Nero's POV
Okay. So, recapping: I was dead.
Pretty sure. Got hit by a car, saved a cat, and bled out on the sidewalk. Big finale. Fade to black. Roll credits. The end.
Except… apparently not.
Because now I'm in a goddamn cage.
And that's not even the weirdest part.
My head is pounding. Everything's hazy like I'm waking up from anesthesia. There's a smell—smoky, metallic, sharp. The air's thick and way too warm. My skin feels wrong. Like it's too tight in places. Like it's not my skin at all.
I try to move, but the chains rattle when I shift. Actual chains. Around my ankles. Light ones, but still. Cold against bare skin. I blink hard, trying to focus, and finally get a look at myself—silver hair, pale arms, too slim, too clean, too not-me. My hands tremble as I touch my face. High cheekbones. Smooth skin. Definitely not mine.
What the hell happened?
Where the hell am I?
Before I can make sense of anything, a curtain parts just ahead of the cage, and blinding torchlight pours in. Voices rise immediately—dozens of them. Men, mostly. Loud, barking, curious. Footsteps echo across stone, boots dragging along iron platforms.
"Lot Forty-Seven," someone announces. A smooth voice. Confident. Like a goddamn game show host. "Unmarked omega. Virgin heat cycle. Starting bid—twelve pyra."
Omega? Virgin what?
I blink rapidly, trying to sit up. My back aches. Everything's stiff. But now I can see beyond the bars—see the crowd gathering. They're standing around some kind of stone-floored auction hall, semicircle rows that rise up around the platform I'm sitting on. The whole place is carved like a goddamn medieval amphitheater, but lit with glowing crystals that pulse along the walls, shifting from pale gold to soft violet.
And all of them—every single one of them—is looking at me.
Some are in long coats or embroidered cloaks, others in armor with crests I don't recognize. None of it's modern. No phones, no tech. Just parchment, ledgers, coins that glint like they're worth way too much. A man near the front is casually flipping a dagger in one hand while whispering to someone beside him.
I grab the bars and force myself to stand, even though my knees shake.
"What the actual hell is going on?" I whisper.
The announcer keeps talking. "Nael Solen, age nineteen, of the Hollowblood line, confirmed unmated. No known pack allegiance, but marked as cursed-borne. A rare find, gentlemen."
That name stops me cold.
Nael? Who the hell is Nael?
That's not me. I'm not nineteen. I'm not some fantasy-world orphan with a cursed bloodline. I'm Nero. Twenty-five. Clerk at a discount store. Trash-tier apartment, dead mom, alcoholic dad, no social life. I've never been in heat, thank you very much.
More voices rise.
"Fourteen pyra."
"Sixteen from the obsidian table."
"Seventeen. Crescent Guild offers seventeen."
What the hell is a pyra? What is happening right now?
I start looking around, trying to find a way out. Maybe there's a back latch. A weak hinge. I could break the lock with enough force—if I had force, which I don't. My arms feel like noodles and my brain's still playing catch-up.
"Twenty-one pyra," a deep voice says from somewhere in the shadows.
Everything goes silent.
I turn, trying to see who spoke. And then he steps forward.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a long black coat embroidered with red sigils that glow faintly in the torchlight. Hair was dark as ink. Eyes cold enough to freeze fire. He looks like he owns the room without even trying.
Someone beside him murmurs something, but he doesn't react. Just lifts a single coin and flicks it toward the announcer. It lands with a sharp clang.
"Sold," the announcer says, the voice suddenly reverent. "To His Grace, Alpha Lucius Daren of Umbra Bastion."
Alpha?
Sold?
No no no no no.
The lock on my cage clicks open and I immediately back up. But a guard—huge, no neck, all grimace—reaches in and grabs my arm, hauling me forward like I weigh nothing. My feet barely touch the ground as I'm dragged across the platform and shoved toward the front.
Lucius stares down at me with the same expression you'd use to examine an expensive horse. Not cruel. Just clinical. Distant. Like I'm a problem he just bought and now has to figure out how to store.
He leans forward slightly.
"Stand up. Omega."
That word again.
Omega.
I yank my arm back and glare at him. "The fuck you on?"
He doesn't blink.
"Oh, I get it," I continue, trying to laugh even though my throat's dry as sand. "This is a show, right? A prank? Some underground escape room shit? Cameras hidden somewhere? You're all actors?"
Silence.
The announcer shifts awkwardly. The guards don't move. Lucius just keeps looking at me, unreadable.
"This is the worst prank I've ever seen," I mutter. "You guys really went all out with the costumes. What's next, dragons? Magic swords? Forced mating rituals?"
Lucius lifts an eyebrow. "Do you always speak this much nonsense?"
"Only when I get kidnapped, chained in a dog crate, and sold like a piece of meat."
He hums. "You'll learn your place soon enough."
"I already know my place," I snap. "And it sure as hell isn't in your fantasy slave market."
The guards tense. One starts forward like he's about to strike me.
Lucius holds up a hand.
His voice is calm, but sharp as a blade. "He comes with me. Now."
They hand me over like a sack of flour. One of them clasps a glowing chain around my wrist, tethering it to something at Lucius's hip. Magic, maybe. I don't know. I don't care. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I died and woke up in someone else's body in a place where people buy strangers with glowing coins and call them omegas like it means something.
Lucius doesn't speak again as we start walking.
But I do.
I tug on the chain. "Hey. I'm serious. Let me go. I don't care what kind of freaky roleplay this is, I'm not part of it."
He glances at me once. Brief. Cool. Like I'm a puzzle he doesn't quite believe is real yet.
And then he says—
"You are Nael. You belong to me now."
Lucius's guards march me across the platform, down a narrow corridor lined with braziers that spit blue‑white fire. Outside, a sleek black carriage waits—steel‑rimmed wheels, onyx panels etched with the same blood‑red sigils I saw on Lucius's coat. One guard slams the cage door behind us; another shoves me up the folding steps.
Inside: plush midnight‑blue seats, curtained windows, a faint scent of cedar and iron. Lucius sits opposite me, legs crossed, one elbow on the armrest like this is a routine business trip and not the kidnapping of a human being—well, omega—he just bought at auction.
I yank the glowing chain between us. "Okay, mob boss—start talking. Where am I? Who are you? Was that seriously a human auction? You just bought me like a freaking goat!"
He exhales through his nose, gaze sliding to the window. "Nael, I don't know what nonsense you've decided to spout tonight. Has the curse finally scrambled your wits? What kind of omega speaks to an alpha this way? Be grateful the bonding rite is a full year off."
"Dude, what? I am not Nael. Name's Nero—Nero Reyes. I stock discount shampoo and dented cereal boxes for a living. I can't run drugs. I'm not strong enough to haul bricks. I'm literally useless for whatever criminal empire you've got going. Just let me go and I won't even call the police—swear on my mom's grave."
Lucius studies me a long moment, glacier eyes scanning every twitch of my face as though trying to read a strange language. Whatever he sees only deepens the tiny frown between his brows. Then he leans back, closes his eyes, and says nothing.
"Hello? Earth to tall, dark, and terrifying? You kidnapped the wrong guy!"
The carriage rattles over cobblestones, lanterns flickering past the windows. Outside, I catch flashes of a walled city—tapered spires, crescent banners fluttering above battlements, guards in wolf‑crested armor saluting as we pass. No cars. No streetlights. Just torches and glimmer‑crystal lamps. Definitely not anywhere I know on Earth.
My pulse spikes. "Okay, cool. Parallel universe. Great. Fantastic."
At last the carriage lurches to a halt before a towering gate of black iron. Sigils flare crimson; the gates groan open. Lucius steps out first. He doesn't spare me a glance when he orders, "Take him to the east wing. Silver restraints only. No visitors."
A guard yanks the tether. "Move, omega."
I plant my feet. "Let me go! Lucius—hey! You can't just buy people!"
He doesn't turn. His cloak flares behind him like a dark wing as he strides toward the fortress doors—smooth obsidian stone veined with dull‑red ore, high above any reach of mine. The guard drags me onto the gravel path. I stumble, shouting after him:
"Lucius! This is illegal! I don't belong here! I'm not Nael!"
My words ricochet off the stone walls, useless. The last thing I see before the guard shoves me through a side entrance is Lucius's silhouette disappearing into torchlit shadows—an alpha who thinks I'm someone else, in a world where curses and auctions are real.
And nobody's waking me up.