Chapter 10 — The Slave Auction
The square stank of iron, sweat, and fear.
Dust hung in the air like a permanent scar, kicked up by hundreds of boots and sandals pressing against cracked stone. Wooden cages lined the edges of the market, stacked two high in some places, their bars rusted and bent from years of use. Inside them, people huddled together—men, women, even children—eyes hollow, bodies thin, collars of dull metal locked tightly around their necks.
Each collar pulsed faintly, a sickly gray glow that crawled across the engraved runes. Power suppressors. Vein shackles.
Tomora stood among them.
Chains bit into his wrists and ankles, heavy enough that even standing straight felt like a challenge. Every step tugged against cold metal, reminding him that he wasn't free—hadn't been free since the night Patricia fell.
The platform loomed before him, raised above the crowd like an altar. Its wood was stained dark, not just from age, but from old blood that no amount of rain had managed to wash away.
A bell rang.
Silence rippled outward, broken only by low murmurs and the occasional cough. Buyers leaned forward in their seats. Some wore fine robes, their fingers heavy with rings. Others looked like mercenaries—scarred faces, thick arms, eyes calculating value instead of humanity.
Tomora's jaw tightened.
The auctioneer stepped forward, a fat man with a shaved head and a grin too wide to trust. Gold teeth flashed when he smiled. He slammed a hammer against the platform, the sound cracking through the air.
"Next item!" he boomed. "Young male. Strong build for his age."
Hands grabbed Tomora from behind.
He was shoved forward, boots scraping against the wood as he stumbled into the open. The sunlight hit his face, harsh and unforgiving. He squinted, heart pounding, instincts screaming at him to run—yet his body remained locked in place.
The collar around his neck hummed.
Electricity stirred beneath his skin, restless, furious, but every attempt to move it felt like punching a wall made of stone. Sparks flickered uselessly along his fingertips before vanishing.
The auctioneer's voice rose again.
"Thunder Vein! Rare, but real! Still untrained—perfect for shaping!"
A ripple passed through the crowd.
Thunder.
Heads turned. Whispers spread. Some buyers leaned closer, interest sharpening their expressions. Others scoffed, unimpressed.
"Too young."
"Collar's holding strong, though…"
"Thunder fetches a good price."
Tomora swallowed.
His eyes scanned the crowd, searching for something—anything—familiar. A face. A sign. Hope.
There was none.
Just strangers who saw him as a weapon. Or property.
Or worse.
The auctioneer grabbed Tomora's chin roughly, forcing his face upward. Fingers dug into his skin.
"Look alive, boy," he muttered under his breath, breath reeking of alcohol. "You're worth more if you look strong."
Tomora resisted the urge to bite him.
Instead, he stared straight ahead, eyes burning—not with electricity, but with something deeper. Memory.
Patricia's smile.
Her green hair catching the sunlight.
Her voice telling him storms weren't meant to be feared.
A bid was shouted.
"Ten gold!"
Another voice cut in immediately. "Fifteen!"
The numbers climbed, each one slamming into Tomora's chest like a hammer. With every shout, the chains felt heavier, the collar tighter.
He clenched his fists.
Inside him, thunder rolled.
The collar buzzed violently in response, sending a sharp pain down his spine. His knees buckled for a moment, teeth grinding as he forced himself to stay standing.
Laughter erupted from the crowd.
"Feisty one."
"That'll break soon enough."
The auctioneer raised a hand. "Twenty-five gold! Going once!"
Tomora's vision blurred at the edges. Not from tears—he refused to give them that—but from pressure. From fury. From the unbearable weight of being watched like livestock.
I can't die here.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears, fast and wild.
I won't.
A memory flickered—Patricia collapsing, her eyes wide, her hand reaching for him. The way her blood soaked into the earth.
Protect yourself.
Protect the future.
A surge of electricity flared inside his chest, brighter than before.
The collar screamed.
Runes flashed violently, the gray glow flickering as if struggling to keep hold. Sparks burst from the metal, crawling across Tomora's neck like burning insects.
The crowd gasped.
The auctioneer's grin faltered. "Hold him steady!"
Guards moved in, hands gripping spears tipped with suppression crystal. One jabbed the weapon against Tomora's side.
Pain exploded through him.
His body convulsed, muscles locking as the electricity inside him crashed against the collar again—and again—like waves against a dam.
Then, silence.
The sparks died.
Tomora sagged slightly, breath ragged, sweat dripping down his temple.
The collar stabilized.
The crowd exhaled, disappointment replacing excitement.
The auctioneer laughed nervously. "Ha! Just a twitch. Still very much contained!"
He raised the hammer once more.
"Going once…"
Tomora lifted his head.
His eyes met the sky—clear, cruelly blue, stretching endlessly above a place built on chains.
He memorized it.
"Going twice…"
His fingers curled slowly, nails digging into his palms until blood welled.
Someday.
The hammer came down.
"Going once going twice."
The sound echoed across the square.
Chains were pulled tight.
Tomora was dragged backward, disappearing into the crowd as cheers and coin clinked together behind him.
But deep inside, beneath metal and fear, the storm did not sleep.
It waited.