The City of Burning Souls sprawled beneath a sky streaked with crimson and violet, its jagged spires clawing at the heavens as if to rip them apart. Ash fell like mournful snow, settling on blackened stone streets that pulsed with runes of molten gold. At the city's heart loomed the Red Hawk Valley Pavilion, a towering maze of tiered platforms and crimson banners snapping in the wind, each bearing a hawk clutching a skull in its talons. Every three months, the pavilion's gates opened to merchants, cultivators, and scavengers from a thousand worlds, drawn to barter for spoils—beasts, treasures, lives—all measured in coin or spirit stones. Here, a life could be worth less than dirt, and the air carried a weight of despair, as if the city's stones held the cries of those long sold.
A low hum, like the heartbeat of a dying star, broke the pavilion's restless din. A portal tore open in the air, its edges crackling with violet lightning that danced across the faces of the crowd—merchants in silken robes, cultivators with glowing talismans, mercenaries in spiked armor. From the portal's shimmering maw, figures emerged, cloaked in robes woven of shadow, their faces hidden behind masks of bone and iron, etched with symbols that glowed faintly, repelling curious gazes. They moved with silent purpose, flanked by guards in dark, segmented armor, their obsidian-tipped spears humming with restrained power. The crowd parted like water before a blade, no one daring to approach, those in their path stepping aside with averted eyes, knowing the Slavers of the Iron Veil were untouchable.
Behind the cloaked figures rolled a caravan of blackwood carriages, carved with writhing serpents that seemed to twist in the flickering light. Crates stacked high with glowing artifacts—crystals imprisoning restless spirits, scrolls sealed with blood-red wax—rattled as they passed. Iron cages followed, each holding captives from worlds unknown: a horned warrior with eyes like burning coals, a child with wings of translucent crystal, a robed figure chanting in a tongue that made the air shimmer. Dark purple smoke coiled across the ground, slithering like a serpent, its tendrils brushing the boots of soldiers sprinting alongside. More warriors rode massive beasts—six-legged creatures with hides like molten rock, their eyes blazing with unnatural hunger. The procession stretched into the portal's depths, an endless river of plunder that silenced the pavilion with its weight.
"Keep the line tight!" a woman's voice sliced through the noise, sharp and commanding. She rode at the caravan's flank, her scar-bisected face framed by a helm shaped like a snarling beast. Her whip crackled with violet energy, urging her mount forward. "No stragglers, or you'll answer to the Veil!" Her soldiers snapped to attention, their armor's runes flaring briefly as they moved. The crowd watched, breathless, knowing the Iron Veil's reputation: plunderers of worlds, binders of fates, their wares as fleeting as their mercy.
The pavilion was a cauldron of greed and desperation. Tiered platforms rose like steps to the heavens, packed with buyers from across the multiverse. A cultivator in flowing white robes, his hair bound with a jade pin, scribbled notes on a glowing tablet, his eyes darting between cages. A merchant with mechanical arms bartered with a hooded figure, trading a vial of shimmering liquid for a fist-sized gem. Floating lanterns cast a sickly green light, illuminating banners that read: Red Hawk Valley Auction – All Worlds, All Prices. Chains dangled from the ceiling, some empty, others holding bound captives who awaited their fate on the massive stage below.
A hulking auctioneer stood at the stage's center, his face half-hidden by a bronze mask that gleamed in the lanternlight. His voice boomed like thunder, shaking the pavilion's stones. "Lords and scavengers, welcome to the Red Hawk Valley Auction! Tonight, the spoils of a thousand worlds are yours—beasts to break mountains, warriors to win wars, secrets to shatter empires! Bid high, or leave empty-handed!" The crowd roared, a mix of cheers and jeers, as the first cage was dragged forward. Inside, a creature with multiple limbs and glowing eyes snarled, its chains rattling. The auctioneer slammed his gavel, and bids flew like arrows, voices rising in a cacophony of greed.
In a shadowed corner, a lone figure leaned against a pillar, their tattered gray cloak blending with the darkness. Zhen, a wanderer with eyes sharp as moonlight on steel, traced the hilt of a curved blade hidden beneath their cloak. They watched the procession, their gaze lingering on the captives' cages. This city was a wound, a place where lives were bought and sold, worlds stripped bare. Zhen had sworn never to return, yet here they were, drawn by a memory—or a debt unpaid. Their fingers tightened on the blade as a particular cage rolled onto the stage, holding a young woman with silver hair cascading like a river of starlight. Her eyes burned with defiance, despite the chains binding her wrists. A faint aura clung to her, like mist trapping moonlight, hinting at power beyond her frail form.
The auctioneer pointed to her cage, his grin wide as a wolf's. "Lot 17! A celestial-born from the Starveil Realm! Her blood carries the spark of divinity—perfect for alchemy, sacrifice, or servitude!
Starting bid: ten thousand spirit stones!" The crowd erupted, bids climbing higher—fifteen thousand, twenty thousand, thirty thousand. The woman—Lyra, though the auctioneer knew her only as a lot number—stood tall, her gaze cutting through the crowd like a blade. She locked eyes with Zhen for a fleeting moment, and something unspoken passed between them, a spark of recognition or sorrow.
"I am no one's prize," Lyra whispered, her voice fierce despite its softness, barely audible over the crowd's clamor. She strained against her chains, her fists clenched, the faint glow of her aura pulsing against the iron. The runes etched into her bindings flared, suppressing her spark with a crackle of dark energy. The purple smoke swirling around her cage pulsed, carrying faint murmurs—freedom… vengeance… release—like echoes from a forgotten world.
A guard raised a whip, its tip crackling with violet energy. "Quiet, wench! Or we'll carve that spark from your bones!" Lyra's glare burned hotter, but her chains held firm, their runes unyielding, binding her power tightly to her flesh.
The caravan continued its relentless march, more cages emerging from the portal. The purple smoke thickened, its murmurs growing louder, forming cries in an ancient tongue that sent shivers through the crowd. Break free… burn all… The voices were faint, like shadows of trapped souls, yet they carried weight, as if the smoke held spirits bound to the Iron Veil's will. The Slavers' leader stepped forward, a towering figure in a cloak that seemed to devour light. Their mask, a grinning skull, gleamed with an unnatural sheen, and their voice was a low, resonant hiss that silenced the pavilion.
"The Iron Veil brings gifts from beyond the veil," they said, their words coiling through the air like the smoke at their feet. "Bid wisely, for our wares are fleeting, and our patience thinner still." The crowd leaned forward, enthralled and terrified, as another cage was dragged forth—a massive beast with wings of bone and eyes like molten gold. The pavilion trembled as it roared, its cry shaking the chains overhead. The auctioneer's grin widened, his voice rising with excitement. "A Void Drake from the Abyssal Rift! Its scales can forge blades to cut through dimensions! Starting bid: fifty thousand spirit stones!"
The bidding frenzy intensified, but Zhen's eyes remained on Lyra. The smoke around her cage swirled thicker, its murmurs sharper, almost personal. She sees… she knows… Zhen's hand twitched toward their blade, a memory flickering—a misty forest, a burning village, blood on their hands, a broken blade, and a voice like Lyra's offering comfort. The memory faded, too fleeting to grasp, but it left a weight in Zhen's chest. They stepped forward, their cloak billowing slightly, moving closer to the stage through the crowd's chaos.
High above, in the pavilion's private booths, a figure in crimson robes leaned forward, flanked by guards. Lord Kairo, a cultivator notorious for collecting rare souls, tapped a jade ring on his finger, his eyes glinting with interest. "That celestial-born… she's more than she seems," he murmured to his aide, his voice smooth as silk but cold as ice. "I want her, no matter the cost." The aide nodded, scribbling furiously, as Kairo's gaze lingered on Lyra, calculating, predatory.
The auction for Lyra reached a fever pitch, bids soaring past fifty thousand spirit stones. She struggled again, her aura flaring briefly, a desperate pulse of light that strained against her chains. The runes glowed brighter, clamping down with a surge of dark energy that forced her to her knees. The crowd gasped, some leaning forward, others shrinking back, sensing her power but knowing her fate was sealed. The guard's whip cracked above her, a warning, and Lyra's shoulders slumped, her defiance unbroken but her strength fading under the bindings' weight. Zhen's hand tightened on their blade, their breath catching, but they hesitated, knowing a move against the Iron Veil would draw the pavilion's wrath—hundreds of guards, cultivators, and mercenaries ready to crush any disruption.
The auctioneer raised his gavel, his voice triumphant. "One hundred thousand spirit stones from Lord Kairo! Any final bids?" The crowd fell silent, the weight of Kairo's wealth and reputation stifling competition. Lyra's eyes burned with defiance, but her chains held fast, their runes an unbreakable cage. The smoke's murmurs grew louder—no escape… no hope…—as if mocking her struggle. The auctioneer slammed his gavel, the sound echoing like a death knell. "Sold to Lord Kairo for one hundred thousand spirit stones!" Guards moved forward, dragging Lyra's cage from the stage, her gaze locking with Zhen's one last time, a flicker of rage and resignation in her eyes.
The pavilion's stones seemed to hum, the air thick with the weight of unseen eyes. The purple smoke coiled tighter, its cries clearer now—gone… lost… burn the city…—as if the spirits bound within it mourned Lyra's fate. Zhen stood frozen, their blade undrawn, their past and present colliding in a single moment. The Iron Veil's leader turned, their skull-mask glinting, as if sensing Zhen's turmoil. The crowd's attention shifted to the next lot, but the city's runes pulsed faintly, a reminder that this auction was but a spark in a larger, unseen fire—one that would one day draw a young boy, yet to come, into its flames.