Mariejois had a secret marketplace.
No Celestial Dragon admitted to it.
But everyone knew it existed.
Masked auctions—run by masked men for masked buyers.
Slaves, weapons, forbidden fruits.
And sometimes… knowledge.
I dressed in plain robes that night.
Winter wore a veil. Selka wore knives.
Mero stayed behind with a retired assassin who now taught arithmetic.
"Don't speak," I told Winter. "Don't breathe like a noble."
She nodded.
We descended into the black marble tunnels.
Where gods went to sin without witnesses.
The auction hall smelled like silk and sweat.
Candles floated by unseen strings.
Bidding was done with gloved fingers.
Nothing louder than a whisper.
We sat in the back, eyes forward.
I was not here for humans.
I was here for books.
The first item was a child.
White-haired. Thin. Labeled as an albino from the North Blue.
She sold for fifteen million.
Selka twitched.
Winter did not.
Progress.
Second came a devil fruit.
Fake.
You can always tell by the way they talk about it.
Too many adjectives. Not enough description.
It went for seventy million.
Fools.
Then, the scrolls arrived.
Ancient. From the Tree of Knowledge.
Smuggled before the Buster Call.
Torn. Incomplete. Dangerous.
Perfect.
I bid twice.
A soft raise of two fingers.
A third bidder joined.
Unfamiliar.
Tall. Thin. A white mask with a blue teardrop.
Winter whispered, "Cipher Pol?"
"No. Worse."
The man raised four fingers.
I raised five.
He hesitated.
Then withdrew.
Victory.
After the auction, he followed us.
Into the alleys.
Where even nobles pretend to be common.
Selka vanished into the shadows.
Winter flanked me.
He approached with calm steps.
Then stopped.
"Lord Figarland," he said softly.
Ah. So much for the mask.
"Speak quickly," I said.
"You've made enemies in the wrong libraries."
"And yet here I stand."
"For now."
He offered a card.
A single black rectangle with a red dot in the center.
"Give this to your assassin when you want someone erased."
Then he left.
Back in the study, Winter held the scrolls like holy scripture.
"These speak of weapons," she said. "Ancient ones. Lost in time."
I nodded.
"But more importantly… they speak of names."
She looked up.
"Names?"
"Those who knew too much. Those who vanished. We're not the first to play this game."
"And what happened to the others?"
"They lost."
Selka returned with blood on her boots.
"Two tails. Gone."
"Did they speak?"
"No. But they bled nicely."
"Good girl."
Mero sat by the fire that night.
She had found one of Winter's old training blades.
She didn't swing it.
Just stared at it.
"Do I have to learn to kill?" she asked.
"No," I said. "But you'll need to know what it means."
She nodded.
"Is Winter your queen?"
"In a way."
"Will I be one too?"
I paused.
"If you want to be."
"What if I don't?"
"Then you'll be the last light we protect."
She smiled.
I returned to the archive that night.
I added new pages.
Details of ancient weapons.
Locations forgotten.
Names half-burned by time.
I added a final line:
"Even the gods need insurance."
In the lower decks of Mariejois, the masked man returned.
He knelt in a dark room filled with candlelight.
Before a throne of mirrors.
"She took the bait," he said.
The mirrors whispered in unison:
"Then the game begins."