Powerless

Chapter Three: The Sale

The journey to Aurelia lasted nine days.

Nine days of aching wrists, sleepless nights, and endless miles beneath a gray sky.

The prisoners received little more than stale bread and watered-down soup. Those who complained were met with the c***k of a whip or the butt of a spear.

Lyra spent the days comforting the young girl in the cage beside hers. Her name was Nia, and she had been taken from a fishing village on the southern coast.

“Do you think our families are looking for us?” Nia whispered one evening.

Lyra looked up at the stars peeking through the torn canvas above.

“They won’t stop looking.”

It was the answer Nia needed, even if Lyra wasn’t sure she believed it herself.

On the tenth morning, the caravan reached the gates of Aurelia.

Lyra had never seen anything so magnificent.

Towering white walls stretched toward the heavens, their tops lined with golden banners that shimmered in the sunlight. Beyond them rose elegant towers, marble bridges, and glittering rooftops. At the city’s center stood the Heartspire—a crystal tower so tall it pierced the clouds.

The moment Lyra’s eyes settled on it, a strange sensation rippled through her.

A faint warmth stirred deep inside her chest.

It lasted only a heartbeat before fading.

She frowned.

What was that?

“Move!” a guard barked, shoving the cages forward.

The streets buzzed with merchants, nobles in embroidered robes, musicians, and children chasing one another through the crowded squares. To them, the prisoners were little more than another day’s spectacle.

Some people glanced at the cages with pity.

Others looked with curiosity.

Most looked away.

The caravan stopped in a large stone courtyard enclosed by iron fences.

Above the entrance hung a polished bronze sign:

THE IMPERIAL EXCHANGE

Lyra’s stomach tightened.

This wasn’t a market.

It was an auction.

The prisoners were led into separate holding rooms where attendants washed their faces, combed their hair, and dressed them in simple but clean clothing.

“Why are they doing this?” Nia asked.

“So we look more valuable,” the old man answered quietly.

His words settled over the room like a shadow.

One by one, names were called.

Each prisoner disappeared through a pair of crimson doors.

Some returned in tears.

Others never returned at all.

When the guard finally shouted, “Number Twelve!”

Lyra’s heart began to race.

She stepped onto a circular platform beneath dazzling chandeliers.

Rows of wealthy buyers filled the room.

Silk gowns.

Fine suits.

Jeweled rings.

Cold eyes.

An auctioneer in a crimson coat raised his hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our next offering is quite unusual. Young. Healthy. Educated. A former Aether wielder from the northern province.”

Murmurs swept through the crowd.

“A former wielder?”

“Interesting…”

“How unfortunate.”

The auctioneer smiled.

“Though her gift has mysteriously vanished, beauty never loses its value.”

Humiliation burned through Lyra. She kept her chin high, refusing to let them see her fear.

“Opening bid—five hundred gold crowns.”

“Six hundred!”

“Seven hundred!”

“One thousand!”

The numbers climbed rapidly.

Every bid made her feel less like a person and more like an object.

Then the room fell silent.

A woman near the front slowly lowered her fan.

She wore a deep emerald gown adorned with pearls, and her golden hair was arranged with flawless precision. Confidence radiated from her every movement.

“Five thousand gold crowns.”

Gasps echoed throughout the hall.

No one dared outbid her.

The auctioneer’s smile widened.

“Five thousand going once…”

He scanned the room.

“Going twice…”

Silence.

“Sold!”

The gavel struck the podium with a sharp c***k.

Lyra belonged to someone new.

As the attendants escorted her away, the elegant woman approached with measured steps.

She studied Lyra from head to toe.

“So,” she said coolly, “you’re prettier than I expected.”

Lyra met her gaze.

“I have a name.”

The woman’s lips curved into a faint, humorless smile.

“I’m sure you do.”

She extended a gloved hand—not in greeting, but so a servant could place a folded contract into it.

“I am Seraphine Valmont, sole heiress of House Valmont.”

Her blue eyes glittered with quiet superiority.

“From this day forward, your name matters only when I decide it does.”

She turned without another word.

“Bring her.”

Lyra followed in silence, her hands trembling at her sides.

As their carriage rolled through Aurelia’s gleaming streets, she caught one last glimpse of the Heartspire.

Again, that strange warmth flickered inside her.

This time, she noticed something else.

The crystal tower seemed to pulse… almost as if it had recognized her.

A chill ran down her spine.

She couldn’t explain it.

But somehow, she knew her fate was tied to that tower.

And whatever awaited her in House Valmont was only the beginning.