When the girls finally slept—if it could be called sleep in a place steeped with sobs and iron chains—they were moved.
Carriages awaited. Lacquered black. Silent. Drawn by horses with eyes like coals and hooves like echoes of war. They rolled forward across scorched ground, through the smoke-wrapped gate of a city that was not made by men. A city carved into red cliffs, lit with flame instead of sun, where shadows whispered and stone held the memory of screams. They had crossed into the demon's realm.
Aurelia woke to water.
Cold. Brutal. Hurled into her face with no ceremony. She gasped and jerked upright, her limbs stiff, throat burning, hair clinging in damp strands to her neck. Her gown from the journey was gone. Only skin now. Skin and silence.
The room around her swayed, filled with muffled crying and the sound of chains. Other girls rose in confusion, many of them younger, some bloodied from the road. A few older ones tried to hide their bodies with trembling hands. They had been stripped of everything: names, families, futures.
There were no windows. No doors they could see. Only red stone, polished smooth, and high above, a ceiling painted with gold and blood.
Men entered.
Not human.
Draped in robes the colour of dried wine, their faces obscured by gilded masks. They moved without sound. No footfall. No breath. They did not speak.
The girls were herded forward like cattle. Some screamed. One tried to run. She was not struck. She simply vanished—hands took her from the shadows and she was gone.
Aurelia walked. Not because she accepted. But because she would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her dragged.
They entered the bathhouse.
It might have once been a place of worship. Columns stretched to the ceiling, carved with naked bodies writhing in pleasure and pain. Torches flickered from serpent-shaped sconces. The scent was overwhelming—incense, jasmine, blood.
In the centre of the chamber was a basin of black marble. Wide enough to drown ten men. Carved into its rim were the words: Purificatio pro Mercatu. Purification for the Market.
One by one, the girls were stripped of whatever smell they clung to. Hands grabbed Aurelia's arms and held her still.
First came honey. Warm. Sticky. Slathered down her back, her thighs, the curve of her stomach. It was thick as sin, golden as betrayal.
Then rosewater. Cold. Delicate. Sweet with rot. It mingled with the honey and stung her skin. Another girl cried out, begging them to stop. No one answered.
Next came the oils. Sandalwood. Myrrh. Musk. They pressed it into her pulse points, into the hollow beneath her ear, into the space between her breasts.
Not to clean her.
To flavour her.
To make her a delicacy.
Gold bands were locked around wrists and ankles. Jewels threaded into tangled hair. Paint was smeared onto lips and lashes. Each girl made into a statue. Not holy. Desired.
No one spoke. No one explained. But all of them knew.
They were being prepared for the auction.
When they were done, the girls were lined against the far wall like offerings.
Naked, and broken.
Aurelia's pulse thudded in her neck. Her skin prickled beneath the silk. She dared not move.
The doors opened.
What lay beyond was a hall vast enough to house a palace.
Tiered stone seats encircled the room in an ascending spiral. Like an amphitheatre—only here, no gladiators would fight. Only flesh would be sold. The crowd was already gathered.
Demons, all.
Not monstrous. Beautiful, in the way that lightning is beautiful, or venom in a goblet of wine. Many wore masks—white, gold, bone. Others showed their faces, twisted into artful perfection. Some glowed faintly. Others shimmered like mirages. All of them watched.
Aurelia's stomach twisted.
A voice rang out.
"Bring the first."
A girl—blonde, fifteen maybe—was shoved forward. She stumbled. Regained her feet.
She just stood there shaking in fear...ashamed, scared and in pain.
A tall man with black robes and bronze eyes stepped forward. The auctioneer. He raised a long staff tipped with ruby.
"Let the bidding begin."
Hands lifted. Voices called.
"One bag of silver!" "Three!" "Four and a half!"
"Seven."
"Sold."
The girl sobbed as she was taken away. The next was brought. And the next.
Aurelia watched them vanish, one by one. Some cried. Some screamed. One girl collapsed and had to be carried.
Another spat at the bidders, trying to resist and flee.
But she didn't make it to the stage. A guard's blade silenced her. The blood was cleaned with lavender and salt. The air still stank of iron.
Aurelia's turn came.
She walked forward. Slow. Controlled. Her heart beat like a war drum.
The auctioneer raised his staff.
"Start at two."
"Three."
"Five."
A pause.
"Six."
"Too thin for the price," someone murmured in the back seat.
"Seven."
"Eight."
"Ten."
She stared at them. Not pleading. Not crying. Just staring. Eyes sharp as broken glass.
Then a voice.
Quiet. But it cracked the room.
"Fifty."
Gasps.
The auctioneer froze.
"I—I beg your pardon?"
"Fifty," the voice repeated. Calm. Absolute.
From the shadows, he stepped forward.
He wore a black robe stitched with silver runes. His face was hidden behind a mask of smooth obsidian. No mouth. No eyes. Just emptiness. Cold radiated off him. A pressure that made the torches flicker.
The crowd fell silent.
Wondering who would waste that much wealth on nothing.
It was– Tenebrarum Mortifer.
The name passed from mouth to mouth like a curse.
He had ruled cities. Broken kings. Drunk from the skulls of emperors. His presence alone drove angels mad.
He was a collector. Of rare things. Broken things. Beautiful, doomed, and defiant things.
And now, he had bought Aurelia.
She felt her throat close. Not in fear. But rage.
Why her?
The auctioneer dropped to one knee.
"No further bids," he whispered. "The girl is yours."
Tenebrarum did not move.
Aurelia looked into the void where his eyes should have been.
She did not flinch.
He inclined his head.
And the bidding resumed.
But none of it mattered.
The game had changed.
The girl who was no one now belonged to a god.
The crowd whispered of her. Of him. Of what he would do.
And Aurelia was led away—not screaming. Not weeping. Not even blinking.
Still wondering, who he was...
She would not be meat; perhaps would be something even worse.
To be continued...