Chapter 2: The Monster King

​Lyra's POV

​Don't look at him.

Whatever you do... don't look at him.

​My hands trembled against the rough, splintered wooden platform. Around me, every single person in the auction house bowed their heads in a rush of sudden, suffocating terror. Even the slave traders—men who normally smiled while breaking helpless people—were suddenly frozen, staring at the floorboards like their lives depended on it.

​I didn't need to look up to know who had just walked through those shattered gates. Everyone knew the stories of the Monster of the North.

​The ruthless Lycan King.

​The king who had burned an entire pack alive after they tried to poison his vanguard. The king who had executed his own uncle for treason on the steps of the palace, denying him a trial, mercy, or a proper burial.

​The chains around my wrists suddenly felt ten times heavier, the iron cold against my skin. I lowered my head even further, trying to press myself into the wood.

​Maybe if I stay invisible... maybe he won't notice me.

​"Raise your head."

​The command was quiet. Smooth. Cold. It carried no explosive anger, no theatrical malice. Somehow, that absolute, effortless calm made it infinitely more terrifying.

​I froze, my muscles locking up. I couldn't move.

​Crack!

​A blinding explosion of agony erupted across my back.

​"Ah!" The scream tore from my throat before I could stop it as the slave trader's whip sliced through my torn dress, biting into the flesh beneath.

​"I said raise your head!" the trader hissed, his voice trembling but desperate to please the shadow looming over us. "His Majesty does not repeat himself."

​Tears of pure pain burned hot behind my eyes, but I swallowed the sob, forcing the tears back. I refused to let them fall. Slowly, agonizingly, I lifted my chin.

​The moment my eyes adjusted, the rest of the crowded auction house seemed to vanish.

​He stood only a few feet from the edge of the stage. Tall, broad-shouldered, and radiating an overwhelming pressure that made the air feel thin. He was dressed entirely in midnight black, a heavy fur cloak draped over his shoulders. His face looked as though it had been carved from unyielding stone—a sharp, lethal jawline, high cheekbones, and eyes of a striking, unnatural crimson that didn't belong to a human.

​There was no warmth in those eyes. No curiosity. Only a vast, chilling emptiness.

​He looked down at me the way someone might look at an insignificant object lying on the ground. A stray stone. Something to be casually inspected, then cast aside.

​Good. I preferred it that way. In my experience, people who looked at me with pity usually ended up hurting me the most.

​The auctioneer rushed forward, nearly tripping over his own heavy robes. "Your Majesty!" he squeaked, forcing a nervous, sweating laugh. "Had we known you were coming to inspect our stock, we would have prepared our finest, rarest slaves for your viewing."

​The king didn't answer. He didn't even blink. His crimson gaze never wavered from my face.

​An agonizing, heavy silence settled over the market. Why was he staring at me?

​Instinctively, my fingers twitched, wanting to cover the faded, jagged brand seared into the side of my neck. It had been there for as long as I could remember—the ugly mark that declared I was property, belonging to whoever had the coin. I hated it. I hated what it meant.

​"What's your name?"

​His deep, resonant voice cut through the silence, vibrating straight to my bones.

​No one had asked me my name in years. To the rest of the world, I was simply slave, girl, or wolfless scrap.

​I swallowed hard, my throat dry as ash. "L-Lyra."

​For a fraction of a second, something dark and unreadable flickered across his stony features before his expression locked back down.

​"So you can speak."

​I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. Barely.

​The auctioneer laughed awkwardly, wiping his brow. "She's obedient, Your Majesty! Doesn't cause a lick of trouble. She's quiet, submissive—"

​Quiet? No. I had simply learned that speaking up earned a broken rib or a whip to the spine.

​The king took one slow, deliberate step closer to the stage. Then another.

​The air around him pressed against my chest like a gathering thunderstorm. Every primitive instinct in my body screamed at me to scramble backward, to run, to hide. But where? Slaves didn't get to run. We were hunted down like animals, caught, and broken until there was nothing left.

​His gaze dropped, tracing the dark purple bruises where the iron shackles had rubbed my wrists raw. Then his eyes drifted over the older scars lining my arms, finally settling on the fresh, dark blood soaking into the back of my dress.

​His expression didn't change. Not even a fraction of an inch.

​Of course it didn't. Men like him didn't feel pity. Monsters never did.

​The auctioneer rubbed his hands together eagerly, sensing an impossible payday. "Shall I begin the bidding again for her, Your Majesty? We can start at—"

​The king finally tore his eyes away from me, looking at the auctioneer with a gaze that could freeze water.

​"I'll take her."

​The entire auction house went dead silent. You could have heard a pin drop.

​The auctioneer blinked, his jaw slack. "Y-Your Majesty?"

​"I don't repeat myself."

​"I... o-of course! Five hundred gold—"

​"I didn't ask for a price."

​The king reached into his coat and carelessly tossed a heavy velvet pouch onto the wooden stage. It landed with a loud, metallic clang right in front of my knees.

​The auctioneer scrambled to open it. The moment he peeked inside, all the color drained from his face, leaving him deathly pale.

​Gold. Heavy, flawless royal coins. Far more wealth than I had ever seen in my entire life—enough to buy every single slave, guard, and building in this market twice over.

​His hands shook violently as he clutched the pouch to his chest. "S-she's yours, Your Majesty. She is entirely yours."

​Just like that. With a single toss of gold, my life belonged to someone else. Again.

​A guard stepped forward, keys rattling as he unlocked the heavy iron chains around my wrists and ankles. For one brief, beautiful, foolish heartbeat, the lack of weight made me think I was finally free.

​Then, a new collar was brought forward. Black leather, twice as thick as the last, lined with heavy, reinforced steel.

​The guard fastened it tightly around my neck. The heavy iron lock clicked shut right against my throat, the sharp sound echoing like a death knell inside my chest.

​I wasn't free. I had simply been traded up.

​And my new master was the most dangerous man on the continent.