The bidding began instantly.
"Five hundred!"
"Six!"
"Eight hundred gold!"
The crowd's excitement surged with each shout, voices overlapping in a cacophony of greed and desire. Some masked nobles leaned forward, intrigued by the challenge of taming such a fierce-looking prize. Others simply saw value in the strength she promised.
Zynara scoffed. "Look at them. Like wolves circling a lioness."
Dazmar said nothing. His gaze was locked on Ruuha—on the fury in her eyes, the way her muscles tensed each time the crowd roared. She was calculating. Watching. Waiting for a moment. Not a broken slave… a predator biding her time.
The elf auctioneer raised a hand. "One thousand gold! Do I hear more?"
A deep voice in the back called, "One thousand three hundred!"
Gasps followed. All eyes turned toward a thickset man in crimson and obsidian, adorned with a Syndicate insignia over his cloak's shoulder. A higher-up, no doubt.
