The Red Hawk Valley Pavilion's main hall lingered in the City of Burning Souls, its crimson banners fading into shadow as the auction's fervor echoed. Lyra's cage had been dragged away, claimed by Lord Kairo's hundred thousand spirit stones, her defiant gaze a spark snuffed by the Iron Veil's chains. Zhen stood frozen in the crowd, their blade undrawn, the purple smoke's murmurs—gone… lost… burn the city…—fading beneath the crowd's roar. Yet the pavilion was a labyrinth of greed, its chambers stretching beyond the grand stage to hidden villas where the Iron Veil's darkest trades thrived. One such villa, tucked deep within the pavilion's heart, pulsed with a malice that made the air itself tremble.
A Villa filled with many Men who sat in a somewhat terrifying glee, their laughter sharp and jagged, slicing through the stifled cries below. The chamber was vast, its walls draped in black silk embroidered with runes that glowed faintly, as if drinking the despair of those chained within. Alcoves lined with velvet cradled these men—merchants with gem-encrusted rings, cultivators whose robes shimmered with spiritual energy, and mercenaries whose scarred hands twitched for violence. Above them on balconies were many others in attendance, leaning over railings carved with serpentine motifs that seemed to writhe in the flickering lanternlight. Cultivators in starlit silks whispered bets, while shadowed figures with glowing eyes watched with hunger, their presence a weight on the air.
A stage held rows of Captives chained together with Anti-magic Hardware. Collars and Talismans bound their movement, in extreme cases some were even left completely unconscious, bound and gagged or actively subdued during the process. The collars, forged of blackened silver, hummed with a sickly green light, their runes pulsing to stifle any spark of power. Iron chains linked wrists and ankles, etched with symbols that burned against the skin, ensuring no spell or strength could break them. Some captives slumped, their eyes vacant, faces bruised from beatings; others thrashed, only to be struck down by Iron Veil enforcers whose spears crackled with dark energy. The stage was a grim altar, each captive a sacrifice to the pavilion's endless greed.
One after another Captives, Beasts and Items were to be auctioned off, some murdered then and there by those seeking retribution, thrills or gains while others were spirited away in one way or another with their new owners. A beast with scales like shattered obsidian roared, only to be gutted by a bidder's blade, its blood pooling as the crowd cheered, some for vengeance, others for sport. A sorcerer, his robes tattered, was claimed by a cultivator who crushed his skull with a single blow, the act a ritual of dominance that drew gasps and applause. Artifacts—a sword that sang of lost empires, an orb that pulsed with trapped souls—changed hands, some vanishing through portals, others crated for distant worlds. The villa's air grew heavy, the scent of blood and incense a poison that fueled the crowd's fervor.
The Red Hawk Valley Pavilion was controlled by the family of certain Demigods. Despite it's location being on a backwater Planet, Nameth itself was abundant resources to be sent elsewhere by the exploitation of lesser beings. The demigod family's influence was a shadow over Nameth, their wealth built on the blood of its people and the plundered treasures of a thousand worlds. The planet, insignificant in the cosmic tapestry, was a vein of resources—crystals that held spiritual energy, ores that forged divine weapons—stripped and shipped to fuel their empire. The pavilion stood as their monument, a place where lives were weighed against coin, and the Iron Veil served as their enforcers, binding fates to their will.
When a God needed something done in the lower or lesser planes, some would create their own avatars. Those Gods wishing to spend their time under the illusion of good and evil spend much of their time summoning beings and souls from outside dimensions to do their bidding but that was not always the case. Either way, it was almost never the Gods themselves taking action, when it was, calamity usually followed, no matter the Plane. The gods' proxies—avatars woven from their essence or summoned souls—carried out their whims, sparing the deities the stain of mortal affairs. Those cloaked in righteousness spun tales of justice, but their hands were rarely clean, their bidding done by beings torn from distant realms. When gods descended, worlds trembled, their footsteps leaving scars across dimensions.
Most often in Reference, Children of the Gods referred to the ones that were summoned. Those chosen to fulfill a purpose at the God or Demigod's behest but in all instances, none of them were the Blood-kin or Avatars of the Gods themselves. These Children were tools, their souls bound to divine tasks, their lives a flicker in the gods' eternal gaze. The crowd below whispered of such beings, their voices low, as if speaking their names might draw divine attention.
In Myths, anyone or anything had the potential to become a God, except for Heroes. Worship, Faith, Influence, Personal Strength, Reverence are only strong words to show Power. With exception left only to legend, even the paths of the True Gods were full of blood, pain, anguish or woe. Ultimately, the 'Path to Power' is glazed by the Blood of those who surround it, poisoned by those that seek to end it and judged by those they pass alongside. The Path to Power was a road of sacrifice, its stones slick with betrayal, its air thick with the screams of the fallen. Gods rose through slaughter, their thrones built on the bones of allies and enemies alike, their names revered or cursed by those left behind.
Heroes become legend and eventually, as predictable the Suns rising, the Enemy to some. No Hero is Hero to all. Their glory was a fleeting flame, their names etched in light only to be cast in shadow by those who opposed them. The crowd's murmurs carried tales of such heroes, their fates a warning to those who dared dream of power.
In one of the top Balconies, a finely dressed Magician casually flaunted his wealth. Obviously the product of a failed 2nd generation he wore his struggle with pride and everyone present with the exception of the Auction Hall itself had reason to hate his existence. Interim Magistrate Arrand lounged in silks embroidered with gold, his rings gleaming with enchanted gems, his smirk a blade against the crowd's disdain. A second-generation failure, he bore his disgrace like a crown, his laughter sharp and mocking. The pavilion shielded him, its demigod rulers indifferent to the hatred simmering below, where cultivators and mercenaries alike despised his arrogance.
"Another Prize for you this evening." The Auction House had a team of servants drag a purchase to Interim Magistrate Arrand's room, the Collar prohibited his speech. Using the chain as a whip, the Child was thrown to the floor by his neck. The Servants stepped away immediately and fled. Running was their best chance at surviving another day. The boy, no older than ten, hit the stone floor with a thud, his collar—a blackened silver band etched with runes—choking his voice. The chain lashed out, striking his neck, and the servants vanished, their footsteps echoing in their haste to escape Arrand's wrath.
Arrand grabbed at the slave's face before the Child could stand. Dragged along in chains with a Collar around his neck, the boy no older than ten years old finally re-opening his eyes, the finely dressed Magician in front of him stretched his fingers and grabbed at his neck as if to measure his catch. He probed him with his senses and smiled. The boy's hair was matted with blood, his frame frail from captivity, yet his eyes burned with defiance, a fire unextinguished by pain. Arrand's cultivator senses felt the boy's latent strength, a grin spreading across his face. "The Auctioneer had said that you killed four men already. What an Omen. Fools, they have no idea what they had. Father always said it was going to be impossible for me to become an Immortal, So I killed him. With you, I have yet another piece of the Puzzle." His expression went from zero to one hundred in a mere second. "Wealth can get you almost anything.. hehe" Laughing hysterically, he measured the boy's strength once more as he attempted to struggle, his defiant eyes glimmered delicately.
Arrand's smile returned to a grin, he spoke in as deep a tone as his voice could muster before backhanding him so hard it felt like his jaw had snapped. "Oh. You think you have a choice or chance in this matter?" The blow sent the boy sprawling, pain flaring like a broken bone. The Child bit at Arrand rapidly but it got him another a firm backhand that seemed to knock him out. Having escaped so many times and killing several of his captors, the child was unwilling to go quietly. The Collar that was latched onto his neck locked again and tightened enough to choke the boy slightly before he was released. His teeth grazed Arrand's hand, drawing a thin line of blood, but the collar's runes flared, constricting until his breath came in gasps, his vision swimming.
Below, the Crowd gasped at one of the items for sale and the Young Master's attendant shook his head in disinterest, signalling that he didn't need to pay attention. The auction's din rose, a beast's roar mingling with the clink of chains, but Arrand's chamber was a world apart, its walls muffling the chaos below.
It was at that moment that the Boy closed his eyes once more, perhaps the last time in his mind and clasped his hands as if to pray. His fingers trembled, the collar's weight a constant reminder of his captivity. "Hmmph, the Gods do not have eyes here. Close your eyes and pray, Go ahead!" Arrand pressed his foot against the child's face and yanked at the chain attached to his neck, "They won't reach. I will rip out your secrets one by one and there's nothing anyone can do about it. Be consumed by fear, it is all you have to look forward to." Pulling a cage from his storage space, it spun in his hand. "We'll see how your God comes to save you.." The Mortal Imprisonment cage, its bars etched with runes that pulsed with dark energy, hovered before the boy, a prison forged for souls like his.
The Magician kicked in front of the Child with just enough force to break bones but not much more, he didn't want to kill him just yet. Transporting suspect goods was already troublesome but people were a harder subject altogether. The Mortal Imprisonment cage that he had saved appeared behind the Boy as he flew into it and laid on it's floor like a dead dog. The Jolt had been enough to force his eyes open in time to see the space around him begin to distort. The boy's chest burned, the kick's force radiating through his ribs, but he clung to consciousness, his eyes wide as the cage's runes flared, sealing him within.
What seemed like the world spinning took place. The space around the Child warped significantly and the Cage shrunk before flinging itself into Arrand's Storage Ring. The villa's chamber vanished, replaced by a void that pulsed with chaotic energy. Opening his eyes, the Child saw dozens of items flying within the void of the pocket dimension.
"Huh? I'm awake? I was just being beaten..what is this?" His chest still stung from being kicked but he was aware and conscious. Everything was shifting around strangely, corpses of many magicians laid scattered in the space along with a trove of items—swords that glowed with trapped spirits, scrolls that whispered of ancient wars, and orbs that pulsed like dying stars. The boy's breath caught, his collar still tight, its runes glowing faintly in the void's dim light. He was alone, yet the void felt alive, its currents tugging at his senses, as if the corpses and items held secrets of their own.
The boy's hands pressed against the cage's bars, the runes burning his skin, but he didn't flinch. His defiance, forged in blood and survival, flickered like a spark in the darkness.