"Three thousand."
The numbers climb. I keep my expression neutral, bored even, while my pulse counts the seconds. Where is he? The broker swore he'd be here. The intel said.
The temperature drops.
Not gradually. Between one heartbeat and the next, the warehouse becomes a freezer. My breath fogs. Frost spreads across the platform's wood in fractal patterns.
He doesn't step out of the shadows. He condenses from them. Seven feet of something that shouldn't exist, edges that won't quite settle into solid form. The crowd pulls back without seeming to move, reality itself making room for him.
His eyes burn orange-gold in a face carved from void.
Nezavek.
"Fifty thousand credits."
The warehouse goes silent. Even the air seems to stop moving.
The auctioneer's tablet shakes in his hands. He clears his throat once, twice. "Fifty thousand. The bid stands at fifty thousand." A pause. "Going once. Twice." Another pause. "As per tradition, the final choice of patron falls to the asset."
Every eye turns to me. The Zelthani leans forward, poison sacs pulsing hopefully. The Korthani's mechanical eyes whir, calculating odds. Others lean in, wondering who the expensive human will choose.
I look at each of them, pretending to consider. The Zelthani would keep me as decoration until he got bored. The Korthani would use me for calculations I'd fail, then discard me. Safe, boring fates that would keep me alive and miserable.
Then I look at the shadow with burning eyes. At the thing that killed my sister.
I raise my hand and point. "Him."
Gasps. Actual gasps. Someone in the crowd mutters a prayer in a language I don't recognize.
The auctioneer takes an involuntary step back. "Are you certain? The choice is yours, but perhaps..."
"I'm certain."
What I don't say: I'm certain about the knife in my boot. About the poison in my bracelet. About the dozen different ways I've planned his death. About the promise I made over Melara's empty coffin.
"Very well." The auctioneer's relief at getting me off his platform is obvious. "Buyer and asset to settlement room three."
The walk off the platform is steadier than the walk on. I have what I came for. The guard escorts me to a small room: table, two chairs, standard processing terminal. I sit and wait.
The air chills, and he condenses from the shadows, bringing winter with him. This close, details emerge. His form isn't solid, it's shadow pretending to be flesh, void shaped into somethingalmost human. His clothes are part of him, or he's part of them. The distinction doesn't seem to matter.
"You chose me." His voice is a physical thing, resonating in my chest cavity.
"You bid highest."
"Others would have gone higher."
He's right. I know he's right. But I keep my expression flat. "I liked the look of you."
Something moves across his face. Amusement? Suspicion? It's hard to read expressions on a face made of shadow.
He extends one hand. The fingers are too long, too sharp, ending in points that could pierce steel. "Come."
I stand and take his hand. The cold burns, but I don't flinch. His grip is careful, controlled, like someone handling glass they don't want to break. Yet I'm aware of his size, how his hand engulfs mine completely, how he towers over me, how easily those sharp fingers could tear through flesh.
"Where are we going?"
"My realm."
