The flickering torchlight cast grotesque shadows across the stone floor, dancing between bars of iron that housed my kindred. "There must be some mistake."

  The underground chamber was vast, extending far beyond what the limited torchlight revealed. The air hung heavy with the mingled scents of unwashed bodies, damp stone, and the acrid bite of fear. The ceiling was low, supported by thick stone pillars.

  I turned to face Deacon fully, refusing to let him see the fear that threatened to overtake me. Throughout my life, I'd been treated with a certain level of respect. Fear, perhaps, but never this base level of degradation.

  "I was promised suitable accommodations." I fought to keep my voice steady. "Not... this."

  The demons in the nearest cages watched our exchange with varying degrees of interest. Some seemed barely aware of their surroundings, their eyes glazed and distant. Others observed with the sharp, calculating gaze of those who had learned to survive by studying their captors.

  Deacon's lips curved into a cold smile as he observed my reaction. He was enjoying this, I realized. The shock, the indignation, the slow dawning of understanding as my expectations crumbled. These were not unfortunate byproducts of his duty. They were the point.

  "And what were you expecting?" His eyebrows rose in mock surprise. "A suite with silk sheets? A handmaiden to brush your hair?"

  He laughed, the sound echoing harshly off the stone walls.

  "You demons and your delusions of grandeur."

  He paced a slow circle around me, maintaining a careful distance. Close enough to intimidate, far enough to avoid any sudden movement I might make. His boots clicked against the stone floor, the rhythm deliberate and measured.

  "I'm not delusional." I folded my arms across my chest, both to appear more in control and to hide the slight tremor in my hands. "I'm merely expecting the basic dignity afforded to a being of my status."

  Something shifted in Deacon's expression then, the polished veneer of civility slipping away to reveal something harder, crueler beneath. The transformation was subtle but unmistakable. A tightening around the eyes, a slight curl of the lip, a change in his posture that suggested a predator no longer bothering to disguise its nature.

  He stepped closer, and I had to force myself not to retreat. The scent of his cologne, which had seemed merely cloying in the carriage, now took on a more sinister quality, like something sweet used to mask decay.

  "Status?" The word dripped with contempt. "Let me make something abundantly clear, Joy."

  My name sounded like an insult in his mouth.

  "In this place, you have no status. No rights. No privileges."

  He gestured broadly to the cages surrounding us, a theatrical sweep of his arm that encompassed the entire chamber.

  "All demons should be caged. It's where you belong, where you've always belonged."

  The change in his demeanor was startling. Gone was the suave, articulate gentleman who had ridden beside me in the carriage. In his place stood a man whose hatred seemed to radiate from him in palpable waves.

  "I am not some common beast to be locked away." I lifted my chin defiantly despite the growing knot of dread in my stomach.

  I touched my horns instinctively, the smooth ivory a reminder of who and what I was. In Naerith, these horns had been symbols of power and lineage. Here, they marked me as something less than human.

  "I have been treated with respect since..."

  "Respect?" His voice cut through mine like a whip.

  His eyes flashed with darkness in the torchlight.

  "Is that what you think Sam was showing you? Pity, perhaps. Possibly something more base and self-serving."

  His lips twisted in disgust.

  "But respect? No human respects a demon. We may find you useful, even fascinating in your way, but never forget what you are."

  "And what is that?" Anger flared hot in my chest, burning away some of the fear.

  My claws extended slightly, an unconscious response to the threat before me. I forced them to retract, knowing that any show of aggression would only confirm his worst beliefs about my kind.

  Deacon noticed the movement, his gaze flickering to my hands before returning to my face. The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk, as if my struggle for control merely amused him.

  "Property." He spoke as if explaining something to a child. His voice was soft but penetrating, each word precise and deliberate.

  "Nothing more, nothing less. Every comfort you've been granted has been in service of maintaining your value, not out of any recognition of worth beyond the price you'll fetch."

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  He stepped closer still, invading my space with deliberate intent.

  "You're merchandise, Joy. Exotic, valuable merchandise, certainly, but merchandise nonetheless. The sooner you accept that reality, the easier this will be for everyone involved."

  I looked past Deacon to the nearest cage, where a female demon with elegant curved horns sat watching our exchange. Her horns were similar to mine in shape, though a deeper red in color, and they complemented the delicate features of her face. Her eyes met mine briefly before she looked away, as if afraid of being caught in the act of observation.

  There was no solidarity there, no silent communication of shared resistance. Only resignation. That, perhaps, frightened me more than Deacon's cruelty. The evidence that spirits could be so thoroughly broken, hope so completely extinguished.

  "You." I took a step in her direction, my voice rising with desperation and determination. "How can you just sit there and accept this? How can any of you?"

  My voice carried throughout the chamber, addressing all the imprisoned demons within earshot. Some stirred at the sound, while others remained motionless, as if they'd learned long ago not to respond to raised voices.

  "We outnumber them. We have strength they can only dream of. If we stood together..."

  "Shut up." His composed fa?ade slipped further.

  A vein pulsed in his temple, betraying his anger at my attempt to incite resistance. But I ignored him, focusing entirely on the female demon whose gaze had now returned to mine, a flicker of something visible in her eyes. Interest, perhaps, or the ghost of her own lost defiance.

  "Please." I willed her to feel the same fire that burned within me. "Stand up. Show them we won't be treated like this. If you just..."

  I never finished the sentence. A sudden force from behind sent me stumbling forward, my concentration broken. I was so focused on rallying the other demon that I hadn't noticed Deacon opening the door of an empty cage beside us. My shoulder hit the metal bars hard as I fell inside, a sharp pain shooting down my arm. Before I could recover, the door slammed shut, the lock clicking with horrible finality.

  "You should really pay more attention to your surroundings." Deacon pocketed the key.

  The momentary anger that had flashed across his face was gone, replaced by a cold satisfaction.

  "First rule of survival in this place."

  I gripped the bars, anger and disbelief coursing through me in equal measure. The cage was barely tall enough for me to stand upright, and so narrow I couldn't fully extend my arms. The floor was covered with a thin layer of straw that did little to cushion the hard stone beneath. A shallow depression in one corner contained a small amount of water, stagnant and unappetizing. This was to be my home until the auction. This tiny prison within the larger prison of human society.

  "You can't do this." The words were fueled more by outrage than by any real belief that they would change anything.

  "I believe I just did. Though I must say, for someone of your supposed status, you were remarkably easy to outmaneuver."

  I rattled the bars, testing their strength. The iron was old but solid, showing no sign of weakness despite its age. The lock, by contrast, was new and well-maintained, the mechanism complex enough to resist simple picking. Whoever had designed these cages had understood exactly what they were meant to contain. Who they were meant to contain.

  "Sam said I wasn't to be marked or bruised..." But my voice trailed off as a deeper realisation dawned. Sam would have known what awaited me here. He knew what happened to the demons he transported, knew the cages and the degradation that would follow his delivery. He knew, and yet he had walked away, leaving me with Deacon.

  The betrayal stung more than I wanted to admit, even to myself. Despite all my caution, all my warnings to myself not to trust him, some part of me had believed in his decency. Had believed that his kindness, however limited by circumstance, had been genuine. That belief now lay shattered at my feet, another casualty of this nightmare.

  Deacon's laugh was cold and mirthless.

  "Oh, did you think Sam was different? That he actually cared about you?"

  He leaned closer to the bars, his face inches from mine. I could smell the wine on his breath, see the tiny red veins in the whites of his eyes.

  "He's like all the rest of us, Joy. Just better at hiding it. He delivers demons to auction blocks across the continent. He knows exactly what happens to them after he hands them over!"

  I said nothing, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing how deeply the revelation cut. But he saw it anyway, his eyes gleaming with cruel triumph. He had found a weakness, a vulnerability more effective than any physical restraint.

  "If I hit you," his voice dropped to a confidential murmur, as if sharing a secret between friends, "at least my bruises and scars will heal easily. Sam's betrayal? That'll last much longer, won't it?"

  My fingers tightened around the metal bars until my knuckles turned white. I wanted to deny Deacon's words, to insist that Sam was different, that he couldn't have known. But the evidence was all around me, in the cages and the broken spirits they contained.

  Every demon here had been transported by someone. Captured, shackled, delivered. Some of them, perhaps, by Sam himself.

  "I'm valuable merchandise, remember?" I forced the words past the lump in my throat, clinging to the one protection I still had. "You can't damage the goods before the auction.”

  I hated how pathetic the words sounded, how easily I had accepted the language. But pride was a luxury I could no longer afford. Survival demanded pragmatism, and if reminding Deacon of my monetary value was what it took to avoid further harm, then so be it.

  "You're right." Deacon stepped back with a theatrical sigh.

  He spread his hands in a gesture of mock surrender.

  "You are indeed too valuable to mark up before tomorrow's festivities. The buyers for you are particular about such things. They want their purchases pristine, untouched by any hand but their own."

  The implication made my stomach turn, but I kept my expression neutral. This, too, was part of the game. His attempt to provoke a reaction, to see me squirm. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

  His gaze shifted to the demon in the neighboring cage, the one I had tried to inspire to rebellion. She had retreated to the far corner of her small prison, as if trying to make herself invisible.

  "But your new friend here?" His voice lightened in a way that sent a chill down my spine. "She's not nearly as valuable. Been here for weeks already, passed over in three auctions. Damaged goods, you might say."

  The female demon flinched at his words, a barely perceptible movement that nonetheless revealed how deeply they cut. How many times had she heard similar assessments? How many potential buyers had examined her like livestock, found her wanting, and moved on to more promising specimens?

  "No one will mind if she bears a few more marks." His tone turned conversational as he reached into his pocket and withdrew a ring of keys.

  They jangled ominously as he sorted through them, searching for the one that would open her cage.

  "In fact, it might even be instructive. A little demonstration of what happens when demons forget their place."

  The implication of his words turned my blood to ice. I watched, horrified, as he moved toward the other demon's cage, keys jingling with each deliberate step.