The rain-washed cobblestones still glistened under the streetlamps as the carriage came to a stop in front of Vescania's massive auction house. It was part palace, part temple— a sheer bluff of marble facing inlaid with rows of blue quartz; slim openings lined with panes of mana-infused glass, glowing like liquid topaz.
Floating orbs of light dulled and glimmered in front of the sheer bluff, dozens of orbs in total pulsing evenly with their stored light, casting ripples of gold over the nobility as they arrived.
Guards dressed in white and gold breastplates lined the bottom of the broad flight of stairs, spears held upright, their helmets topped with white plumes.
The black door of the carriage swung open first and Luenor Sureva stepped down. He wore a fitted crimson tunic, woven so each thread danced in the light of the floating orbs, with every thread tipped in fine silver. The black coat he draped over the tunic, slow stitch embroidery of the silver pierced three-tower crest almost invisible in the low light, fanned out behind him.
Across his eyes rested an emerald mask, thin, smooth, shaped as a hawk's gaze, that concealed half his face, while illuminating the other half of his face like a cold forest green. Lyssari followed and her moon blue dress captured the lamp light until it looked liquid.
The silver ivy in her hair quivered with each motion. She caught raindrops in it now, drops that became falling stars for a moment, until they rolled off to join the puddles below. Behind them was Arwin, in a simple but expertly cut charcoal cape, something seamless that reflected nothing like the dark leather of his mask. Faren crawled out last in forest green robes, his grey ceremonial mask cleverly carved to let his pointed ears stick out—an old elven courtesy he disliked but felt obligated to honor.
The four of them climbed the stairs, their footsteps quieted by the red-and-gold runner that glinted with every drop of water shaken from their cloaks. At the landing, Lady Eloria Vescana waited for them. She was radiant in scarlet silk sewn through and through with tiny phoenix feathers lacquered in gold so fine they looked molten. She strode forward with the practiced grace of someone who was born to command attention, hand outstretched in greeting.
"Lord Sureva," she remarked.
"I am delighted you accepted our invitation. Do send my regards to Lucky Alfrenzo. It is always a pleasure to see his little wolf among our flock."
Her lips flowed sweetly, but the fire behind her gaze gauged him like a jeweler measures uncut stones. Luenor took her hand and bowed just deep enough to flatter, but not low enough to humble. "Thanks for hosting, Lady Vescana. I hear tonight's catalogue will be excellent."
She stole a gold‑edged card from a hidden pocket and pushed it into his palm. "A token of goodwill. Feel free to use it. I hope there is something that catches your eye - and the eyes of the friends you represent." Her gaze flicked briefly to Faren's ears, Lyssari's silver ivy, then back to Luenor's mask in polite inquiry.
"We will keep our eyes peeled," Luenor said, slipping the card into his sleeve. She curtseyed, rustling in the finest fabrics, and glided away, already beaming at the next arrival.
Lyssari puffed a silent breath of relief. "Do nobles always look as if they are about to buy you?"
Arwin chuckled as he adjusted the fall of his cloak. "That was Lady Eloria, and she was being friendly. Just you wait to meet one who isn't."
Lyssari pursed her lips. "I have hardly been away from Echlion. My life has mostly been trees and target posts. The only other noble I have met was trying to recruit me into a militia because I beat his son with a wooden sword."
Faren gave her shoulder a gentle pat. "Stay close. Observe, listen, learn. The court can be as treacherous as a battle." He turned, scanning the wave of guests moving like a slow river toward the cloak-check hall below.
Fox masks, serpent masks, feathers, and jewels were like the special rocks glimmering underwater, their forms dissolving into the current. Faren's eyes caught on one figure in a black wolf mask who stood alone, by a support pillar. The figure was too disciplined, too still. Something in that quiet observation bothered Faren's instincts. He carefully stored the details away for later.
Inside, the main auction hall curled as a crescent gallery around a sunken floor. Rows of velvet seating in dark lapis blue faced a dais, beneath the canopy of crystal chandeliers. Mana lumens bi-color cycled inside each prism, gracing the hall in a slow dance of ebbing violet, gold and rose.
At the topmost level of the theater, where doors opened directly from the private boxes, the ushers ushered Luenor's party into a suite dressed with deep red silk drapery.
From their seated position, Lyssari could see almost every seat and every mask. She pressed her hands to the railing, with wide eyes. "It's like a lake made of gems," she whispered.
Arwin, for his part, was pointing out the clumps of seated people. "There. The man reclining in the bronze dragon mask is Baron Grevach—he finances at least half of the mercenary contracts going north of the Silver Ridge. The woman in the peacock veils is the head of a shipping empire from Bluestone Isle. Anyone in this room could fund—or ruin—a minor war. The only thing stopping them now is Marquess Mellon who is actively vouching for us."
Lyssari's gaze darted back to Luenor, who had taken off his coat and was draped in the back of a chair. He looked perfectly at ease, but she could identify the tension in his shoulders, and the fact that his gaze never landed on any one thing for more than a heartbeat.
"Does it bother you?" she asked in a soft voice. "That they see you as… leverage?"
"It used to," he, admitted. "Now I consider it an asset. If anyone assumes I'm only Alfrenzo's envoy - all the better for me." He paused, letting the mask slip a little so he could see her eyes. "Tonight you will notice everything. Say little."
She made a terribly dramatic sigh which caused Arwin to laugh under his breath.
Moments later the auctioneer appeared at the dais. He was bald and clad in a shining emerald waistcoat, his voice roiling like velvet, his white gloves flicking open a lacquered paddle with each flourish. "Welcome esteemed guests, we will first begin with the item that is sure to invigorate - The Crimson Vein!"
Servants brought up a small obsidian box, when the lid was raised a single red pill lay inside, faintly glowing and pulsing as if it had a heartbeat. There was a stir in the seats.
"A trial-grade mana stimulant," said the auctioneer, "an artifact of modern alchemy. Temporary enhancement; elevate a Four-Star Intermediate to the brink of Five-Star Advanced for hours! Side effects (of course): nausea, migraines, minor instability." He let that hang in the air like perfume. "Opening bid: ten thousand gold."
Bids kept going up by seemingly random increments. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. Suddenly a heavyset nobleman shouted, "Eighty!" The bids continued to go higher as people waved their placards amid the clinks of goblets and the rustle of expensive fabric.
"One hundred thousand," the heavy man belted out; his face was becoming wide as his bid gave him confidence.
Luenor had raised himself from his chair a little. He had picked up Lady Vescana's gold edged card between two fingers.
The hall was silent.
"Lord Sureva bids with full gold access," the auctioneer said. "One hundred thousand matched. Do I hear more? One, two - sold: Crimson Vein to Lord Sureva's suite."
Faren caught the hiss of frustration from the heavy nobleman below and noticed the way several other masks swiveled toward their box. "We just painted a target on ourselves," he said under his breath.
Arwin just smiled. "Let them stare. They give us an advantage. They can't do shit anyway."
The next lot wheeled out. It was a thick grimoire, clearly bound in scorched leather. The title had nearly burned off the front: Infernal Flow. Runes danced like embers beneath it.
Lyssari was leaned over the rail, her eyes wide. "Fire spells up to Fourth Circle? That's... that's incredible."
The auctioneer droned on about the tome being battle sorcery, breaking wards, and even the controversial ritual of turning mana residue into burning plasmic threads, opening bid twenty thousand. Masks turned, hands raised. Lyssari's fingers flitted.
"Go ahead," Luenor murmured, handing her the card.
She swallowed, gave him a wink and raised it.
Back and forth bidding - twenty-five, forty, fifty. Lyssari held at fifty until sixty. Two boxes away, a baroness countered with sixty-five. Lyssari, her face now flaming, rose to seventy. The baroness waited a tick, then bowed her head and let it go. Hammer down at seventy. Lyssari let out a laugh, giddy.
Arwin muttered, "Well now we're funding a pyromaniac," but it was with warmth.
Between lots, servants in sparkly livery were circling the hall with platters of roasted pheasant skewers, and tiny little golden bowls of candied ginger and goblets of shimmering nectar, which changed with the temperature. Luenor took water; his mind was parsing the poor menagerie of masks below.
He also saw that lone wolf‑masked figure. The man had not raised a placard once. He simply watched. Even when teased by Lady Vescana's attendants with a rare elixir, he remained still, gloved hands folded. Faren noticed it too.
"Something about him gives me bad vibes," the elf said.
Luenor nodded. "Stay alert."
The auction continued the rich items came in big lots: a dagger made of skyshard iron, a bottle of frozen lightning, a marble head said to have a ghost inside that whispers. Luenor mainly only made a bid when he believed the item wasn't only useful but might also have a political meaning behind it. Every time he raised that gold card the murmurs rippled over the seats.
Between lots, nobles started to trickle up to boxes above, like moths to a flame. A woman with a mask that looked like flaming curling tendrils congratulated Lyssari for acquiring the grimoire and that they needed to discuss traded goods in fireproof silks.
A baronet with a silver owl mask asked Luenor if Alfrenzo would consider a shipment contract on mana-iron. An old knight with a cracked lion mask simply bowed and said, "Years ago, House Sureva sheltered my family during the Grain Wars. I have not forgotten."
Behind those polite gestures were calculations. Gifts in gold. Debts in potential futures. Lyssari felt it through her inexperience; all polite words shouldered to her skin like invisible claws.
She whispered to Arwin, "Is it always like dancing in a spiderweb?"
He smiled wryly. "That's high society."