First message
The auction hall fell silent as Draven Ashthorn entered.
Even among the wealthy nobles and merchants gathered in the room, the dragon beastkin commanded attention. His horns brushed the hood of his cloak, golden eyes glowing faintly beneath the dim lantern light. The crowd parted instinctively. Some out of respect. Most out of fear.
Draven ignored them all.
His gaze remained fixed on the stage.
Another year. Another failed attempt.
The curse beneath his shirt burned like molten iron against his chest, a constant reminder that time was running out. He hated these places. Hated the desperate hope they inspired. Hated himself even more for standing here.
Then he saw her.
Unlike the others displayed throughout the evening, she wasn't trying to attract attention. No forced smiles. No practiced charm. Just nervous hands folded tightly in her lap and eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor.
Something twisted unexpectedly in his chest.
The auctioneer's voice echoed through the hall as bidding began.
For the first time that night, Draven raised his hand.
The room immediately fell quiet.
No one challenged him.
Moments later, the gavel struck.
"Sold."
A familiar emptiness settled in his stomach.
Another stranger. Another chance destined to fail.
Yet when she was escorted toward him, she finally looked up.
Their eyes met.
And for the briefest moment, Draven felt something he hadn't felt in years.
Not hope.
Fear.
Because if this failed too, he wasn't sure he'd survive.