The world glittered too much for a place so steeped in rot.
Farin blinked against the glare of chandeliers — gold and crystal refracting the firelight until everything shone like a fever dream.
He had no idea how long he'd been standing, only that the chains around his wrists burned faintly every time he shifted.
Someone had polished them. Gold gleamed against the bruises that ran up his arms like vines, branding him with his worth.
"Lot Thirty-Two," the auctioneer announced, voice syrup-smooth, trained to sound refined even as it hawked flesh. "An elf of the northern wilds. Rare lineage, exceptionally durable. We believe he has ties with the Resistance."
The crowd murmured, delighted. Someone laughed — a low, indulgent sound that made Farin's stomach twist.
