The Auction was dragging.
Noah leaned back, arms crossed, one leg casually extended past what etiquette allowed. Cordelia sat beside him, placard on the table, gaze unfocused behind her mask.
On stage, the announcer lifted another velvet cloth with all the ceremony of someone who still cared. Beneath it: a silver brooch shaped like a falcon. Enchanted, apparently. Minor speed boost in combat.
"Starting bid: 80 gold."
"60," someone mumbled from the left section. A noble in too much silk and too little presence.
"Sold to number 143."
Noah didn't even blink.
'Should've just given it away.'
The next item was a magic mirror that only reflected your "best self." Whatever the hell that meant. Bidding was slightly more active—vanity always sold well—but it still ended under 150.
Cordelia shifted beside him. "Think they're saving all the good stuff for after the food?"
"They always do," Noah replied. "Let the rich drink themselves stupid before throwing their gold away."
