The auction continued, a slow crawl of gold and gluttony. Artifacts fluttered across the velvet stages beneath the glow of the chandeliers: bottled siren breath, stasis crystals purported to contain heartbeats in last moments of life, illusion scrolls inked in disappearing blood, and every other imaginary treasure. Power exchanged emperors with each raised card; Luenor sat still under the emerald hawk mask, unaffected. His card had not been lifted once since the auction had begun. Let them think him full. Let them get comfy.
Then there was the book.
"A Runemaster's Compendium," said the auctioneer, lifting the tome of cracked ocean blue hide. "The personal notes of Master Calven Drell of the Eastern Archives—one of the original minds of modern rune structure. Contained within this book are the sequences that have been banned from public access for over a generation."
Gasps rolled through the crowd, though only among a select few. Rune theory was quieter power. Less flashy in its delivery than firestorms or soulflame—less fashionable. In the balcony were only two other rival bidders. The two stared wide-eyed. But as soon as Luenor's gold-tinged card went into the air, silence fell again.
Seventy-five thousand gold. No formalities.
The last few lots sped by, enchanted knick-knacks, cursed circlets, even a supposed genuine orb of stormglass, Luenor did not look back again. The real prizes had already been delivered to their suite, Crimson Vein, Infernal Flow, and the Codex. Each was carefully put into a reinforced bag, with its inner lining stitched with spatial runes that whispered softly when touched.
"We're done here," Luenor said in a murmur.
Cloaks were pulled, hoods were adjusted, and they left the suite in silence, ducking around North side—one reserved for the elite patrons who were willing to pay for privacy. The carpet muffled the sound of their boots. Behind them, the energy of the auction muffled behind them as if it were light fading away.
Until they turned the corner.
There stood a figure in the center of the hall, completely still. It was dressed entirely in black. Its face was covered by a matte obsidian mask, featureless, silent, and smooth.
Faren stopped first. His hand rested momentarily on the blade at his hip. "That's him," he said. "The one in the next booth over. He didn't move. He didn't bid."
Arwin stepped ahead, his cloak shifting. "You have business with us?"
The figure said nothing. Instead, he removed a scroll from his coat and dropped it at our feet.
The scroll hit the ground with a soft thud. Lyssari bent, retrieving it.
Lyssari took a sharp breath. "It's a wanted poster."
Luenor stepped forward. His gaze sharpened.
The parchment was ancient now, the ink faded, but the drawing was clear.
LUENOR SUREVA
Status: FUGITIVE - Kingdom of Ruthenia
Reward: Fifty Thousand Gold - Dead or Alive
He appeared to be ten in the drawing but the eyes...which had not changed.
"You want gold?" Luenor asked, steady and clear. He reached inside his cloak and pulled out a very heavy pouch. "I will offer you more than they ever did."
The man approached.
And there was no conversation. No negotiation.
Just movement.
Like the shadow it has come to collect.
Faren moved first, quickly. He bent low. He produced a dagger from his sleeve as he lunged at the man. But the man sidestepped him, like smoke, and drove his knee into Faren's gut, sending him sideways to the wall of the corridor.
Arwin was next to act. He offered the man a powerful right cross to the ribs—only to have the man's and his hand collide mid-air.
As the man twisted away with a shove, Arwin staggered back, wincing. "He's fast," he said through clenched teeth, shaking out his hand.
The masked figure collided back into action. He entered gracefully, kicked out low aiming for Arwin's legs. Arwin jumped back and attempted to punch the man, but the man twisted, allowing it to only graze off of his shoulder, and drove his elbow into Arwin's jaw.
Then Luenor entered.
Without hesitation. He feigned high, then swept low, aiming for the man's knee. The man stepped back just in time to avoid Luenor's attack. He followed up with a cloak-feint, and a quick backhand toward the side of the mask.
It connected. Not cleanly, but hard enough to cause some impact.
Faren was wheezing as he regained his wits, and darted in again—only for the man to snatch his dagger from his grip, and throw it across the floor behind him.
Lyssari raised up a hand. The floor began to tremble.
The stone beneath them cracked open as she whispered an incantation, as jagged spikes morphed and extended upward from the stone floor, funnelling the attacker down a narrow path.
He jumped the trap.
He spun in mid air.
He landed between Arwin, and Luenor.
Then he knelt down and picked up Faren's dagger.
Before anyone could react, he lunged.
Steel bit into Arwin's thigh.
Arwin howled in pain and staggered back.
The dagger went back out, only to plunge again, this time into his shoulder.
He fell back against the wall, struggling for air.
The masked man shouted and charged, forcing the man hard against a marble column. They crashed to the ground, fists flying. Elbows, knees, ribs, throat. Luenor flowed like a storm, but the man twisted free, kicking Luenor off of him.
Faren came back, runes sparking on his palm as he sprinted back, but the masked figure raised his own hand and blasted flame.
The fire tore into Faren's coat, igniting it instantly.
He screamed, rolling.
Lyssari threw her cloak over him while chanting a cooling spell. The flames abated but the burn was well beyond saving his arm.
The masked man did not follow it up, he merely watched.
Calculated. Measured.
Luenor rose again, his breath steady despite the pain blooming in his ribs.
He moved now with purpose—faster, tighter. He fired forward, his cloak whipping, and threw a punch aimed for the ribs. The masked man blocked. Luenor twisted in the air, swept low, grabbing the man by the ankle.
The man stumbled—not far—but that was all that was needed.
A fist slammed into the mask. Another slammed into the side of the ribs.
Then Arwin was back, blood spilling down his chin, and punched the man in his side, his jaw set.
The masked man turned and slammed the hilt of the dagger into Arwin's temple.
Arwin fell.
Then, for the first time, the man was still.
Not because he was tired.
But because he had made a decision.
He looked at them: Luenor covered in blood but standing. Faren singed but alive. Lyssari crouched near to Arwin whispering healing spells through her gritted teeth.
The man let the dagger drop.
Turned.
And vanished—melting into the deeper halls like he had never been there.
Only silence remained.
No footsteps. No breathing but their own.
Luenor stood in place, eyes fixed on the darkness where the figure had disappeared.
Faren coughed, sitting up with effort. "He didn't come for gold."
Arwin groaned. "He didn't even flinch when I hit him."
Lyssari touched Arwin's shoulder gently. "Who was that?"
Luenor didn't answer.
What could he answer?