CHAPTER SIX
DAMIEL
Silence clung to the hall after his words.
"I'll take her."
For a single heartbeat, even the demons seemed unsure they had heard correctly.
Then the whispers erupted—sharp, frantic, disbelieving.
A human.
Prince Damiel had claimed a human.
Damiel did not react to the noise. He had not been listening for approval—or shock—to begin with.
His attention had never been on the slaves.
From the moment he had entered the Hall, his silver eyes had been sweeping the balconies, the pillars, the shadows between torchlight and stone. He counted exits. Measured spacing. Noted guards who shifted too often.
Werewolves were impatient creatures.
They preferred chaos. Distraction. Celebration.
A feast like this was perfect.
Roan stood at his left, posture loose, expression calm, but Damiel felt his awareness humming just beneath the surface. Roan was listening to the room the way Damiel watched it—waiting for the wrong sound, the wrong movement.
Then the auctioneer's voice had carried.
"From the Kingdom of Asheville," the demon had called.
"Reyna of Greywood."
The tug came without warning.
Sharp. Sudden.
Damiel's gaze snapped to the center of the hall before thought could intervene.
Reyna.
The name struck something deep—something old and sealed. His demon stirred, restless beneath his skin, a low pulse of irritation and awareness.
The human girl stood with her head bowed.
Small. Still.
The demon guard beside her had told her to raise her head.
She obeyed, slowly lifting her head
The hall gasped.
Damiel felt it then—an unfamiliar disruption, like a flaw in perfect stone.
Her beauty was quiet. Unintended. Her fear was evident, trembling at the edges of her control, yet she did not collapse beneath it.
And when her eyes lifted—
Blue met silver.
The world narrowed.
For a fraction of a second, Damiel forgot the hall. Forgot the whispers. Forgot the hunt.
His demon shifted again, uneasy, irritated by the way she did not look away.
Fear was there—clear, undeniable—but so was resistance. Not defiance. Not challenge.
Endurance.
That unsettled him more than rebellion ever could.
The bidding began.
"Fifty silver uns." A demon noble from the crowd shouted in desperation.
"One hundred," Prince Arkes' voice followed, amused.
"Two hundred," Prince Vaelor added lazily.
Their voices scraped against Damiel's senses like grit.
He did not understand why the sound of them claiming her unsettled him—but it did. His jaw tightened as his brothers leaned forward, interest burning too brightly in their eyes.
She still hadn't looked away.
Even now.
His lips curved slowly, not in warmth, but intrigue.
Interesting.
The decision formed before he could acknowledge it.
Before logic caught up.
Before control reasserted itself.
"I'll take her."
The hall froze.
Prince Arkes recovered first, reclining back with a smirk.
"Well now… how unlike you, little brother."
Prince Vaelor chuckled. "A frail thing like that? Unless you intend to snap her in half, I fail to see the appeal."
Damiel didn't look at them.
He waited.
Predictably, Arkes lifted his hand again.
"Then put me in for—"
"Lift that hand again," Damiel murmured calmly, eyes still on the girl, "and I'll take that limb instead of the girl."
The hall went deathly still.
Arkes lowered his hand.
Vaelor laughed softly. "Possessive already? Fascinating."
Damiel ignored him.
"State the price," he said.
The auctioneer swallowed hard. "F‑Five thousand uns was the last bid, Your Highness." he said visibly trembling
Uns- Currency of Silver.
Lesser currency.
Damiel exhaled softly.
"Hm."
From the shadow beside his throne, he withdrew a thin, hex‑etched plate of molten gold. Aurex. Royal currency. Used for land. Blood‑bound contracts.
"Five Aurex."
The hall gasped.
The auctioneer didn't hesitate. "S‑Sold, to His Highness, Prince Damiels." the auctioneer said greedily, with a grin.
Reyna did not move.
She did not cry. Did not plead, she just stood with her head bowed.
Damiel found—irritatingly—that her not looking at him bothered him, more than when she did.
Roan shifted subtly beside him, surprise flickering briefly across his face before discipline smoothed it away. He did not question. He never did.
Damiel flicked his fingers toward a guard.
"Take her," he said. "Put her in the balcony chamber."
The guard bowed deeply and moved towards Reyna.
As Reyna was turned toward the doors, she faltered.
Just once.
Her gaze slipped sideways—to another girl among the kneeling slaves.
Kayla.
Damiel saw the way their eyes met. The way the other girl's lips trembled. Tears welled, silent and unspilled.
Reyna's breath hitched.
Her heart broke visibly in her eyes.
Then the guard pushed her forward.
She did not resist.
The doors closed behind her, and the hall exhaled all at once—frustration, envy, hunger lingering thick in the air.
Damiel leaned back in his throne.
Only then did the weight of his choice settle.
He had not planned this.
He did not need a human.
She felt familiar—and yet entirely unknown. Close in a way that irritated him. Distant in a way that challenged his control.
Curiosity, he told himself coldly.
Nothing more.
Then he turned towards his brothers throne,
"Do try to surpass that level of foolishness today," he drawled toward his brothers.
Neither laughed.
Damiel's gaze lifted again, eyes cold—already moving, scanning shadows, pillars, balconies.
The hunt resumed.
Werewolves would not wait long.
And whatever he had just claimed—
Whatever disturbance he had invited into his domain—
Would wait.
For now.