CHAPTER 5: The Bond Auction

The dream came in pieces.

Chains. Voices like static. A room filled with mirrors that didn't reflect.

In the center stood Maeve. Her braids were gone. Her eyes were hollow.

She reached out.

"Help me," she whispered.

Then the mirrors shattered.

Elias woke gasping, cold sweat soaking his neck. His sheets were twisted around his legs, and the moonlight cast a pale ribbon across the stone floor.

He sat up slowly.

There, on his wrist—red, raw—a perfect impression of teeth.

Not his own.

Not a dream.

The morning came with silence.

No tutors. No nursemaids. No familiar routine.

Instead, a pair of servants dressed Elias in a robe far too fine—midnight silk, stitched with gold. They applied scent oil behind his ears, combed his hair until it lay flat and perfect. When he asked where Ronel was, they didn't answer.

When he asked why he was being dressed this way, they simply said, "Lady Ismara's orders."

And when he asked where she was—they looked away.

The hallway to her chambers was guarded.

Elias knew better than to try pushing past. Instead, he wandered, quietly, and let himself be unseen. He found a cracked doorway near the west wing—a parlor rarely used—and slipped inside.

Voices echoed from the room beyond.

He stood still.

Then, like a shadow, approached the edge of the doorway and leaned in just enough.

Lady Ismara sat with two nobles. Elias recognized them—House Corven and House Thalos. Wealthy. Influential. Their family crests burned in his memory from a history book he had once stolen.

"…the auction will take place under the new moon," said Lord Corven.

"Discretion is key," said Lady Ismara. "No public registry. Private bidders only."

"And the omega?" asked Lady Thalos.

Ismara smiled.

"Pure. Rare. Unclaimed. Untouched."

They weren't speaking of any omega.

They were speaking of him.

Elias felt his stomach twist.

He backed away from the door and returned to his chambers on shaking legs.

An auction.

He had read about them. Illegal, underground gatherings where noble houses sold rare omegas to the highest bidder—often under the guise of ceremonial bonding.

But it was ownership. A transaction. A cage.

And he was the next prize.

That night, Elias did not sleep.

He uncovered his notes, his maps, his escape plans. He reviewed every servant rotation, every gate schedule, every horse name and temperament.

But something was missing.

Something was wrong.

The Whisper Room was gone.

The others were gone.

And now… he would be gone too, unless he ran.

The next afternoon, Rowan returned.

Elias was in the garden when he saw him—taller, older, dressed in darker colors. There was something cold in the way he walked now. More purposeful. Less boy.

Rowan stopped just a few steps away and said nothing.

Elias didn't speak either.

Silence stretched like thread between them.

Then:

"You knew, didn't you?" Elias asked quietly.

Rowan's jaw clenched. "I heard whispers. Not from your mother. From others."

"You didn't tell me."

Rowan's eyes flicked to the garden wall. "I didn't know how."

"That's not an answer."

"I didn't want to scare you."

"You should be scared, Rowan," Elias said, voice sharp. "I am."

Rowan moved closer.

"They can't sell you."

"They already plan to."

"I'll stop it."

"You can't."

"I'm an alpha."

Elias stared at him.

"Exactly."

They sat on the stone bench.

Rowan's hands were clenched, knuckles white.

Elias watched the wind play with the petals of a nearby blossom. Everything around him looked peaceful. But inside—it was storming.

He finally asked:

"Do you believe in freedom?"

Rowan blinked. "What?"

"Do you think omegas should have the right to choose? Not just who they bond with—but whether they bond at all?"

Rowan was quiet.

Then: "I don't know."

Elias stood.

"Then you're not ready to protect me."

Back in his room, Elias opened the loose stone behind his bed.

He took out a fresh sheet of parchment and wrote:

"I am not yours to sell. I am not yours to shape. I am not yours to break."

He folded the note and placed it inside the sole of one of his boots.

His mind moved like fire.

Plans, schedules, signals.

If he had to burn the entire estate down to escape, he would.

Three days passed.

Each morning, new clothing. New treatments. Silence.

Lady Ismara did not speak to him directly.

But the looks she gave him—measuring, rehearsing, preparing—were louder than words.

He was merchandise now.

A product.

One night, he heard the whisper.

It wasn't in the garden.

Not in his room.

It came from the hall.

Elias opened the door and saw a figure—small, fast, hooded—drop a bundle near the stairs and vanish.

He ran to it.

Inside: a scrap of blue ribbon. A sliver of glass. A piece of torn cloth with three stitched letters.

M · V · E

Maeve.

She was alive.

Somewhere.

And she remembered.

The fire returned to his veins.

He returned to his wall and wrote again.

This time, not a message.

A manifesto.

The Quiet Ones are not gone.We have simply gone deeper.We are still watching.We are still waiting.And we will not be silenced.

The new moon was two weeks away.

Time was short.

So Elias made a choice.

He would not wait for rescue.

He would not beg for mercy.

He would not wear perfume and smile while the wolves circled.

He would run.

And if he couldn't run…

He would burn the stage before they could put him on it.