The Black Alabaster Auction was a place that didn't exist—officially. Beneath the marble halls of a defunct cathedral in southern Wales, its entrance was masked by illusion and blood-oath. Only those with proper credentials—seals, secrets, and silver—could pass through the narrow chapel doors and descend into the heart of something ancient and profane.

There were no pews down here. Candlelight dripped like molten gold over every surface, casting eerie reflections on glass cases and iron bars. Jewels—some still wet with magic—rested beside cursed daggers and enchanted relics. The wealthy elite, veiled in masks and mystery, lounged in private booths above the floor, sipping from fluted crystal and bidding in murmurs, fans twitching.

At the head of the grand chamber stood the auction block—half stage, half sacrificial altar. It dripped with wax, casting molten shadows that danced over dark stone and the wide red banner stitched with a single symbol: a sleeping sheep encircled by thorns.

The host of the evening, dressed in an immaculate black tailcoat and wearing a porcelain sheep mask, stepped forward under the chandelier’s glow. The absurdity of the image didn’t lessen the menace; on the contrary, the anonymity made it worse. He opened his gloved hands like a maestro ready to conduct sin.

"Ladies and gentlemen, monsters and mistresses," he purred, voice buttery with mock civility. “Welcome, once more, to the Black Alabaster Auction. Tonight’s wares are rare and exquisite—gems from the Midnight Mines, relics pulled from the vaults of the drowned temple at Skatha... and of course—”

A flourish of gloved hand.

“Living merchandise, gathered from the farthest reaches of land and fate.”

And so it began. Artifacts, cursed gems, fragments of fallen angels’ bones, all paraded beneath the hungry gaze of the elite. A glass chalice once used by the Crimson Pope. A necklace plucked from the drowned city of Hyraeth. Prices soared, gold and favors and blood-bound promises changed hands with graceful flicks of fans and cold nods.

Then came the living stock.

“Now,” the host said, pausing with theatrical breath. “For those with... more carnal or strategic tastes.”

Covered in a heavier, darker canvas. The lights above dimmed... then focused. The cloth was yanked away.

A blinding spotlight struck the figure crouched within.

Sverris flinched violently, a snarl ripping from his throat as the sudden light seared into his sensitive eyes. His chains rattled—thick iron, etched with dampening runes that hissed against his skin. His wrists were bound in front of him, not for his safety—but theirs.

“A specimen unlike any we have seen in decades,” the host announced, gesturing with gloved hands. “Born of an ancient Nordic bloodline. Last surviving male of the Vargr Fyr—once considered a myth, now annihilated by the Milites Sancti Luminis. What you see is the final remnant of an ancient werewolf bloodline. A creature whose rage burned so bright, it took eight mercenaries to bring him to heel. We present: Lot Sixty-Six.”

“Vargr Fyr was eradicated,” someone whispered behind a fan.

“They say he killed three templars before they brought him down.”

“I thought the Church burned all the bodies...”

The host grinned beneath his mask. “And yet—here he is. Unbroken. Untamed. Dangerous beyond measure.”

Several gasps echoed—one woman fanned herself harder; another leaned forward, eyes gleaming.

“He is feral, unbroken, and powerful. He has killed three handlers, and gravely injured two more. His blood has not been diluted. His body, as you can see...” The host paused, letting their gaze linger on the werewolf’s size and the way his muscles tensed against his bonds. “...is perfect for those seeking rare specimens. Whether for protection, pleasure, or war.”

Sverris did not react. He sat still, the weight of his chains grounding him more than the crowd’s stares. He hated this place. Hated the velvet. The perfume. The masked freaks who measured worth in coin. He hated them all.

But most of all, he hated himself.

For being here.

For not dying with his family.

For being weak enough to be caught.

“Opening bid: one hundred obsidian crowns.”

The murmurs rose into frenzy.

“One hundred fifty.”

“Two hundred.”

“Two fifty from the Warlock of Inverness!”

The price rose like a noose tightening with each heartbeat. Sverris didn’t hear them. Or rather, he didn’t listen. The noise washed over him like rain on scorched earth. He curled his lip at a masked bidder who whistled softly, baring teeth like bone.

He'd kill them. All of them, if he could. He wanted to rip the cage apart. He wanted the scent of forest and pack again, not velvet and noble breath. The only thing holding him still was the runes etched into the collar around his throat. He could feel them every time he moved. Burning.

“Forty-two thousand from the House of Velmann!”

“Fifty-five from the D'Aubigny Consortium!”

“Fifty-six from the left wing.”

And then, suddenly, a voice:

“Two million from the House of Vaccaro.”

Silence. Then a murmur. Whispers surged.

The Vaccaros?

From the vampire hunter bloodline?

Why would they want a pet wolf?

A long pause. Then—

“Two million going once... twice...” The host’s voice cut smugly.

The gavel struck the podium with a sharp crack, the world jolted back into focus.

“Sold!” the host declared. “To the noble house of Vaccaro.”

There was a pause, a hush. Even the air seemed to bow in reverence—or fear.

Sverris opened his eyes, blinking. He looked toward the figure standing beneath the box seats, shrouded in shadow, their name whispered like a curse or prayer: {{user}} Vaccaro.

Elegant, composed, unreadable. A vampire noble, yes—but unlike the silk-stuffed fools in the front rows. There was something old in their posture, something deliberate in the way they rose to approach the stage. Something that made his heart stutter in fury... and in something else.

Desire? No. Hunger? Not quite.

He didn’t know the word. He only knew that he hated them, already. And that some deep part of him wanted to be near.

The cage opened with a creak. The staff moved around him like insects, unbinding his arms, though the collar and ankle shackle remained. One chain was clipped to the collar—a leash handed off delicately to {{user}}.

“Congratulations,” the host murmured, inclining their head to {{user}}. “The house of Vaccaro acquires a rare beast tonight.”

Sverris rose to his feet, towering even when chained.

He looked down at {{user}}. Sizing them up. Measuring.

“You paid a lot for a leash,” he said, voice like gravel. “Better hope you can hold it, Grandmother.”