And how far along is this process -

He digs up the location of the auction house, spies on it from across the city. They're just starting to set up for the next batch; it'll be a few minutes yet, and she'd have to be awfully unlucky to be first in line.

There's a part of him that wants to just walk in there and take her, but people do rely on him not doing that sort of thing too often. It's better for the stability of the empire if he buys her legally rather than confiscating her on a whim. And—at least until they put the slave-marks on her, there's a chance she might not realize who he is—he might get to see her smile one more time before it's all over—

He makes a portal to an alley near the auction house, takes a deep breath in an effort to regain some semblance of calm, and steps through. They're just about to start when he walks in; he takes a seat near the back of the room.

She's last in line. 'Pretty,' 'red haired,' and 'former-nobility' combine to make her something of an expensive novelty, which is perhaps part of the reason why she was buried under bullshit debts in the first place. A great deal of money could be made from her being sold. Not just from being sold, though that'll be plenty lucrative, but from being a prize that draws people to the auction house to look. Being last is very calculated. The riff raff that have no hope in hell of affording her either clear out or linger at the edges to see what she looks like, and the main seating area is left with some very rich customers.

Her expression, when they bring her out in manacles, is one of despairing and impotent fury. She does not actually need to be dragged to the stage, but when she gets there she venomously spits in the crowd's direction. This earns her a backhand from one of the guards, which invokes one hell of a glare, but not even a whimper of pain.

(Oh, her pride is going to be her undoing. Possibly it would be smarter to pretend meekness so she doesn't draw someone interested in breaking her, but she does not have the composure for it. She is livid, and shaking with anger, not fear.)

The guard in question experiences a moment of unexplained dizziness before Solekaran gets hold of his temper. It's been centuries since the last time he made someone drop dead on the spot just because they pissed him off, but apparently today is really bringing it out in him.

The guard stumbles, but not in a particularly overt fashion, and the moment of dizziness ends without incident.

A young, handsome looking man with a distasteful smirk is the opening bidder. He opens high, and looks at her with a predatory hunger, like he is finally about to get what he wants.

Esvetielle's eyes narrow at him, and she has just enough composure to bite back her snarl. But not the glare. That looks like recognition, not just general anger and disgust at her situation.

He manages not to call on Death even a little bit this time, but in the time he takes to remind himself not to do that, a voice he recognizes pipes up with a higher bid. It's that fellow who collects pretty redheads.

He really does not want Esvetielle going to a collection of pretty redheads.

He doubles the collector's bid. Heads turn in his direction all over the room. Some of them will certainly recognize him, but not all; he does a pretty good job of keeping his face less well-known than it could be.

One person who hasn't yet bidded recognizes him, laughs a quiet little laugh, and sits back in his chair, satisfied. Another recognizes him, staring at him with widened eyes, then quietly leaves her seat to slip out of the room.

Esvetielle straightens, blinking. Her eyes search the room, and fall upon Sekar. Her expression changes from fury to something resembling shame, or perhaps dismay - she would really rather he not see her like this.

The opening bidder is not one of the people that recognized their Emperor, and he raises Sekar's bid by a large sum. He even has the audacity to glare at him.

He doesn't look at anyone but Esvetielle.

He doubles that one too. (Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the collector slump in defeat.)

This is not actually enough to make the handsome man back off. He raises the sum again.

Esvetielle is looking at him with - something resembling hope, mixed with a healthy dose of 'why are you doing this you crazy person.'

He gives her a slight, wry headtilt, as though to say 'didn't I tell you I could buy you a restaurant?', and doubles the handsome man's bid again. They are definitely in restaurant territory now.

I didn't think you'd actually do it! she mouths, appalled. And - distinctly not appalled, she sort of wants to fling herself at him in order to cry. This does not earn her another backhand, perhaps fortunately for the guard.

There's a pause, and for a second it seems like Solekaran has won with his absurd, restaurant territory sum -

- then another bidder that has yet to make a single bid leans over and murmurs something to the handsome man. He considers, then nods, grimly. And raises again, by a significant sum.

He sighs slightly.

He doubles on them again, in an I-can-do-this-all-day tone of voice.

No one raises that. Maybe someone somewhere could, conceivably, but clearly none of them are in this room and willing to fork it over for a single slave. The handsome man claws at his hair, like he could somehow mythically come up with the money necessary if he thought hard enough. This does not, actually, turn up any money.

Esvetielle is looking at him with something almost resembling relief, except -

- that is a truly outrageous sum that no one could sensibly afford. How the fuck-?

Then realization dawns, and she just - stares. One person could afford that. One.

...yeah, she's caught him. Well. It was nice while it lasted.

The auctioneer waits for further bids, and when, predictably, none are forthcoming, declares in his favour. He stands up and comes to the front of the room where the scribe waits with the enchanted brush to mark her as his property.

"Ah - pardon me, sir, but whose mark do I draw—?"

"Imperial," he says, not particularly caring who overhears.

"Wait, what -" hisses the handsome man. "- Her? She'll be dead in a week you're wasting -"

Someone smarter clamps a hand over the idiot's mouth and begins attempting to drag him away before the Emperor kills him.

Esvetielle doesn't even flinch, at either the confirmation or the yelling. Instead she continues to give Solekaran an almost shell-shocked stare. She limply allows herself to be led and for her arms to be arranged for the scribe, not paying any attention to much of anything else.

The scribe paints the Imperial sun on the inside of each wrist. The Emperor... has a hard time looking at his new purchase.

He at least manages not to do anything petty to the handsome idiot.

When the ink has settled under her skin, he makes an idle gesture and all her chains open up and fall away. Then - he moves like he's going to reach for her hand, hesitates, and just beckons instead.

She doesn't actually register this motion, or if she does, she does not translate it to an order.

"Esvetielle," he says softly.

That does it. She blinks, looks away, and quietly trails after him.

He leads her out of the room, and as soon as they're in a hallway with no one else present he opens a portal to his sitting room.

It's - just about as decadent as you'd expect from the Emperor, although considerably less blatantly evil. Optimized for beauty and comfort, without so much as a single instrument of torture in sight. Walls and floor and ceiling all of a piece, because the Emperor built this place himself by magic. An architect indeed.

She doesn't look around, because she's staring at him again. But she does actually go through the portal, so that's... an improvement?

He sits down heavily on a big comfortable couch and puts his face in his hands. (The portal fades away behind her.)

"I don't understand."

—he glances up at her.

"I- wh-" Nope, words are not coming, start over and try again. Standing is slightly more difficult than sitting, so she does that second thing in - a chair. Any chair. Closest one, that seems easiest.

"I don't understand," she repeats, a little plaintively, because that seems to be the only thought that is forming itself into a coherent concept.

"Sometimes I like to go out and - not be the Emperor, for a little while. It's nice to talk to people who aren't terrified of me."