Rowan woke to the smell of iron and burnt dust. His eyelids felt glued together, and when he opened them, the world spun. Cold stone pressed against his back, uneven, jagged, scraping his skin raw. Every breath tasted like metal. He tried to move, and his hands protested with pain and blood from the scrapes.
"This… isn't real. Has to be a dream," he muttered, voice rasping. His throat hurt, his chest ached, and for a split second, he considered closing his eyes again and pretending none of this was happening. But instinct screamed otherwise.
The pit stretched far beyond his sight. Rows of crumbling stone benches spiraled around him in an imperfect spiral, jagged shadows crawling across their surfaces. Suspended from chains high above were cages—some empty, some occupied by pale, terrified figures. Eyes wide, frozen in horror, faces pressed to the bars, staring. Rowan could feel their fear, their anticipation. A collective pressure weighed down on him like a physical force.
Footsteps echoed across the pit. Not one, not two, but dozens, each measured and deliberate. His body stiffened. Something told him to stay still. Observe. Calculate. Survive.
A platform rose from the center of the arena, smooth and silent as if it had grown from the stone itself. On it stood a woman. Tall, slender, her robes fluttering unnaturally despite no wind. She held a bundle in her hands, wrapped in cloth, pulsing faintly, like it had a heartbeat of its own. Her eyes swept the arena before locking on him.
Rowan swallowed hard. His stomach twisted, nerves screaming.
The crowd finally revealed itself. Hooded figures, faces obscured, murmured and whispered. Fingers twitched. Eyes glimmered. Their hunger pressed down on him, palpable, heavy.
"Lot one: a soul of rare lineage," the auctioneer's voice rang, smooth, deliberate, chilling. "Highest bidder claims it. Let the auction begin."
Numbers flew. Shouts, gestures, bids—Rowan barely understood the mechanics. Higher bids won, yes—but the cost, the consequences? That remained unspoken, silent. Life and death played out in this invisible ledger.
The woman's gaze returned to him.
"You there," she said. Calm, sharp, like steel cutting glass. "Do you wish to bid?"
Rowan froze. His heart slammed against his chest. He had nothing—no money, no weapons, no backup plan. And yet, every instinct screamed: act or die.
"I… I bid!" His voice cracked, almost a whisper. But it carried across the arena.
The crowd went silent. The woman tilted her head. A small, unnerving smile curled her lips. The bundle floated toward him. Rowan's fingers brushed it—and the world changed.
Pain. Sharp, electric, tearing through his skull. Memories, visions, screams, cold, fire, emptiness—they all collided in a cacophony of sensation. The pulse in the bundle whispered inside his mind: "Use me… or be consumed."
Shadows on the stone slithered toward him, alive. Twisting, writhing, reacting to his pulse. Rowan stumbled back, clutching the bundle. Every nerve screamed to drop it. Every instinct demanded he flee.
Another bell rang. Lot two appeared—a chained figure, glowing faintly beneath the skin, shaking, eyes wide. The crowd murmured in appreciation. Rowan realized he wasn't the only one noticing these details.
If I fail… I die. If I do nothing… they die? His mind raced, twisting around the possibilities.
Lot three. Another bundle, another soul. Shadows under his fingers coiled tighter, almost protective, almost predatory. The thrill of power mingled with the fear of death. Rowan raised his hand.
"I… bid again," he said, voice steadier this time. Shadows curled around him, responding, whispering. Claim it. Survive. Dominate.
Then the woman flicked her wrist. Lot four rose—a thing not human. Limbs elongated, claws twitching, eyes glowing red. The crowd gasped. Rowan's pulse accelerated, shadows licking along the floor, whispering urgently.
Something moved in the corner of his vision. Fast. Silent. Deadly. The crowd stilled, watching, waiting. The auctioneer's voice cut sharply:
"Highest bidder wins… but at a cost no one sees coming."
Rowan froze. Sweat stung his eyes. The pulse inside him screamed. He had won, yes—but survival was not guaranteed.
Then movement—a blur darted from the far side of the arena. Faster than eyes could track. Hooded figures shifted, raising weapons. Some stepped forward; others merely observed. Rowan's fingers twitched. The shadows answered, wrapping around his hands, his arms. For the first time, he understood—they were alive, and aware.
A screech tore through the pit. The Lot Four creature lunged. Rowan's stomach dropped. He barely had time to react. Instinctively, he raised his bundle, feeling it pulse violently against his palms. Shadows surged, curling around the creature's legs, slowing it, tangling it for a precious fraction of a second.
He could feel every heartbeat in his hands. The whispers screamed: Use me. Act. Survive.
Rowan stumbled, barely staying upright. The cage of Lot Two rattled as its occupant strained against the chains. Eyes darted toward him, some pleading, some accusatory. Survival wasn't just for him—it was a message. He had to fight.
Lot Five rose silently behind the platform. Another bundle. Another choice. Rowan's head spun. This wasn't a normal auction. This was a battlefield. Every soul here, every lot, was a weapon and a risk. The bidders themselves were predators, no less dangerous than the monsters.
Rowan gritted his teeth. He had no combat experience, no training, and yet—the pulse in his hands felt alive. Responding. Offering power. Begging to be used.
The creature lunged again. Its claws tore through the stone floor. Shadows surged, wrapping around its arms, impeding its motion. Rowan yelped as it swung toward him. The smell of iron filled his nose, hot and metallic.
He twisted instinctively. One hand on the pulse, one hand pushing against the creature. The bundle responded, a bright flash, and a sharp strike of energy shot from his palm. The creature stumbled.
The crowd stirred. Murmurs of disbelief, excitement, hunger. Rowan felt sweat running down his spine. Heart racing. The pulse in his hands screamed louder than ever. Claim it. Survive. Dominate.
Another bell rang. Lot Six rose. Rowan barely glanced. Another soul. Another heartbeat. Another decision. He couldn't think, couldn't plan, couldn't hesitate. Every action, every breath, every flicker of shadow mattered.
Then a movement behind him—a bidder stepped forward. Cloaked, hood low, weapon drawn. Rowan's pulse raced again. Another threat, closer, human this time. And the shadows responded, curling protectively around him.
Rowan's thoughts were chaotic, jumbled, but clear in one truth: this auction was not a market. It was a hunt.
The Lot Four creature roared, lunging with claws wide. Rowan's hand pulsed, shadows flaring. He felt energy surge through his veins. Reflexes sharpened. For the first time, fear and instinct merged into action.
And then—the auctioneer spoke, cold, calm, omnipresent:
"Lot winners are responsible for survival. Fail… and the consequences will spill into the world."
Rowan's stomach dropped. He had won his first soul. But winning wasn't the end. It was only the beginning.
The creature lunged again. Faster. Deadlier. Rowan could feel the pulse in his hands tightening, responding to the danger. Shadows twisted, wrapped, struck. A sharp pain flared across his palm—he realized the energy was feeding back into him. He gritted his teeth and pushed harder.
The crowd gasped. Some cheered. Some hissed. Rowan barely registered them. He was alive. He had to be. He couldn't fail—not here, not now.
He stumbled back, the Lot Four creature reeling from the shadow strike. A hooded bidder approached silently, weapon raised, calculating. Rowan's pulse screamed, the shadows surged.
A single thought consumed him: Act. Survive. Claim it.
And in that instant, Rowan realized the truth: this wasn't a simple auction. This was a crucible. Every choice mattered. Every soul mattered. And the shadows, whatever they were, were his only chance.
The Lot Four creature roared once more, faster, claws raised, eyes glowing red. Rowan braced himself.
It's now… or never.