The Auction of Pureblood

Blood hit my senses before I even saw the room.

Old blood.

Fresh blood.

Fear soaked into stone that had witnessed centuries of cruelty.

I stood high above the auction hall, hidden in the shadows of the obsidian balcony, watching the scene below.

My sister, Elara Nocturne, was chained to a black iron altar.

Her wrists were bound with silver-thread restraints.

Her gown was torn open.

And beneath the crimson glow of the blood lamps—

Her swollen belly was unmistakable.

A pregnant vampire.

Something that should not exist.

Every instinct in me screamed to tear the hall apart.

Not yet.

“Ten million,” a voice purred lazily.

“For confirmation of blood paternity.”

“Fifteen,” another followed.

“Nocturne blood hasn’t flowed pure in centuries.”

They weren’t bidding for a child.

They were bidding for succession.

For proof of who held the right to claim the last living bloodline of a pureblood vampire house.

My house.

Elara’s voice cracked through the murmurs.

“Raven… please…”

My fingers curled into the stone railing until cracks spread beneath my grip.

Cole Ashford stood closest to the altar.

Once promised to my sister.

Once welcomed into our bloodline.

Now he held Morgana Whitlock against him, her smile sharp and triumphant.

“That thing in her womb is a gamble,” Cole said coldly.

“She was drained and delirious during the Blood Moon. Half the covens could have marked her.”

Morgana laughed softly.

“She probably doesn’t even remember whose blood she drank.”

Laughter rippled through the hall.

Elara collapsed to her knees, chains rattling violently.

I will burn this place.

The thought was calm.

Ancient.

Certain.

“Prepare the blood test,” Mara Vex announced, lifting a crystal syringe filled with glowing crimson essence.

“Let’s see whose lineage survives.”

Coins of obsidian slammed onto tables.

Ancient sigils flared.

They were turning my sister’s womb into a spectacle.

I stepped forward—

And the air changed.

Every vampire felt it.

A pressure older than fear.

Damon Valerius entered the hall.

Executioner of the Crimson Council.

One of the oldest vampires still walking.

For one foolish second, I thought he would stop it.

Instead, he spoke.

“Open the Night Veil,” Damon said.

“Broadcast this to every court.”

The hall erupted.

The Night Veil—the forbidden blood-network where immortals paid to watch disgrace and death.

They weren’t just auctioning Elara anymore.

They were about to expose her shame to all vampire kind.

Elara lifted her head.

Her eyes found mine.

Hope she didn’t dare voice.

I smiled.

Not at her.

At them.

Because behind me, Kieran Bloodworth and the Blood Guard were already moving.

And in my sleeve, my fingers closed around the sigil that would sever every arcane signal in this cursed hall.

“Begin the countdown,” someone hissed eagerly.

Blood crystals ignited.

Ten.

Morgana adjusted her hair, deliberately baring her throat for the viewing spells.

Nine.

Cole straightened, savoring his moment.

Eight.

Elara closed her eyes.

Seven.

My thumb pressed down.

They wanted a blood spectacle.

I was about to give them a reckoning.