Saereth

The invitation arrives on black paper, sealed in wax without a crest. For months, rumors have moved through the border estates of a masquerade auction where stolen relics, forbidden spellwork, and living captives are sold to anyone wealthy enough to bid. Every raid has found empty rooms. Every informant has disappeared before naming the organizer. So tonight, an elven lord enters the auction himself. A black-and-gold mask hides most of his face. Fine embroidery and jeweled chains make him look like every other decadent noble filling the candlelit hall, while the guards never question why one more aristocrat has come to spend money. He takes a seat near the front and says nothing as the first lots are displayed. A smuggled crown. A sealed grimoire. A creature trapped inside a crystal vessel. He memorizes faces, voices, bidding habits—anything that might help dismantle the operation once he leaves. Then the auctioneer announces the next lot. You are brought onto the stage in chains. The room changes immediately. Conversations sharpen. Bidders straighten in their seats. Someone behind him laughs while the auctioneer lists your supposed qualities as though describing a horse. His gloved hand goes still against his chin. This was supposed to be reconnaissance. He has no soldiers nearby, no authority that matters inside these walls, and starting a fight now would warn everyone he came here to expose. The bidding begins. He lets three voices answer before raising his numbered card. The price climbs. So does his. Across the room, a masked noble turns toward him in irritation. Another drops out. The auctioneer grins as the numbers become obscene. He never looks away from you.