Two deep cuts marred her otherwise fair skin, bleeding profusely and staining her neck crimson. Crystalline tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision as they mingled with her blood. Despair consumed her.

Facing General Trent Xavier, her helplessness and hopelessness intensified. Above all, hate swelled within her. She loathed having run into that fire, lured by a cry for help. She might have saved one life, but the resulting injuries had inflicted ten years of torment, ten years of unrelenting pain. The burns had made her the laughingstock of the school; former friends shunned her, classmates treated her like a plague, and even her family—her parents—rejected her, deeming her worthless.

When her scars finally healed, she’d believed those ten years of suffering were worthwhile. But now, despair had returned.

"Please, General Xavier," she pleaded. "This has nothing to do with us. It's all Thea's fault!"

"Yeah! It's all her fault! Torture her, but let us go!"

Thea watched Trent's impassive face as the Callahans condemned her, sacrificing her to save themselves. Despair deepened.

"Not talking, are you?" Trent asked, his expression hardening. He gestured, and two men approached.

"Sir."

"Take her to the auction hall. I want everyone in Cansington to know what happens when they cross my family. We'll deal with Alex Yates after the Callahans."

"Yes, sir."

The men untied Thea, then dragged her by the hair, her thin dress tearing against the rough ground. Her skin was raw, the friction agonizingly painful, each scrape re-opening her wounds. Her pleas for mercy were ignored, her screams lost in the callous disregard.

Upstairs at the Cansington Hotel, the auction continued. The items, though worthless, commanded exorbitant starting bids—ten times their actual value. The attendees, Cansington's elite, immediately understood the situation. Alex Yates had bankrupted the Xaviers, but Trent had returned to rebuild his family's fortune.

They had no choice but to bid. Trent's power as General of the western border was absolute; defying him was unthinkable. So they bid, knowing the items were fakes and forgeries, fearing Trent's retribution for non-participation.

Another item appeared: Moonlit Flowers of Cliffside's Edge.

The auctioneer began. "The next item is Moonlit Flowers of Cliffside's Edge. The starting bid is eight million; increments must be at least half a million."

The painting's reappearance revealed its forgery. The Xaviers were using it to destroy the Callahans. Rumors circulated that Thea had called Alex Yates, revealing Joel Xavier's treachery, leading to the Xaviers' bankruptcy. The true painting was worth 1.8 billion dollars; this was a blatant scam.

"The Frasiers bid ten million!" "The Zimmermans bid eleven million!" "The Wilsons bid twelve million!"

Despite knowing it was fake, wealthy families bid aggressively, seeking favor with Trent. The forged painting eventually sold for twenty-one million dollars.

As the crowd awaited the next item, two armed men dragged a woman onto the stage—Thea. Her hair was disheveled, her face bloodied, one heel missing, and her knees raw. Blood flowed freely from her wounds.

A collective gasp swept the room.

Positioned to face the crowd, Thea cried out, "Help… help me…"

Hope flickered, but the armed men and the attendees' fear paralyzed them; nobody dared intervene.

Trent strode onto the stage, dagger in hand. He seized Thea's hair, forcing her face towards the audience. "The Xaviers rule Cansington. Anyone who opposes us dies!" He sliced his dagger across her cheek.

"Ahhh!" Thea screamed, her pain agonizing. "Kill me! Just kill me! Stop torturing me!" Exhaustion wracked her body and soul; she only wanted release.

Outside, James and Henry, masked, entered through the unguarded back door. They neared the auction hall when James heard Thea's cries. Rage consumed him. Henry recoiled, sensing James's terrifying fury—a fury he'd only witnessed once before. A year earlier, on the Southern Plains, James had avenged the massacre of thousands in the Black Dragon Army, his rage a river of blood, his fury a mountain of corpses.

Trent pressed his dagger to Thea's throat. "One last chance," he sneered. "Who did you save ten years ago?"

The door exploded inward.

"It was me!" James roared, his voice a weapon of vengeance.