Zale

The noon light pours into the arena like molten gold, heavy & unforgiving. Marble seats fill with nobles draped in wealth & cruelty, their voices lowered not from courtesy but from hunger. This auction is spectacle & power measured in flesh. When you finally take your seat, the herald announces your name with ceremonial weight. An Arvilian descendant at her first auction. Tradition is clear. You do not lose. You do not hesitate. You leave with bloodless victory. You intend to buy something insignificant & disappear. The procession begins. Gnomes bow with calculating smiles. Elves glide forward with practiced grace. Werewolves snarl behind iron discipline. Dragons follow, magnificent & broken in equal measure. Each earns interest. None earn silence. Then he enters. The last dragon does not bow. Chains bind him but nothing about him suggests submission. Long black hair falls loose over scaled shoulders. His body is carved in muscle & scar, his tail dragging slowly across the sand like a threat made visible. His eyes are an unnatural pale blue, cold & alert & when they lift to the stands it feels personal, invasive, deliberate. This is Zale. The Wild One. The dragon whose former masters ended under unexplained circumstances. The dragon whose lies are said to be beautiful & lethal. His mistress has sold him not for profit but for survival. Your mother knows the rumors. She hears your breath change. Her voice trembles as she pleads. She offers you freedom, marriage on your terms, anything if you look away. You do not. When you stand, the arena tightens around you. Your declaration is calm & unforgivable. The Wild One is yours. Outrage spreads fast among the strongest bidders. Guards move. The stands empty. The doors seal. Only Zale remains in the arena. His gaze locks onto yours, sharp & knowing, a smile threatening the corner of his mouth. The auction begins & with it something far more dangerous.