Chapter 4: The Collar in Gold

The golden collar gleamed like a crown—and wasn't that the sickest joke of all?

Kael had worn crowns. Small ones during ceremonies, elaborate ones for state functions, the simple circlet that marked him as Crown Prince during court sessions. He knew the weight of gold against skin, knew how it caught the light and proclaimed ownership, status, *power*.

But he'd never seen gold used like this. Never seen it twisted into a symbol of possession rather than authority.

The collar around her throat was exquisite. He could see that even from where he stood in the shadows, even through the red haze of rage that clouded his vision. Three bands of braided gold, wide as his thumb, fitted perfectly to her slender neck. Intricate scrollwork decorated the metal, ancient symbols that his education recognized as Old Realm script—the language of their ancestors, before the kingdom was unified, before the Dravenharts claimed the throne.

He could just make out the words etched into the gold: *Property. Bound. Claimed.*

*Obscene.*

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Grayson was saying, walking a slow circle around her as she struggled back to her feet. The guards had hauled her upright again after her collapse, but they'd stepped back now, letting the crowd see her fully. Letting them see how the collar transformed her from a broken slave into a *prize*. "Custom forged for tonight's sale. The buyer will receive not only the girl but the collar as well—a symbol of legitimacy, if you will. Proof of purchase."

Proof of ownership, he meant. Proof that whoever bought her had the right to do with her as they pleased.

Kael's canines lengthened behind his closed lips. His nails bit into his palms hard enough to draw blood. The beast inside him was a caged storm, throwing itself against the bars of his control with enough force that he could feel cracks forming.

*Not yet,* he commanded it. *Wait. Watch. Learn.*

He needed to understand the full scope of this operation. Needed to know who else was involved, how deep the rot went, whether this was an isolated incident or part of something larger. The strategic part of his mind—the part his father had spent years sharpening into a weapon—insisted on gathering intelligence before acting.

But his wolf didn't care about strategy. His wolf only knew that *she* was bleeding, terrified, being *displayed* like an object while men bid for the right to own her.

She swayed again, and this time when her eyes rolled back, Kael saw what was happening. The silver manacles were poisoning her slowly, burning away her strength moment by moment. The wounds at her wrists had turned an angry red-black at the edges—infection setting in, or worse, silver sickness. If the metal stayed on much longer, if it leeched any deeper into her bloodstream, even removing it wouldn't save her.

She was dying. Slowly. Publicly. While men sipped wine and discussed her value.

"As I was saying," Grayson continued, gesturing to her like a showman presenting his final act, "the Vale bloodline is extinct—or was, until we acquired this particular specimen. Her grandmother was Seraphine Vale, last daughter of the main line. Her mother was Elena Vale, who died—" he paused delicately, "—during the Purge, along with the rest of her family."

*The Purge.* Even Grayson spoke of it carefully, as if the word itself carried weight. Kael knew why. The Purge was forbidden history, a chapter the crown had ordered struck from official records. His father never spoke of it. The archives contained nothing—Kael had checked once, years ago, out of curiosity.

But he knew it had happened. Knew that twenty years ago, an entire bloodline had been systematically hunted down and eliminated. He'd assumed it was for treason, for plotting against the crown. His father's justice was harsh but never without cause.

Now, looking at the girl on the platform, Kael wondered if he'd been wrong.

"This girl—" Grayson reached out and tilted her face upward with one finger under her chin, forcing the crowd to see the delicate bone structure, the aristocratic features beneath the bruises, "—is Lyra Vale. Last living heir to a bloodline that once ruled the western territories before the unification. Her blood is as pure as they come. Ancient. Powerful. *Valuable*."

*Lyra.*

The name settled into Kael's chest like a brand. He'd been sent to kill *the Vale heir*, an abstract threat, a political liability. But she wasn't abstract anymore. She was *Lyra*, and the sound of her name in that slaver's mouth made him want to bite out the man's tongue.

"Now, the collar," Grayson said, releasing her chin and tapping the golden band at her throat. "This isn't mere decoration. The gold is pure, first of all—worth a small fortune on its own. But more importantly, it's been *bound*."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Even Kael felt a cold shock of understanding.

Binding magic. Blood magic. The kind that was forbidden in most of the civilized realms because of how thoroughly it could control another being.

"The collar is keyed to the buyer," Grayson explained. "A simple blood ritual, completed at the time of sale. Once bound, she'll be unable to flee, unable to raise her hand against you, unable to disobey direct commands. Think of it as... insurance. Even if her wolf somehow emerged despite her latent nature, she'd be completely under your control."

The fat merchant in furs leaned forward. "And if someone tries to remove the collar?"

Grayson's smile was a razor. "Death. Instant and agonizing. The binding magic ensures loyalty unto death."

*Gods.*

They'd put a magical slave collar on her. Not just restraints, not just silver to weaken her—they'd bound her with magic that would *kill* her if she sought freedom.

Kael's wolf stopped throwing itself against his control. It went utterly, terrifyingly still. The kind of stillness that came before wholesale slaughter.

*They die,* his wolf said with absolute calm. *Every single one of them dies screaming.*

For once, the man and the wolf were in perfect agreement.

"Let's resume the bidding, shall we?" Grayson stepped back, arms spread wide. "I believe we were at fifteen hundred gold. Do I hear sixteen?"

"Sixteen," Lord Marsden called immediately.

"Seventeen," countered a voice from the back—someone Kael didn't recognize, a merchant perhaps, or a broker buying on behalf of someone else.

"Two thousand." This from a man in black silk with cold eyes that assessed Lyra with the calculation of someone used to acquiring and breaking beautiful things. Kael memorized his face, added him to the mental list of people who wouldn't see sunrise.

The bidding continued. Two thousand became twenty-five hundred, then three thousand. The crowd thinned further as the price climbed beyond what most could afford. Only five bidders remained now, the truly wealthy and truly dangerous.

And through it all, Lyra stood there in her golden collar, silver chains weighing down her wrists and ankles, blood still dripping slowly from the cut on her palm.

She didn't look at the bidders. Didn't react to the climbing numbers or Grayson's continued sales pitch. Her grey eyes stared straight ahead, unfocused, as if she'd retreated somewhere deep inside herself where their words couldn't reach.

*Broken,* the crowd might think. *Defeated.*

But Kael saw the truth. Saw the muscle ticking in her jaw, the white-knuckled grip of her fists despite the silver burning her wrists. Saw the way her chest rose and fell in measured breaths, like someone trying desperately to hold onto control.

She wasn't broken. She was *enduring*.

And gods, she was magnificent.

"Four thousand gold," Lord Marsden called, and the room went quiet. That was a fortune—enough to buy a small estate, fund a mercenary company, live in luxury for years.

Grayson's eyes gleamed with greed. "Four thousand. Do I hear forty-five hundred?"

Silence. The other bidders were weighing their options, calculating whether she was worth bankrupting themselves.

The man in black silk finally spoke: "Five thousand."

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Even Grayson looked momentarily shocked before his professional mask slammed back into place.

"Five thousand gold," he repeated. "An extraordinary bid. Do I hear—"

"Ten thousand."

The voice was new, coming from the entrance Kael had come through. Every head swiveled to see who had spoken.

A figure stood in the doorway, backlit by torches from the corridor beyond. Tall, wrapped in expensive traveling cloak, hood up to shadow their face. But Kael could scent him even from across the room—wolf, powerful, with an undertone of something that made his hackles rise.

Nobility. High nobility.

The figure stepped into the light and lowered his hood, revealing aristocratic features and cold amber eyes.

Kael's blood turned to ice.

He knew that face. Had seen it in court, at state functions, standing at his father's right hand.

Duke Corwin Blackmoor. The King's closest advisor. His father's most trusted friend.

And apparently, the man who wanted to buy Kael's mate.

"Ten thousand gold," Duke Blackmoor repeated, his voice carrying the casual confidence of someone who knew he'd just ended the bidding. "I believe that should settle the matter."

Grayson recovered quickly, bowing low. "Your Grace! We're honored by your presence. Yes, yes, of course. Ten thousand gold. Going once—"

Kael stepped out of the shadows.

"No," he said, and his voice was ice and iron and barely leashed violence.

Every eye turned to him. Recognition rippled through the crowd—his face was known, even if they couldn't quite place him in this context. Crown Prince Kael Dravenhart didn't frequent slave auctions, after all.

Duke Blackmoor's eyes narrowed. "Who—" Then recognition struck, and his expression shifted from irritation to shock. "Your Highness?"

The title hung in the air like a sword.

The crowd reacted instantly—some backing away, others dropping to one knee, everyone suddenly very aware that they were engaged in highly illegal activity in the presence of the Crown Prince.

But Kael only had eyes for the girl on the platform.

Lyra had turned her head, those storm-grey eyes locking onto his with an intensity that stole his breath. And in that moment, despite the collar, despite the chains, despite everything they'd done to break her, he saw her truly for the first time.

*Mate,* his wolf howled in recognition and triumph. *OURS.*

"The auction," Kael said softly, never breaking eye contact with her, "is over."

And on the platform, in her golden collar and silver chains, Lyra Vale began to laugh.

It was a broken sound, more sob than mirth, but it held something that made every man in the room take an involuntary step back.

*Hope.*