Inside Blackhaven: The Auction Block

Malachar - POV

The great hall reeked of perfume attempting to mask the stench of unwashed bodies and fear.

Forty three women and children stood chained along the eastern wall, remnants of raids from six different villages over the past month. The buyers circulated among them like carrion birds, examining teeth, testing muscle tone, discussing breeding potential in voices that carried the casual cruelty of people who'd never questioned their right to own other human beings.

"This batch from Hearthvale is particularly fine," I commented to Lord Ashworth, a bloated excuse for nobility whose coin purse was as fat as his gut. "Young mother, still nursing. Baby girl who'll grow up trained to proper obedience. Very popular combination."

Ashworth nodded approvingly as he examined Lyra, who stood with her infant daughter pressed protectively against her chest. The woman's eyes held the kind of rage that promised violence if she ever got the chance, but the chains around her wrists made such chances unlikely.

"The child has unusual coloring," Ashworth observed. "Dark hair like the mother, but those eyes..."

"Brown," I said quickly, stepping between him and the baby. Naelira's eyes were indeed brown, normal, unremarkable brown that would never attract the kind of attention that had brought us to Hearthvale in the first place. "Nothing special about this one. Just good breeding stock."

The lie came easily. I'd learned long ago that some truths were too valuable to share with customers. If anyone discovered that the infant girl was sister to the boy with impossible eyes, the child who'd supposedly died in that collapsed shed, her price would increase tenfold.

Better to keep that information private until I could determine its true worth.

"I'll take the pair," Ashworth decided. "Plus, that young blonde from the northern raid. Start them at two hundred gold."

"Bidding opens at five hundred," I corrected smoothly. "Quality like this doesn't come cheap."

As the auction began in earnest, I allowed myself a moment of satisfaction. Tonight's sales would net enough profit to expand operations significantly. More ships, more fighters, more territory under my control.

The boy with the water magic might be dead, but his family would help fund the search for others like him.

A commotion near the main doors interrupted my thoughts. One of my lieutenants, Garrett, approached with obvious concern.

"Sir," he called out. "Perimeter patrol missed their check in. Torres and Manfield were supposed to report fifteen minutes ago."

I frowned. "Equipment failure?"

"Possible. Or they fell asleep on duty again. Want me to send someone to check?"

I considered the options. Discipline was important, but losing potential buyers to false alarms was expensive. "Give them another ten minutes. If they don't report in, send a search team."

Garrett nodded and returned to his post, apparently satisfied with the decision.

But unease nagged at me, a feeling I'd learned to trust over four decades of surviving in the criminal underworld. The kind of instinct that separated leaders from corpses.

"Double the door guards," I called out to the nearest captain. "And send word to the barracks. I want everyone armed and alert until the auction concludes."

Better to be overly cautious than dead.

In the shadows beyond the torchlight, movement flickered where none should exist. When I looked again, the darkness was empty, leaving only the impression that death had just passed very close to my door.

The Kitchen Entrance: 11:47 PM

Gregor - POV

The guard died without making a sound.

Kara's blade found the gap between his helmet and collar with surgical precision, severing the carotid artery in a single smooth motion. He collapsed like a marionette with cut strings, blood pooling silently around his head.

"Clear," she whispered, already moving toward the iron bound door that led into Blackhaven's lower levels.

Behind me, Henrik and Master Willem looked slightly sick as they stepped over the corpse. They'd known intellectually that we were here to kill people, but seeing the reality of silent death was different from imagining it.

"First of many," I murmured to them. "Remember why we're here."

The lock on the kitchen door was simple enough, built to keep kitchen staff from stealing food, not to repel professional assault. Senna's scaled fingers worked the picks with reptilian patience, her tongue flicking out occasionally to taste the air for danger. The mechanism clicked open with barely a whisper, and we slipped inside like shadows given form.

The kitchen was empty except for the lingering smell of gruel and unwashed dishes. Perfect. No witnesses, and multiple passages leading deeper into the fortress.

"Alpha team, report," I whispered into the communication crystal Kara had provided.

"Eastern approach clear. Two guards eliminated, working on the barracks entrance."

"Beta team?"

"Dock secured. No escape routes available. Three buyers tried to run when they heard steel. Thorek's hammer made sure they won't be buying anyone ever again."

Good. The net was closing as planned.

"Gamma team moving to primary objective," I reported. "Maintain radio silence unless emergency."

We moved through the fortress like ghosts, using the knowledge I'd gained from my army days combined with Kara's expertise in infiltration and Senna's uncanny ability to sense danger before it materialized. Twenty years of military experience came flooding back: how to move silently in armor, how to navigate by memory and instinct, how to kill quickly and efficiently when discovery meant mission failure.

The first sleeping bandit we encountered died with Kara's hand over his mouth and my dagger between his ribs. The second woke just long enough to see Henrik's hammer descending toward his skull. A third tried to cry out when he spotted us, but Senna's poisoned dart took him in the throat before he could make a sound.

"Storage rooms," Willem whispered, pointing toward a corridor lined with wooden doors. "Might be holding cells."

We checked each room systematically. Most contained stolen goods: clothing, jewelry, weapons, household items that had once belonged to the families these animals had destroyed. But the fourth door revealed a different sight entirely.

Children. Seven of them, ranging in age from perhaps six to fourteen. Like the women above, they'd been stripped bare and left shivering in the cold stone room. They huddled together in terror as our torchlight fell across their faces.

"Shh," I said quietly, kneeling beside the nearest girl. "We're here to help. Are you from Hearthvale?"

"Some of us," she whispered back. "They... they took us from lots of places. Are you really here to save us?"

"Yes. But we need to find the adults first. Do you know where they're keeping the women?"

"Upstairs," said an older boy, his voice hollow with trauma. "In the great hall. They... they sell them there. Like animals."

My blood went cold. The auction was happening now, while we crept through the shadows playing at stealth. Every minute we delayed meant more of our people being sold to buyers who would scatter them across the kingdom.

"Henrik, Willem, get these children out. Take them to the dock and wait for our signal."

"What about you?" Henrik asked.

"I'm ending this," I replied, checking the edge on my sword. "Kara, how fast can we reach the great hall?"

"Fast," she said grimly. "But it won't be quiet. The moment we open those doors, everyone in the fortress will know we're here."

"Good," I said, thinking of Lyra chained like livestock, of baby Naelira crying in the arms of strangers who saw her as merchandise. "I want them to know we're coming."

The Great Hall: 11:58 PM

The doors to the great hall exploded inward with the sound of splintering wood and twisted iron.

I'd enhanced the charge with just enough earth magic to guarantee the hinges would fail catastrophically, sending the massive oak panels flying into the crowd of buyers and guards like catapult stones. Screams erupted as nobility found themselves face to face with the consequences of their appetites.

"NOBODY MOVES!" I roared, my voice carrying the kind of authority that had once commanded battlefield soldiers. My sword ignited with fire magic as I stepped through the smoking doorway, the blade burning white hot in the torchlight.

The great hall descended into chaos.

Buyers scrambled for the exits only to find them blocked by Henrik and the other Hearthvale men, who'd circled around to cut off escape routes. Guards reached for weapons but discovered that Senna and Finn had been systematically eliminating sentries for the past ten minutes, one with poisoned darts, the other with claws that could slice through leather armor like parchment.

And there, chained against the far wall, was Lyra.

She stood naked among the other captive women, all of them displayed like livestock for the buyers' inspection. The slavers hadn't even allowed them clothing, stripping away the last shred of dignity along with their freedom. Bruises covered her pale skin, and her eyes held a mixture of rage and despair that made my heart clench with fury. But she was alive, and clutched protectively against her chest was baby Naelira, crying with the terrified wails of an infant torn from everything safe and familiar.

"Gregor!" Lyra cried out, her voice breaking with relief and terror. "They have..."

"Well, well," a cold voice cut through the chaos. "The boy's father comes calling after all."

Malachar emerged from behind the auction block, but he wasn't alone. Four of his elite fighters moved with him, seasoned killers who formed a protective circle as chaos erupted around them. More importantly, he held a curved dagger at Lyra's throat, having somehow reached her during the initial confusion.

"Drop your weapons," he commanded, pressing the blade close enough to draw a thin line of blood. "Or I open her throat and let her bleed out while you watch."

Around us, battle erupted in earnest. Kara and the mercenaries engaged Malachar's elite guards in deadly combat, steel ringing against steel as years of training met desperate fury. Henrik and the other Hearthvale men systematically cut down the remaining slavers and buyers, showing no mercy to anyone who'd participated in this obscene trade.

"Tell me, blacksmith," Malachar snarled, his blade still pressed against Lyra's throat, "did you enjoy finding your son's corpse in that collapsed shed?"

"My son is alive," I said quietly, my burning sword casting dancing shadows across the hall. "And when this is over, he's going to help me burn this place to the ground."

Malachar's eyes widened slightly, the first crack in his composure. "Impossible. Rax confirmed the kill..."

"Rax is dead," I interrupted, raising my blade. "Just like you're about to be."

"Am I?" Malachar smiled coldly, and the trap became clear. His elite weren't just fighting my allies; they were positioning themselves, creating a perfect arena where no one could interfere. "Drop the sword, Ironforge. Or watch your wife die slowly."

The blade pressed deeper, and Lyra gasped as another thin line of blood appeared on her throat. In her arms, Naelira continued to wail, the sound cutting through my heart like broken glass.

No choice remained. My sword clattered to the stone floor, its flames extinguishing as my magic failed in the face of helpless rage.

"Good," Malachar said, kicking my weapon away. "Now we can have a proper conversation."

The blade moved away from Lyra's throat just long enough for him to signal his men. The opportunity appeared, but even as I lunged forward, the truth became clear: too slow, too predictable. Malachar had orchestrated this perfectly.

His pommel strike caught me across the temple, sending stars exploding across my vision as I stumbled backward. Around us, the battle continued to rage, but suddenly it felt very far away.

"You know," Malachar said conversationally, circling me with predatory grace, "I'm almost disappointed. After all the trouble your son caused, I was expecting more from his father."

He struck again, not to kill, but to hurt. The flat of his blade caught me across the ribs, driving the breath from my lungs and sending me to my knees. Through the haze of pain, Lyra's screams reached me, Naelira's cries becoming more desperate.

"But then again," Malachar continued, "perhaps the boy got all the interesting traits. Tell me, does he know his mother is about to watch his father die?"

Rising became a struggle, calling on the earth magic that had served me so well in the past proved impossible. My power felt distant, muted, like trying to shout through deep water.

"Ah," Malachar noticed my confusion with evident satisfaction. "You're wondering why your magic isn't responding. Senna isn't the only one who knows about poisons, blacksmith. That blade of mine carries a concoction that dampens magical abilities. Temporary, but effective."

The revelation hit me like ice water. Without my magic, just a middle aged blacksmith facing a professional killer who'd spent decades perfecting the art of ending lives. This wasn't a fight; it was an execution.

"Now then," Malachar said, raising his weapon for the killing blow, "let's finish this properly."

The blade descended toward my heart, and my eyes closed, thinking of Victor and hoping he would understand that some battles couldn't be won, that sometimes love wasn't enough to overcome the darkness.

The killing blow never came.