Chapter 3 — “Item Forty-Two”

The smell of damp stone and sweat hit Elena the moment the wagon stopped.

Rough hands unlocked the iron cage door, dragging her out into a dark, underground cavern. Heavy stone pillars held up the low ceiling, and torches flickered along the stone walls, casting long shadows across the crowd below.

This was the Pit – the famous underground market where rogues,

disgraced warriors, and captured shifters were sold like livestock to the highest bidder.

Elena stumbled, the chains around her ankles clanking loudly against the cold floor. Her body still felt weak from the bleeding, but her mind was awake and sharp.

“Move it, girl,” Cole barked, shoving her toward a row of iron cages set against the damp wall.

Elena did not cry out. She did not beg. Instead, as Cole turned his head to speak with another guard, Elena reached down with a quick, quiet motion. She scooped up a handful of dirt from the ground and

smeared it across her face, hiding her highborn features beneath a layer

of grime.

She pulled her torn, dirty linen shirt over her wound, making sure the scar from the was completely hidden. If these slave

traders knew she was the heiress of the Ravenswood pack, they would use

her as a high-priced political pawn – or worse – call Marcus to finish the job.

Inside the holding cage, dozens of other captives sat on the damp stone

floor. Most of them had hollow eyes, staring at the dirt in broken

silence.

Elena sat near the back, resting her back against a stone pillar. She forced slow breaths, ignoring the sharp bite of the cuffs around her wrists. Every time she closed

her eyes, she saw Marcus's cold, smiling face as he drove the dagger into her chest and Nadia holding her mother's necklace.

“Let them celebrate," Elena thought, her hands clenching into tight

fists. “Every second I draw breath is a second closer to my revenge.”

She spent the next hour reading the room like a strategist.

She spent the next hour reading the room like a strategist — the position of the four guards at the door, the keys on Cole's belt, the stone stairs leading up to the auction ring. She looked for exits, weak bars, any crack in her captors' armor. She was a pack leader's daughter. Tactics was second nature to her.

“Item forty-two! Get her up!" Cole's voice boomed across the holding cells.

The cage door creaked open. Two guards hauled Elena up by her iron collar. Her knees wobbled, but she forced her legs to hold.

"Look at her," one guard sneered, dragging her toward the stairs. "Still staring at us like some queen. Won't last a week in the mines.”

"Shut up and drag her," the other grunted.

Elena climbed the damp steps, refusing to bow her head. Sunlight never reached this deep, but the torchlight blinded her as she was shoved out onto a raised wooden stage in the center of a massive arena.

The noise hit her like a wall.

Hundreds of buyers sat in curved rows around the stone arena. Rogues, merchants, masked lords, waving brass betting coins and cheering. Banners hung from the arches above, but one hung highest: a red dragon wrapped around a silver moon.

“The House of Blackthorn,” Elena realized, her pulse quickening. “The

Lycan King’s royal symbol.”

"Item forty-two!" the auctioneer shouted, his loud voice echoing off the stone walls. “A rare prize! A scarred female wolf, tough enough to survive three days in the wild! Perfect for hard labor, domestic service, or arena sport!"

A few men in the front row laughed, shouting insults at the stage.

"Look at those thin arms!" a buyer called out. "She can barely stand!”

"Fifty gold coins!" another shouted.

"Sixty!”

Elena fixed her eyes on the crowd, jaw tight. She let her silence answer their insults. Let them call her weak. Let them buy her for scraps — a farm, a mine, a kitchen, it didn't matter where they sent her. She only needed time to heal, time to shed these cuffs, time to find a weapon.

“Seventy gold coins!” a fat merchant in velvet robes yelled, raising his hand.

“Eighty!”

“Do I hear ninety?" the auctioneer called, raising his heavy wooden gavel. "Eighty gold coins going once... going twice…"

Suddenly, the temperature in the cavern plummeted.

The warm air turned ice-cold in a fraction of a second. The bright flames on the stone torches flickered, turning a dark, eerie purple before shrinking down to tiny sparks.

A heavy, suffocating pressure slammed into the room.

The laughter died instantly. The loud shouts vanished. Buyers in the

front row gasped for air, clutching their throats as their knees slammed

hard against the stone floor. The guards on stage stumbled backward, their weapons dropping from their trembling hands.

It was a raw, lethal aura that made everyone's inner wolf shrink in total terror.

The heavy iron doors at the top of the arena slammed open.

Through the doorway stepped a single figure, wrapped in a dark velvet cloak lined with black fur. Every step of his heavy leather boots echoed through the silent cavern.

The auctioneer dropped his wooden gavel, his face turning pale as paper.

"My... My Lord," the auctioneer stammered, dropping to his knees.

Elena stood on the stage, the only person still standing upright, as those fiery golden eyes cut through the dim light and locked directly onto hers.