he screams. "My leg!"
"Is that all?" I murmur, calm, my words slicing the air.
In a blind surge, he bites his hand. Blood spills, hot and thick, dripping into the water beneath him. Ones that don't fall crawl and twist across his nails. They thicken, coalesce, harden—claws forming on both hands, each one a forearm in length, gleaming with menace.
I lift my hand, curl it inward, beckoning him to attack.
He dashes forward, claws aimed for my heart. His right hand swings wide for my neck; I raise my left arm, stopping it high. His left hand swings low toward my belly.
SCRATCH.
Five nails tear into my skin upward.
I step back, planting my foot against his chest, pushing him away and creating space. The gap gives me room to breathe, to adjust, and to let him fully commit to his next attack.
Water trickles from my wound, not blood—a warning whispered by the Abyss itself. I cannot suffer heavy harm here.
He wastes no time and continues.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Each swing arcs wide, the length of his claws keeping me at bay. I read the rhythm, adjusting to his strikes, every dodge stretching distance, every miss shaping the trap I've set.
"WEAK!" he hisses. "FIGHT BACK!"
I flick two fingers. The water beneath him erupts, twisting into tendrils, writhing like living serpents, aiming to ensnare his feet. He slashes them apart with precise sweeps, evading each capture.
I flick again, more tendrils coil and strike, snapping at his ankles, twisting, wriggling.
He evades again, quick, precise, almost graceful, each dodge carrying him further into the space I've orchestrated, stretching distance, creating opportunity, setting the rhythm for the final move.
And as if the Abyss itself understands, I lift both hands high. The water beneath my feet roars, spiraling upward, gathering into my palms. Thick, heavy, obedient. It bulges, swelling, forming a massive sphere twice my size. It pulsates, alive with intent, coiling, ready to strike.
I throw the sphere toward his right. He twists, evading part of it, but the explosion still erupts beneath him. Water and force collide in a torrent, slamming against his body, sending him hurtling into the air, flailing. No footing, arms and legs struggling to find purchase. He spins, twisting midair, the explosion still carrying him forward, uncontrolled.
I snap my fingers. Tentacles surge from the water below, long, thick, unyielding. They wrap around his limbs, coiling and tightening, suspending him midair. Each movement is deliberate, a slow compression, bending, snapping resistance. He writhes, cries, struggles. "No, wait! Please!"
Bones snap. Muscles tear. Fragments of skin split under pressure. His strength wanes, a dance of agony and surrender. "AHHHHHH! IM SORRY!" His voice cracks as limbs go limp, succumbing to the crushing grip.
The tentacles dissolve back into water. He falls flat, defeated.
I step forward, slow, deliberate, each movement measured, smirk curling wider. I crouch before him, a predator observing prey.
"What…" he gasps, trembling. "What do you want?"
"I am Monsieur Abyss. Crawl from your balcony in your room. Fall. Head first."
"WHAT—"
Before he can finish, the water pulls him down. He struggles, claws scrabbling at nothing, powerless. The current swallows him entirely.
Just like that,
The Abyss claims him.
—