Chapter Text
Aerion sauntered back to his rooms, pleased with the outcome of the evening. His father had yelled at him, struck him across the face but ultimately, had released him. Come morning he would face that filthy hedge knight with the full might of the kingsguard behind him. That pathetic excuse of a knight would be lucky to call even one to his cause. He would have to forfeit and then Aerion would have his head. He smirked at the thought. He made it all the way to his door before he changed his mind. He wanted to parade his victory. He wanted them all to know what was to be.
So he turned and strode back out the way he had come in. He threw open the doors and waltzed down into the city of tents that had been erected. He meandered his way through them, smirking and sneering at all he passed. Only a few dared meet his eyes, and even they inclined their heads in respect to him. He wandered his way through the crowds, listening to the roar of conversation, laughter and merriment. He had no destination in mind, and so he reached the edge of the tents. The forest beyond loomed, dark and deep and oddly inviting.
Without really thinking, he set off for it. Curious as to what lay within. He walked slowly and with ease, he had nothing to fear. Still, he reached for his blade. Just in case. Yet he found nothing. He glanced down before remembering that when his father had dragged him from the room, his dagger had been left on the table. His sword he had left in his room. He cursed mentally, furious at himself for being so careless. Truly it didn’t matter. Who would dare face him? No-one. They knew better. Aside from that stupid oaf of course. But he would soon learn. None could stand against the dragon.
The trees grew thicker and more entangled, harder to traverse. Still Aerion continued. Something was drawing him in. He wanted to know what. He struggled through a particularly dense thicket, cursing as a thorn caught in his doublet and tore it. He smacked the vines back and then stumbled out into a clearing. Moonlight filtered in from above, illuminating the small clearing. He stared up at the moon, full and bright.
He huffed a sigh. There was nothing there. He wasn’t sure why he had come out this far anyway. He spun on his heel, making back for the small castle. He wanted his bed. He made it only one step before he was halted. Several men sprung from the undergrowth, all regarding him with keen eyes. Their eyes traced the sigils embroidered into his fine clothes, flickered over his pale hair and high cheekbones and recognition sparked. He stood tall, waiting for them to fall to their knees. But the men did not.
Instead, one of them drew their sword.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Aerion scoffed, “Put it away and kneel.”
The man sneered at him, “Where’s your sword, Princeling?”
Aerion arched a perfect brow, “Kneel.” He commanded, “Or I shall have your head.”
“With what weapon?” Another said, drawing his own sword.
Aerion laughed then, sharp and bright as a struck bell. “You think steel makes the man?” he said. “I am armed well enough. I am the blood of the dragon.”
The men shifted, a half-circle tightening around him. There were five of them now that he could see. Too many to be a chance, too coordinated to be drunk wanderers. One wore a patched cloak, another a dented helm pushed back on his brow. Peasants, most likely.
“The dragon thinks himself invulnerable,” said the first man, the one with the sneer. He rolled his wrist, testing the weight of his blade. “Funny thing about dragons. Bleed the same as any other beast, once you cut ’em.”
Aerion’s smirk thinned. “You’ll regret this,” he said softly. “Every one of you. When my guards find what’s left of-”
A fist caught him across the mouth.
It was so sudden, so crude, that for a heartbeat Aerion simply stood there, stunned, tasting blood. Pain bloomed across his lip, hot and humiliating. The men laughed.
“Guards?” one of them said. “Out here?” He gestured at the trees, the moonlit dark. “Scream all you like. No one’s listening.”
Aerion staggered back a step, fury blazing white-hot in his chest. “Touch me again and I swear-”
The back of a sword slammed into his stomach, driving the breath from him in a sharp, undignified gasp. He doubled over despite himself, silk and pride crumpling together. Rough hands seized his arms, twisting them behind his back. He fought them then, flailing and kicking, but anger was a poor substitute for leverage.
“Careful,” said another voice, calmer than the rest. Older. “Don’t mark him too badly. We’re not butchers.”
Aerion lifted his head, hair falling loose about his face. “You think restraint will save you?” he hissed. “My father will burn you alive. My uncle will hunt your kin to the last babe. You are dead men.”
The older one crouched before him, close enough that Aerion could smell damp leather and old wine on his breath. “Aye,” he said. “That’s the trouble, isn’t it? Dragons always think tomorrow’s promised.”
He rose and nodded once.
Something struck the back of Aerion’s head. The world lurched, moonlight shattering into silver shards, and the forest rushed up to meet him.
As darkness closed in, the last thing he heard was laughter fading into the trees and the soft, almost gentle murmur of the older man’s voice.
“Sleep now, princeling. You’ve had a long night.”
He awoke his hands bound tightly and a scrap of fabric stuffed so deeply into his mouth he gagged on it. It tasted foul too. He was on his side, close enough to the fire to feel its heat, far enough away for the cold of the night to bite at him. He glared up at the men, seated around the fire, they paid him no attention. Unaware that he had awoken.
“We could sell him?” One suggested,
“No.” The eldest said, “We ransom him back to his father. That is our plan.”
“Can we at least take his clothes? They’re fine enough to fetch a pretty penny.”
The eldest smirked, “A fine idea.” He said, finally turning to look at Aerion.
Aerion snarled or at least, he tried too. The sound came out as a muffled growl, thick and useless behind the gag. Aerion strained against the cords at his wrists, silk sleeves biting into his skin as rope cinched tighter. The men noticed then, one by one their heads turned, eyes catching the firelight as they fixed on him. Until all of five of them were watching him.
“Well now,” said one, grinning. “The dragon wakes.”
The eldest rose slowly, joints creaking, and approached him. He nudged Aerion’s shoulder with the toe of his boot, not hard, just enough to roll him more fully onto his back. Aerion met his gaze with naked hatred, pale eyes bright despite the dirt smeared across his cheek.
“Easy,” the older man said mildly. “Thrashing won’t help you. You’ve already learned that lesson once tonight.”
He reached down and tugged the gag loose.
“You touch me again,” Aerion rasped, voice thick and slurred, “and I will-”
“Yes, yes,” the man interrupted. “Burn us all. Feed us to your dogs. I’ve heard it.” He straightened and gestured. “Strip him.”
Rough hands were on Aerion at once, hauling him upright. He fought again, fury lending him strength, but it only earned him a sharp blow to the ribs that left him gasping. Fingers worked at buttons and clasps, tearing silk rather than undoing it. His fine doublet split with a sound like a wound opening. Cool air kissed newly bared skin.
“Careful,” the eldest said, though his smile said otherwise. “Leave him decent enough to ransom.”
They relieved him of rings, gold biting briefly at his knuckles as it was pulled free, then his boots, his belt, the last scraps of finery that marked him as more than just another bound boy by a fire. Each loss stoked the fire in his chest. They were thieves. Worse, they were touching him. He had never been more glad for the tea his father made him drink daily. The tea that masked his scent, that allowed him to pass for a beta rather than the omega he was. They tore at him, stripping him down.
When they were done, Aerion was shoved back down onto the ground, in just his small clothes, cloakless and shivering despite the fire’s warmth. He shook, despite himself, desperate to keep his scent under control. The eldest turned his rings over in his palm, appraising them with a merchant’s eye.
“A Prince's son,” he mused. “Worth more alive than dead. Remember that.”
He crouched once more, close enough that Aerion could see the lines carved deep into his weathered face. “You’re going to be very quiet,” he said. “Very patient. And if you are… you’ll go home richer in wisdom than when you left.”
Aerion spat at him.
The glob struck the man’s cheek and slid down into his beard.
For a heartbeat, they all went still.
Then the eldest wiped his face slowly, almost thoughtfully. “Ah,” he said. “So the dragon still has fire.”
He nodded to one of the others. “Tie him tighter. And if he makes another sound before dawn-”
The man grinned and hefted a stick from beside the fire. He brought it down across Aerion’s side and pain blossomed from his ribs. Aerion sucked in a breath through his teeth, refusing to cry out. He would not give them that. He would not.
Aerion was hauled back into the dirt, rage burning brighter than fear now. Let them think they had him. Let them dream of gold and safety.
They would choke on both.
They left him then, bound tighter as promised, ropes cinched until his hands throbbed and went numb. The fire crackled on, indifferent. Conversation resumed in low tones, as if he were already no more than cargo set aside for the morning.
Aerion lay very still.
He listened.
They drank. They argued in whispers. One complained about the cold. Another about how long it would take to reach the road come dawn. Time dragged. The fire burned lower. One by one they settled into sleep, rolling into cloaks or leaning back against fallen logs. The eldest stayed awake the longest, staring into the embers as if reading something there. Even he, eventually, nodded forward, chin dipping to his chest.
Aerion waited longer still.
His wrists screamed with pain, but he twisted them slowly, carefully, feeling for weakness. Silk had torn, skin had broken; the rope was damp now, slick where blood had seeped. He worked at it inch by inch, breath shallow, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
A shift. A faint give.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
Another careful twist, another scrape of rope against raw skin. He bit down hard as fire lanced up his arms. The cords did not part, but they loosened. Just enough.
A twig snapped nearby.
Aerion froze.
One of the men stirred, muttered, rolled over. Silence returned.
Aerion smiled, slow and feral, in the dark.
They thought him helpless. Thought him beaten. Thought him a boy wrapped in silk and arrogance. He wrenched a hand free at last and was at last able to wriggle out of his bindings. Quiet and careful he tiptoed to the nearest man, reaching for his blade. He palmed it easily enough, drawing it free from its sheath. He raised it over his head, bringing it down in a neat arc aimed squarely for the man’s exposed neck. Just as his sword went to make contact, strong arms wrapped around his waist and tackled him down to the side. He fell heavily, getting a mouthful of dirt for his trouble. The men fell upon him, wrestling the sword free and binding him more tightly than before.
He thrashed and fought. It was useless ultimately. He was bound and helpless. Left at their mercy. Dawn crept in pale and cold, bleeding slowly through the trees. Mist clung low to the ground, dampening the earth and soaking into Aerion’s bones where he lay bound. His wrists were numb now, his shoulders screaming from the way they had wrenched his arms back, rope biting deep enough that every pulse of his heart throbbed against it. His whole body ached in a way it never had before.
“Up,” someone said, nudging him with a boot.
Aerion did not move fast enough. A hand seized his hair and hauled his head back, forcing him to his knees. Spots burst behind his eyes, but he swallowed the sound that threatened to escape him. He would not beg.
The men were breaking camp with easy efficiency. The fire was stamped out. Cloaks were rolled. Their horses stood nearby, sturdy and plain, tack already fastened. One of the men swung easily into the saddle, settling as though for a pleasant morning ride. They tied a rope to his binding, the eldest mounted his horse and tugged on the rope. Aerion stumbled a step forward. They meant for him to walk.
Aerion’s gaze dropped to the ground then, to his own feet. Bare, scraped raw, toes red with cold and dirt.
“Boots,” he said hoarsely. “You took my boots.”
The eldest glanced at him, unimpressed. “And?”
“You expect me to walk like this?”
A smile tugged at the man’s mouth. “I expect you to keep up.”
Aerion scowled and promptly sat. He would not walk behind their horses. One of the men hissed at him and then dragged him to his feet and shoved him forward. He stumbled, catching himself only barely before he fell.
“Would you rather we dragged you?” He sneered.
Aerion spat at him in response. The man only laughed.
The ground was cruel underfoot. Stones, roots, broken twigs biting into tender skin. He hissed despite himself as something sharp cut into his heel.
“Careful,” one of them mocked. “Wouldn’t want the prince to limp.”
The horses moved at a steady pace, riders relaxed, reins loose in their hands. Aerion was tethered between them, rope looped around his bound wrists and tied to a saddle horn. When he lagged, the rope jerked him forward. When he stumbled, it burned.
By the time the sun had fully risen, his feet were streaked with blood.
He clenched his jaw and forced himself onward, step after agonizing step. Pain flared, then dulled, then flared again, each sensation carving itself into him, branding him with the memory of it. His pride screamed louder than his body ever could. They were doing this on purpose.
To humble him.
Aerion lifted his chin, pale hair tangled and dirty, and fixed his gaze on the road ahead. Let them think this was victory. Let them enjoy their little triumph as they rode and he bled, stumbling through the dirt. His small clothes were already filthy, his feet were bleeding, his body ached from the cold. His lip stung where they had split it and his ribs burnt with every inhale. They did not stop to rest and he walked until nightfall.
He half collapsed when they finally came to a stop. His body was not used to this harsh treatment. His knees barked at the impact, but he could stay on his feet no longer. Indeed, it was only his own spite that kept him upright for so long. Exhaustion racked his body and he shook from pain, cold and hunger.
The eldest tossed him a scrap of stale bread. He sneered at it. He was a prince. He was a dragon. The bread lay in the dirt between them.
“I will not eat that,” he said hoarsely. His voice already cracked and raw, his throat ached from lack of water.
One of the men laughed. Another shrugged and tore his own chunk in half, chewing noisily. The eldest regarded Aerion for a long moment, eyes sharp and unreadable in the firelight.
“As you like,” he said at last. “Hunger’s a better teacher than I am.”
They did not bind his legs this time, only his wrists, tied to a tree just close enough to the fire that he would not freeze outright, just far enough that he would never be comfortable. The ground beneath him was hard-packed and cold. When they shoved him down, he did not have the strength left to resist. He sagged against the rope, breath coming shallow and uneven.
Night settled in heavy and unforgiving.His feet throbbed in time with his pulse, each heartbeat a fresh reminder of torn skin and bruised bone. He flexed his toes weakly, wincing. The men laughed, their voices echoing around him.
He hated them.
He hated himself more.
For the first time since childhood, he could not summon the certainty that he was untouchable. The thought slid in unbidden, unwelcome, and lodged itself deep. He had been dragged. Beaten. Made to walk like a common criminal. Made to bleed.
A prince.
A dragon.
His stomach twisted, not just with hunger, but with something colder and sharper. Despair. Aerion lifted his head with effort, eyes blazing despite the tremor in his limbs. He would not break. They would ransom him soon enough and he would be back in his warm bed, with a full belly, soft clothes and a goblet of wine. If he closed his eyes and squinted as hard as he could, he could almost picture it. His scent tinged with longing. He had been without the tea for too long, already the sweetness was beginning to bleed through. He was brought out of his fantasy by a loud voice.
They were arguing again. About what to do with him. How best to ransom him to his father without getting caught and losing their heads. Around and around their argument went, none of them able to decide. Aerion kept his head bowed, eyes lowered, playing the part they expected of him, spent, dulled, lost in misery. It was half-true. Inside, his thoughts churned.
The scent worried him more than the ropes.
It was subtle still, nothing a courtier would notice beneath perfume and incense, but here, out in the wild, among men who lived by instinct as much as reason, it felt dangerously exposed. He shifted slightly, angling himself away from the fire, willing the chill to keep the sweetness at bay. The tea would have masked it. The tea would have steadied him. Deprived of it, his body betrayed him in small, infuriating ways.
“…can’t just walk him into the next holdfast,” one of them was saying. “Soon as they see that hair, we’re dead.”
“And if we keep him too long?” another snapped back. “Search parties’ll be out already. Kingsguard, maybe worse.”
“We’ve already had him too long.” One groused, “We’ve nowhere to go.”
“Then we need to get rid of him.”
The eldest, who had been quiet until now looked up, “We take him to the port, sell him to the slavers. Let them deal with him.”
“And his hair?”
“They won’t ask questions.”
Aerion thrashed in his bonds, “You cannot!” He exclaimed, “You will take me to my father and he will reward you handsomely.”
One of them laughed, “Why? So you can tell him we stole you? All that will await us then is a rope and a tree.” He stood, scrap of fabric in hand and stuffed it in Aerion's mouth. Aerion attempted to bite him. He missed.
They broke their camp soon after, decision made at last. Once more he was forced to walk behind them, he struggled and tripped but remained upright. Just. They paused only once and Aerion’s knees gave way immediately, he crumpled to the ground, exhausted.
A crust of bread was pressed into Aerion’s bound hands whether he wanted it or not.
“Eat,” someone said gruffly. “You slow us down if you fall.” They threw him a small waterskin alongside.
Aerion hesitated only a moment before tearing into it. Pride could wait. Survival could not. For two days, he had not eaten or drunk. He was desperate and miserable. He was in pain. He was afraid. It wouldn’t be long now until his scent started to show, what would they do to him then? He didn’t want to think about it, but the thoughts came unbidden. He forced them down and swallowed heavily. The bread stuck to the back of his throat. He gulped down some water, letting it soothe his raw throat. It was too little really. The waterskin had been mostly empty, the bread merely a scrap. His stomach cramped painfully.
It was enough to keep him moving. Barely.
They set out again, leaving the deeper forest behind for rough tracks and half-forgotten roads. The land slowly changed as the hours wore on. Trees thinning, the air growing heavier, damp with the promise of salt. Gulls cried somewhere far off. The wind carried something sharp and briny.
His feet were in tatters. Blood had long since dried and cracked, dirt ground into every wound. Each step sent a dull, distant throb up his legs, as though the pain belonged to someone else. Hunger hollowed him out, made his thoughts sluggish. He stumbled more often now, and each time the rope snapped taut, jerking him forward like an animal on a lead.
“Keep up,” one of them barked, unkindly.
Aerion clenched his teeth and did.
They let him ride for a short while that afternoon, slung awkwardly over the back of a horse like a sack of grain, wrists still bound, dignity stripped clean away. It helped his feet but made his ribs scream with every jolt. He bit back groans, counting breaths, focusing on the rhythm of the hooves.
By dusk, the port came into view.
It was small, little more than a clustered sprawl of timber buildings hugging a crescent of dark water. Masts rose like bare trees against the sky, rigging creaking softly as ships shifted with the tide. The smell hit him all at once, salt, tar, fish, smoke. Civilization, rough-edged and dangerous, but civilization all the same.
Aerion’s heart pounded as they grew closer and closer. They circled once before entering. They made straight for the ships, not hesitating. Aerion remained bound and gagged the entire time, kept on the back of the horse as they whispered with captains and crew, making deals and arrangements. He faded in and out of consciousness, struggling to remain awake long enough to understand what was going on. Eventually he was dragged from his horse, his knees buckled and he could remain upright no longer. They hauled him upright, holding him on his feet. A man stepped forward, not one he recognised.
He took a hold of Aerion’s face, tilting it this way and that. He sniffed, seemingly coming to a decision,
“A bastard aye?” He asked, “They’ll pay more for a silver haired beauty, bastard or not.” He nodded, passing over a small leather pouch.
Aerion was manhandled onto the ship, he struggled as best he could and earnt himself a slap across the face for his trouble. His split lip re-opened. He winced at the all too familiar taste. He had had enough of it to last a lifetime. He was passed from hand to hand and bodily moved down into the belly of the ship. They bound him to a post and struck him across the face again when he resisted. He passed out not long after.
For days, he stayed tied to that post, made to sit in his own filth and continuously beaten. Anytime the sailors met discomfort or misfortune, anytime any of them were bothered or their spirits low, they came to hit with fists raised. They would kick him and slap him, and pull his hair, spit at him and laugh when tears welled in his eyes. Cackle when those tears slipped down his face.
But that was better, better than one with a scar above his eyebrow. The one with hands that wandered. Only the captain kept him in line, kept him from doing more than running his hands up Aerion’s pale thighs and gripping his waist. Aerion shook and tried his best to dislodge him but the man dug his fingers in, leaving behind bruises. He knew that once they reached their destination he would be sold to the highest bidder and they would do more than grope at his thighs and waist. They fed him scraps, made him drink from puddles on the floor and did nothing to tend the wounds that had started to fester.
Now more than ever he was in pain. Constantly and all consuming. He could no longer find any warmth and every part of him ached. He cried often now, unable to hold back the tears as despairs unrelenting grip tightened around him. He was sure his father was looking for him, the kingsguard would be out in full force. But he was on a ship. Headed for who knows where. They would not find him. His only source of comfort was that the filth he was surrounded by, seated in, smelled far stronger than his scent ever could. It disguised him well enough. It would not matter. Not once he was sold. They would strip and wash him before they whored him out and then the truth would be revealed.
He drew his knees up closer to his chest, already crying again. The ship lurched sideways and he jolted with the movement, pain flaring sharp and bright. Pain. So much pain. He was always in pain now.
The ship continued to sway as it headed into more turbulent water and for the next three days he was tossed this way and that. On the forth the ship started to rock more violently and he lost control of his stomach. He was wrecked with a fever, the chill finally taking a hold. He was unconscious more than he was conscious. After a full three weeks of being at sea, after two more vicious storms and countless more beatings, he was broken. He couldn’t stand without support, he no longer resisted when they struck him and when the scarred man slid his hands up his thighs, he just watched detachedly.
It was hard for him to know exactly how long it had been since he was taken. He would have guessed approximately a month, but he couldn’t know for certain. He was so cold he could feel it in his bones, and so feverish he could not tell whether it was sweat on his skin or sea salt. And then, one morning, the ship’s motion changed.
The sea went from a restless, furious battering to a slow, steady rhythm. The wind shifted. The air grew warmer, and with it came a scent Aerion had not smelled in weeks- salt and smoke and something sweet like citrus.
Land.
They dragged him up on deck and for the first time in weeks, the sun kissed his skin. He sighed into it, the fresh air a welcome change. His relief did not last. They threw bucket after bucket over him, trying to wash away the worst of the filth. He shuddered through it. It barely helped. He felt like he would never be clean again. They left him on the deck. Not bothering to tie him down, knowing he had nowhere to go and that even if he tried he would not get far.
It was not the same coast they’d left. The water was calmer, the sky clearer. A thin line appeared on the horizon, dark against the pale blue, growing slowly until it resolved into a shoreline. A port town, larger than the one they had first left, bustling and loud, full of the kind of people who did not care what a man looked like so long as they paid.
Aerion’s throat tightened at the sight. His heart, for the first time in weeks, thudded with something that felt like hope. Or dread. The ship creaked and groaned as it came alongside the dock. Men shouted. Ropes were thrown. The crew worked quickly, eager to be done with the voyage and whatever trouble it had brought.
His eyes burned, but he did not cry. He was too far gone for tears. They loaded him onto the cart like a corpse and began to move toward the town’s center, where shadows gathered behind stalls and alleys led to places where men spoke in whispers.
Aerion’s thoughts were slow and jagged, like broken glass. The one clear thing that remained was the taste of salt on his lips, the endless sway of the ship, and the knowledge that he was no longer in his grandfather’s lands.
He was somewhere else.
The rope that bound him bit into his wrists every time the cart lurched, and his bare feet throbbed with every bump, but he barely registered it anymore. His mind was too far away.
They came to a stop in a wide square at the heart of the city, where the noise swelled into a roar. This was the center, where the town’s pulse was strongest.
Stalls lined the square, selling everything from salted herring to bolts of cloth, from iron tools to bright glass beads. A baker’s cart sent up a warm, fresh scent that made Aerion’s stomach twist with longing. Men in dirty aprons leaned against barrels, laughing as they smoked. Sailors in rough coats argued with dockworkers over coin. A group of street performers were in the middle of a circle, juggling knives and cracking jokes, their audience clapping and jeering in equal measure.
And at the far end of the square stood the platform.
It was raised on stout wooden beams, a crude stage built for spectacle. A canopy of faded cloth sagged overhead, shading the center where a man in a thick coat stood with a ledger in one hand and a gavel in the other. He was flanked by two guards, each armed and watching the crowd with bored, watchful eyes.
Aerion’s captors dragged the cart up close, and the crowd’s noise shifted into a ripple of interest. People turned, drawn by the promise of entertainment, the chance for profit, the morbid curiosity that always accompanied cruelty.
He was not the only one.
Others were there, too, some already on the platform, others being passed up onto it. Men and women of varying ages, each bound and bruised, each wearing the same expression of numb dread. Some were dragged from the cart with rough hands. Others were pushed forward as though they were nothing more than sacks of grain.
A few were already crying, silent sobs that shook their shoulders. A woman in a torn dress clutched her stomach as though her belly hurt from hunger or from fear. A boy no older than seven stood trembling, eyes wide and empty. A man with a broken nose held his jaw with one hand, his other arm tied behind him.
The crowd’s attention sharpened.
The captors pushed Aerion toward the platform next. His legs buckled beneath him, and for a moment he feared he would fall and the rope would tear into his skin. But strong hands gripped his arms, lifting him up as if he were nothing more than a rag.
The platform creaked under his weight as he was hauled up beside the others. The air up there was colder, thinner, and the view was humiliatingly open. The crowd could see him now. The city’s eyes were on him.
The man with the ledger leaned forward, eyes flicking over the captives like a butcher inspecting meat. His gaze paused on Aerion, lingering longer than it should have. Then he turned to address the crowd. The man’s voice rang out, loud enough to carry over the square.
“Here we have fresh stock,” he announced, his tone bright and practiced. “Strong men, fine women, young and bright children.” He smiled, showing teeth stained by tobacco. “Let the bidding begin.”