Flames danced.
They swirled in the reflection of a child's eyes, golden and crimson—alive with hunger. Crackling heat blurred the air, warping the world like a fever dream. The child couldn't breathe. Smoke curled down his throat like snakes, his lungs trembled, but still he stared. He couldn't look away.
Tears streaked his soot-smudged cheeks, catching the light of the fire in small glints. His lips trembled, unable to form words, yet his eyes spoke the language of grief loud enough to shatter stone.
She was still smiling.
Bound to the stake, ropes singed black and splitting, her body already catching flame, the woman—his mother—looked down at her boy with a strange peace. Her tears matched his, falling over scorched cheeks, but her smile never wavered. Even as the fire took her feet, crawling up her legs like vines, she held onto that final softness in her face.
"Live..." she whispered. Her voice was quiet but powerful. It cut through the chants. Through the smoke. Through his breaking soul.
He screamed, though no one heard him over the mob. "Live," she said again, as though casting a spell with her final breath.
And then, she was gone.
A gust of wind stoked the flames high—so high they reached into the clouds—and her body was lost within them. Screams echoed around the boy, but they weren't his. They were from the crowd, cheering, bloodthirsty, chanting:
"Die! Witch!"
Over and over, they rejoiced.
"Die! Witch!"
The words crashed like drums inside his skull.
His small fists clenched. His tears dried against his cheeks, hardened by the rising heat. And through the smoke, atop a black horse with gold-plated armor, sat a man. Crowned. Smug. Surrounded by silver-armored soldiers and banners soaked in crimson.
The King.
He gave the order. With a simple nod, he damned her to the fire. And the boy saw it all—each line of satisfaction on the King's face, as if justice had been done.
The boy's gaze latched onto the monarch with a hatred so deep it pierced bone. And though no one noticed him—just a child crushed into the crowd—his soul made a promise then. A vow sharper than any blade.
I will kill you.
The auction hall buzzed with tension.
The laughter, the murmurs, the clinking of wine glasses had all quieted. The air felt tight, thin—like it could snap at any moment. Everyone watched the center platform, where the host stood in a silk-stitched crimson suit, his words cutting clean through the silence.
"One billion Fehu!" the host declared, voice rising to meet the gasps.
The crowd burst into whispers like broken waves.
Thory blinked, stunned. "Did he say... one billion?"
"Yeah," Fen whispered beside her, jaw slack. "That's the King's voice."
They turned their eyes to the elevated seat, where King leaned forward, hand still raised in a quiet show of dominance. He looked amused. The iron crown on his brow shimmered beneath chandelier light. His lips curled in a smile.
"And we have one billion Fehu... from His Majesty himself!" the host repeated, feeding off the electricity.
Some nobles clapped. Others looked like they'd choke on their pearls.
From the side of the stage, the man known only to Thory as the one who purchased the frog statue leaned against a column. He was dressed in a modest grey tunic and coat—unremarkable among a sea of jeweled robes. Yet when his henchman, a man with serpent tattoos across his neck, stepped close and whispered "Boss," he didn't flinch. He simply smiled.
And then he raised his number.
"Two billion Fehu," the henchman announced, loud enough for the host to hear.
A hush fell again.
Eyes darted across the room. Some narrowed at the man. Others widened.
The King... laughed.
"A fine challenge," he said, standing now. "Three billion."
Thory's hand instinctively reached for Fen's arm. "This isn't just an auction anymore," she murmured.
"No," Fen said. "This is war."
The crowd had erupted into gasps. The host, wide-eyed but professional, held up a hand.
"Three billion from His Majesty the King! Do I hear—?"
"Four," the host stopped mid-breath, blinking. "Four billion Fehu," he echoed. "Four billion... from the King!"
A roar of disbelief tore through the chamber. Gasps turned into shouts, questions, laughter, panic. Some nobles rose from their seats, mouths agape, wine forgotten in trembling hands.
And above the chaos, footsteps echoed.
From the hallway beyond the auction's main entrance, the sound of polished shoes clicked against marble.
A man walked alone.
He wore a black tuxedo. His messy, neck-length hair fell into his eyes. He did not rush. He did not pause. He walked as though the building belonged to him.
Two guards stood at the entrance to the underground chamber. Tall, rigid, armored in ceremonial tuxedos with steel-thread collars.
"Halt," one barked.
The man kept walking.
"I said halt—"
A silver streak flashed.
One guard's head flew. The other didn't even scream before the same blade pierced through his throat. Blood sprayed against the velvet curtains behind them. Their bodies collapsed like sacks of meat.
The man didn't blink.
His eyes were dark. Not black—but hollow. Not hateful—but cold. Beyond anger. Beyond fear. There was only purpose now.
He stepped over their corpses, blade in hand. As the door creaked open, revealing the staircase to the deepest vaults of the auction, he spoke quietly:
"Now... time to get that weapon of mass destruction."