THE AUCTION CONTINUES...
Aether’s gaze did not move.
Not for the spectacle. Not for the crowd. Not even for the sudden cheer of rising bids and wealth drunk on its own echo.
His focus remained fixed on the warrior inside the cage. Helmet still intact. Bruised body. But proud still. Alive still. And still
Mandalorian.
Only when the Zeltron leaned closer did the Mand’alor finally stir. The subtle shift of his helm turned just enough to acknowledge her presence. She was perfume and practiced charm, silk, sugar, and loose clothing all wrapped around veiled threat. The sort of woman who thrived in rooms like this.
He did not recoil. But he did not indulge either.
“What do you, or your superiors, want in exchange for his immediate release?” His voice was a blade drawn slow.
“Speak plainly.”
He didn’t play games. Not here. Not with blood on the line.
Then came the kick. Metal met metal. The cage rattled.
Aether’s head snapped back toward the source, and his hand twitched at his side. Fingers curled into a tight fist. Every nerve screamed to act. To draw. To remind Arcadian that there were lines even the damned did not cross.
And yet he held. Barely. The next moment, fate intervened.
“Aeth.”
A voice from memory. A thread pulled from a childhood long gone. He felt her arm slip into his like a breeze slipping through a half-open door. Familiar. Grounding.
Quinnie.
The tension in his shoulders lessened, if only by a hair. He didn’t need to look to know who it was. The scent, the tone, the audacity to call him that name in the middle of all this...there was only one person who ever got away with it.
“I’m alright,” he answered, quiet but even.
“Just… unamused.”
He tilted his head, finally turning to meet her gaze for a breath, then gestured subtly toward the cage.
“That’s one of ours,” he said simply.
Then he looked back toward the host’s platform, voice rising with command. Not desperation, not plea. A sovereign’s will given shape.
“I'll raise my bid to Seventy thousand credits,” he said flatly.
“For a condition.”
A pause.
“You will not touch him again.”
He didn’t care if it ruined the show. He didn’t care if it soured the crowd. A stack of credits hung in the balance, and all it cost was a modicum of restraint.
“Show a touch more regard,” he continued, words cold as forged iron.
“And I’ll show you how much it's worth to me.”
