“Sign here,” the curator says, her long finger nail jabbing into the bottom of the parchment so hard that Raelyantha expects that she would see an indent in the wooden desk underneath it if she were to lift it.

Raelyantha lifts her hand to grab the quill, the cold manacles biting into her wrist as she carefully scrawls her name across the contract, remembering all the times someone from the Consortium had helped her write her name. She can’t read the contract herself, but by this point it’s been read to her so many times that it does not matter if she can make out the words on the page. She knows it by heart.

She takes a breath as she lifts her hand from the page and waits. She does not feel any different. She was told the contract is made with arcanum, but she can’t feel any of the currents of arcanum even as she seals her own fate for the second time.

Or maybe that is the effect of the contract, maybe she can’t feel arcanum at all anymore, or at least not without permission of the arcanist that will buy her.

“Excellent.” The curator puts her own signature on the parchment and rolls it up, opening her desk drawer and drawing out a cylindrical scroll case and placing the contract inside. “Your share of the proceeds of your sale will be kept in a protected account here. We shall ensure you get all interest payments on it and if you should ever need to withdraw from it, you merely need to let us know. Your new owner has no claim to this money, and cannot authorize any withdrawals on your behalf. The money shall be yours and yours alone, to do with as you please. Even to buy your freedom back if your future owner is amenable to such a sale.”

Raelyantha had heard this all before. She had heard it a thousand times since a collector found her at a run-down healer’s hospice on the verge of death. He took one look at her, touched her wrist, and gasped. “If you no longer wish to live for yourself, why don’t you live for someone else?” He had said to her. And soon she was being attended to by a dozen of the best healers in the kingdom, safely ensconced in the sterile walls of a Consortium containment cell.

She was valuable, she had been told. A Conduit. A being capable of both channeling arcanum and wielding it—a rarity in and of itself, but further, she was adept at channeling and wielding cellaestrum, the arcanum of the stars. in general but more specifically, she could channel cellaestum.

But wielding it herself was how she almost died. And if she sold herself into channeling, at least she would have a roof over her head and food on her plate and protection from the side effects of cellaestum.

At least, that’s what the collector had told her. She hardly understood the difference between channeling and wielding, let alone the difference between a conduit and an arcanist.

But now the curator repeats his words, explaining again how rare she is and how any arcanist would sell everything for the chance to own her. “Whatever arcanist purchases you will be responsible for your care and keeping. Food, water, shelter, clothing, and health care. We screen our buyers very carefully.”

Raelyantha has heard this before, and from the rote way the curator speaks, she knows the curator has said this at least a thousand times before, too. “We do not sell to arcanists who abuse their channelers. Our contracts are very strict. You are allowed to break any order if you genuinely believe your safety or wellbeing will be at risk. If they punish you for doing so, you have the right to report their behavior to us and a panel of judges will review the case and negate any contracts if we find maltreatment.”

Bed. Roof. Food. Water. Health care. That’s what Raelyantha cares about. That’s all she cares about. She doesn’t care about the kinds of magic, the kinds of arcanists, the kinds of spells and powers. She had been told she would fetch a high price as conduits for cellaestum were the rarest, far more rare than terranum, firarrum, aquanum, squallum, lectrum, sangium, or any other types of arcanum. She can harvest and use the arcanum of the heavenly bodies, even if it breaks her own body.

That made her special, she has been told a dozen times since allowing the collector to bring her to the headquarters of the Gilded Enchantum Consortium. Buyers, collectors, curators, and sellers of all things arcane; they would know special when they saw it.

But she does not feel special. She feels cursed.

The curator motions for her to rise and follow her out of the office. The auction is starting, and she cannot be late.

She tries not to fidget behind the crimson velvet curtain as items are presented, bid on, and carried away again, but the manacles and chains around her limbs and waist are cold, and a thin white robe is her only protection. It’s silk; a fabric so fine she’s never owned it before. But it will likely be the last time she will ever wear something so soft. The collector that found her was luckily for the Consortium, but there are other companies that buy and sell arcane items and beings, ones that sell not to arcanists but dabblers and admirers. These non-arcanum users like pets and toys. Those who find their way into the hands of these dabblers might be outfitted in silk and satin like the concubines and pleasure companions of the jewel houses, but their treatment at the hands of their owners is not always kind.

But she will be going home with an arcanist today. While arcanists might be wealthy, they are also known for the frugality in all manner of things except the arcane. She will be some lucky arcanists major expense of the year, possibly the largest purchase of their lifetime. They would not see the point in draping her in silk or cashmere. Not when they themselves were perfectly content with wool.

The lectrum powered lamps were brighter than those lit with gas or wax. The Consortium must have had dozens of arcanists in their employ, she wonders what they pay for the task of illuminating the auction stage.

Another curator shoves past her, an elegant bird wrapped in a white cloth in his hands, a bird making quite the ruckus while struggling. It briefly breaks free, falling to the floor with a shrill cry. It flaps its wings uselessly, the feathers clipped or broken. It won’t fly again unless the arcanist who buys it wishes for it to. The curator gathers it again into her arms and pushes past the curtain.

The auctioneer can be heard back stage calling for silence as the noble phoenix makes its appearance. He starts calling out numbers. Numbers that are beyond Raelyantha’s comprehension. “Seven thousand gold to bidder 672! Sold!”

“Will I be worth that much?” she can’t help but whisper to her curator.

“Oh, no. No my dear, you are worth far more than that.” The curator takes another look at her up and down before pulling her hair forward to hide her ears. “Your heritage is spelled out on the information sheet, but we don’t need to flaunt it. Not if we want to get millions in gold.”

If I am worth more than that, why have I lived so much of my life in pain and on the streets? She’s not worth keeping alive for her own sake, only for what she can do for someone wealthier and more powerful. She wonders how much of the disregard people have for her is because her mother was from the Sylln Forest. She hopes her long ears are fully hidden in her hair.

And then she is being dragged on stage, the lights blinding her. She bites her lip so hard it bleeds, and her mind briefly flashes with memories of her time at the healers hospice after she nearly ended her own life—something she still cannot figure out if she intended to do or not.

Unlike the phoenix, the auctioneer does not need to call for silence as the spotlight shines follows Raelyantha to the center of the stage. She tries to look out into the sea of bidders in their crushed velvet seats but the stage illumination is too bright and all she can make out are shadows.

“And now the item you’ve all been patiently waiting for.” But he doesn’t need to say it. She can tell. Even with arcanum closed off to her, she can tell that all the arcanists know what she is immediately. Cellaestum Conduit; capable of harnessing the stars.

“We will start the bidding at four millions gold.”

She manages to keep her composure as the number is stated. Half of that amount will be hers for if she ever needs it. Should the arcanist that purchases her die, she would have enough gold to live more than comfortably for the remainder of her days. She will never, ever be on the streets again, writing in pain because she cannot afford her medications. She will never spend another night under a bridge, hiding from a thunder storm. She will never be cold again. She doesn’t believe it, though. No one in here could have that much gold. It’s enough to live on for years, enough to live on for centuries. Who has that much gold that they can just spend it all at once?

There are murmurs in the crowd and then a throaty and gravely voice calls out, “Four million.”

And then chaos erupts as the auctioneer calls out larger numbers and arcanists shout their response.

“That was twelve million from bidder 2187, do I hear twelve point two five? Anyone with twelve point two five?”

The crowd is silent. The auctioneer waits a few seconds more before crying out, “Sold! Bidder 2187, we will meet in Office 34a to go over the details and you will then be able to collect your new items. Thank you, everyone, for joining us today at the Gilded Enchantum Consortium. We are proud to supply the arcanists of the world with the finest magical and arcane items.”

She was pulled again at the elbow, her curator smiling at her. “You did well. Your buyer is a bit eccentric, but I doubt you will have any issues with her.”

Raelyantha lets out a breath. Six million gold. Even if something happens and the arcanist no longer owns her, she will never be hungry and in pain again.