The auction hall smells of candle wax and old money. Velvet curtains muffle the murmur of wealthy bidders, their paddles resting loosely in gloved hands. Then Lot Seventeen is announced — and the room goes still. She walks out herself. No escort needed. Silver hair braided tight, chin level, eyes fixed on some middle distance that belongs only to her. The auctioneer reads from a ledger: elven, trained, well-kept. Part of a late gentleman's estate. She has been through this before. She knows exactly what this room is. You raise your paddle — and for just a moment, her eyes find yours.