Page 6 of Bound to the Marak

The arena turned fevered. The red-skinned warrior bellowed something and slammed his device into the console. Sparks flew. His eyes—black and burning—never left her.

Others joined in with lightning-fast gestures, codes flashing through the air in bursts of color. The noise grew louder. Shriller. It was a wall of sound and want. The air itself felt charged, crackling with invisible energy. Her skin prickled. Her pulse thudded like thunder in her ears.

And then—like a dagger through flesh?—

A voice.

Not a bid. Not a number.

Just one word.

Spoken quietly.

Deep. Resonant. Impossible to ignore.

It came from the figure cloaked in shadow near the far edge of the platform. He had stood motionless until now—alone, arms folded, shrouded in flowing robes of black and deep violet. The hood obscured his face, but she had felt his presence the moment he entered. The air hadshifted. The other bidders had stilled. Even the auctioneer had hesitated.

He hadn’t raised a device. Hadn’t moved.

Until now.

The word he spoke wasn’t shouted. It didn’t need to be. It rippled through the arena like an earthquake’s echo—low, lyrical, and final.

And just like that, the chaos collapsed.

Silence fell in an instant, as if the entire chamber had forgotten how to breathe.

The red-skinned warrior froze mid-motion, lips parted around a snarl. His expression flickered—not anger. Something closer to dread. The other bidders withdrew, one by one. Devices lowered. Eyes averted. Even the floating auctioneer, a grotesque amalgam of mechanical limbs and twitching stalk-eyes, dipped low and gave a metallic warble that signaled the end.

The lights dimmed.

The bidding was over.

No one contested it.

The masked figure had spoken.

And the entire room had obeyed.

Leonie gripped the bars of her cage, her palms clammy. Her breath came shallow and fast.

She didn’t understand the word.

But she understood theeffect.

A section of the platform slid open beneath her. Her cage lifted gently, guided by invisible forces, and began to drift forward, off the stage, into the unknown.

Panic flared again. She pressed her forehead to the bars, desperate to see the figure as he moved to follow.

He walked in absolute silence.

His steps didn’t echo. The hem of his cloak whispered across the polished floor like mist over deep water. Every line of his body radiated control. Restraint. Power.

But not the raw, violent kind.

Something colder.

Something older.

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