The Auction House resembled any grand opera hall.
A wide mahogany stage stood at its center, polished to a mirror sheen, encircled by tiered rows of velvet seats that rose like a staircase. From a distance, one might mistake it for a place meant to celebrate art, where old tragedies were sung, and where legendary lovers died beautifully beneath chandeliers and applause.
But the audience seated in the shadows had not come to watch a performance.
They had come to claim one.
Though their faces remained half-hidden from their masks, wings folded neatly behind their backs, voices kept low with the patience of predators, the luxury they adorned themselves with couldn't hide their cold gazes as they watched over the preys who had nowhere left to run.
To them, this was tradition, not cruelty. A custom that was even celebrated to them.
A Seraph placed on that stage would have been unthinkable, a crime worthy of divine punishment.
But humans were different.
