Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~8 min read
The iron collar was too tight.
Ember Quinn stood on the auction block with her chin raised and her hands clenched into fists, refusing to give the fae the satisfaction of seeing her tremble. Even if her knees threatened to buckle. Even if every survival instinct screamed at her to run.
There was nowhere to run. Not here. Not in the space between realms where the fae markets existed—a shimmering twilight world that smelled of smoke and honeysuckle and something else. Something wrong.
Magic. It tasted like copper on her tongue.
“Lot seventeen!” The auctioneer’s voice boomed across the crowd, and Ember’s stomach twisted. Seventeen. Like she was livestock. Like she was nothing.
She scanned the sea of faces below the platform. Beautiful, terrible faces. The fae didn’t look human—not quite. They were too perfect, too angular, too other. Their eyes gleamed with colors that didn’t exist in nature: violet, gold, silver that swirled like mercury.
And every single one of them was looking at her like she was prey.
“Twenty-two years old, educated, literate in four languages.” The auctioneer circled her slowly, and Ember forced herself not to flinch. “Excellent condition. Daughter of a royal scholar, so she’s got brains.” He chuckled, a sound like grinding glass. “Bit of fire in her too, if you like the ones who fight.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Ember bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood.
Don’t react. Don’t give them anything.
She’d learned that much in the three days since the collectors dragged her from her father’s empty house. Since she’d discovered the debts he’d racked up, the kingdom’s coffers he’d gambled away before disappearing like the coward he was.
Leaving her to pay the price.
“Bidding starts at fifty gold marks.”
Ember’s heart hammered as hands began to rise. Fifty. Seventy. One hundred. The numbers climbed while she stood frozen, watching her freedom be sold to the highest bidder.
A female fae with frost-white hair and icicles woven into her gown raised a languid hand. “Two hundred.”
Winter Court. Ember had read enough legends to recognize the court affiliations. Winter fae were cold, cruel, and they liked to watch mortals freeze slowly.
Please, no. Not Winter.
“Two fifty.” A male voice, smooth as poisoned honey. Spring Court, judging by the flowers that seemed to grow from his very skin.
The bidding continued. Three hundred. Four hundred. Ember’s vision swam. She’d known she’d be sold—there was no other way to settle her father’s debts. But knowing and experiencing were two very different things.
“Any further bids?” The auctioneer’s eyes gleamed with greed. “Going once—”
“One thousand gold marks.”
The voice cut through the crowd like a blade.
Silence fell. Absolute, suffocating silence.
Ember’s gaze snapped to the source of the voice, and her blood turned to ice.
He stood at the back of the crowd, but the other fae parted around him like he was made of poison. Tall—impossibly tall—with golden-bronze skin that seemed to glow from within. Black hair with undertones of red, like embers barely contained. And his eyes…
His eyes were fire. Actual flames dancing in amber depths.
No.
She knew who he was. Everyone in every realm knew who he was.
Prince Blaze Emberclaw. Heir to the Fire Court throne.
Whispers erupted around the market, fae leaning toward each other with expressions ranging from shock to savage delight.
“The Ember Prince himself—”
“—haven’t seen him at a market in years—”
“—last mortal he bought lasted three days before—”
“—heard he likes to hear them scream—”
Ember couldn’t breathe. Her lungs had forgotten how.
The auctioneer’s smile was razor-sharp. “One thousand gold marks from His Highness Prince Blaze Emberclaw of the Fire Court! Any counter offers?” His tone made it clear there wouldn’t be. No one was stupid enough to bid against the Fire Prince.
No one was cruel enough to want to, either. Because outbidding him would only save her from a worse fate.
Silence stretched. The Spring Court fae who’d been bidding actually took a step backward, hands raised in surrender.
“Sold!” The auctioneer’s gavel cracked like a death knell. “Lot seventeen to Prince Blaze Emberclaw!”
No. No, no, no—
Ember’s body moved without permission, stumbling backward on the platform. But there was nowhere to go. Guards materialized behind her—fae guards with flame dancing along their armor.
Fire Court soldiers. His soldiers.
“Please.” The word escaped before she could stop it, and she hated herself for it. Hated the fear in her voice. But this was him. The prince who was infamous even among the fae for his cruelty. The one they whispered about in the mortal realm, the monster parents invoked to scare children into obedience.
Be good, or the Ember Prince will come for you.
And now he had.
The crowd parted as he moved forward, and Ember finally understood what the legends meant when they said the fae moved like predators. He didn’t walk—he stalked. Each step deliberate, controlled, radiating a heat she could feel even from twenty feet away.
When he reached the platform, he didn’t climb the steps. He simply looked at her.
Up close, he was even more terrifying. Beautiful in the way a wildfire was beautiful—mesmerizing and deadly. Sharp features that could’ve been carved from obsidian. A mouth that had probably never smiled with kindness.
And those eyes. Gods, those eyes.
They swept over her once, assessing, and Ember felt pinned in place. Examined. Catalogued.
Found wanting? Or found… interesting?
She couldn’t tell. His expression revealed nothing.
“Bring her.” His voice was low, edged with something that might’ve been boredom. Like she wasn’t worth his full attention.
The guards grabbed her arms, and Ember’s defiance finally kicked back in. She jerked against their grip. “Let go of me!”
It was pointless. They were fae, strong as iron, and they hauled her off the platform like she weighed nothing.
Chains materialized in one guard’s hand—black metal that glowed with runes she didn’t recognize. They locked them around her wrists with efficient brutality.
“Is this necessary?” Ember bit out, even though her voice shook. “I’m not going to run.” Where would she even go?
Prince Blaze tilted his head slightly, studying her the way someone might study an insect. “No,” he agreed. “You’re not.”
It wasn’t a comfort. It was a certainty. A promise that she belonged to him now, and nothing she did would change that.
He turned and began walking, and the guards dragged her after him.
Ember tried to keep her footing, tried to maintain some dignity as they pulled her through the market. But the other fae watched with expressions ranging from pity to amusement, and she knew what they were thinking.
Poor mortal. The Ember Prince will break her.
She’d heard the stories. Everyone had. Mortals who entered the Fire Court didn’t last long. They said Prince Blaze enjoyed watching them burn. That he kept them in cages and used them for entertainment. That he was the cruelest of all the court princes, which was saying something.
They said a lot of things.
And Ember, who’d spent her life reading legends and fairy tales, knew that fae couldn’t lie.
Which meant the stories were true.
Her death sentence had just been purchased for one thousand gold marks.
The guards shoved her through a shimmering portal that tasted like ash and cinnamon, and Ember’s last thought before the world dissolved into flame was that she should’ve run anyway.
At least then she would’ve died on her own terms.
The Fire Court palace materialized around her in a rush of heat and sulfur.
Ember gasped, stumbling as the guards released her just long enough to let her catch her balance. The chains on her wrists burned—not physically, but magically. She could feel them humming against her skin, binding her in place.
She forced herself to look up.
The throne room was carved from black volcanic glass, veined with rivers of actual lava that flowed through channels in the floor and walls. The heat was suffocating. Oppressive. It pressed against her skin like a living thing, and sweat immediately beaded on her forehead.
Fire Court fae lined the room, beautiful and terrible in equal measure. They watched her with hungry eyes.
And at the center of it all, Prince Blaze Emberclaw stood before an obsidian throne, backlit by a waterfall of flame.
He’d removed his cloak. Now she could see the sharp lines of his body, the way fire seemed to dance just beneath his skin. He radiated power and heat and something else—something that made her hindbrain scream danger.
He looked at her, and the room fell silent.
“Welcome,” he said softly, “to the Fire Court.”
His smile was a blade. “I hope you survive longer than the last one.”
The court erupted into laughter, vicious and delighted, and Ember’s knees finally gave out.
The guards caught her before she hit the ground.
And Prince Blaze Emberclaw, the most feared fae in all the courts, turned away from her like she’d already stopped being interesting.
Like she was already dead.
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