Night turned Prague into glass and gold.
The streets glimmered with reflected light, every cobblestone slick from a fresh drizzle. Morgana dressed for the city the way she dressed for war: with precision.
The gown was black silk with a high slit, sleeves that skimmed her wrists, and a neckline just bold enough to pass as "art world glamour."
On her wrist, a thin platinum cuff hid a lockpick. Her heels could shatter bone.
Callen was already waiting in the hotel lobby, looking inconveniently good in a tailored tuxedo.
"You clean up well," he said.
"So do you," she replied, and walked past him to the waiting car.
---
Arrival at Galerie Klenot
The building looked even more imposing under spotlights. Chandeliers glowed inside like trapped constellations.
They blended in effortlessly with the stream of collectors, curators, and wealthy predators.
Morgana's eyes catalogued everything:
Four guards at the door.
Two more near the grand staircase.
Cameras in the corners, overlapping.
Inside, the gallery smelled of polished wood and old wealth. Waiters floated by with trays of champagne.
---
The Game Begins
Their cover identities were easy to wear. She'd done this a hundred times: the polite smile, the slow way her eyes lingered on a piece of art, the way she pretended to listen while mapping exits.
Callen whispered, "Security room's through the staff wing, north corridor. Two cameras we'll need to blind."
"Not now," she murmured back, lips barely moving. "Eyes on seventeen."
---
Lot 17
The painting fragment was displayed alone, bathed in soft light: jagged canvas edges, brushstrokes warped with time, and that one word hidden in a fold of shadowed paint.
Heretic.
She moved closer, champagne in hand. Up close, she could see the texture of it, the way certain brushstrokes felt almost deliberate, like coordinates disguised as chaos.
And then she felt it again—that sensation of being watched.
---
The Approach
"Morgana Thayle," a voice said softly behind her.
Every muscle in her body went still.
She turned slowly.
It was the man from last night.
Same cedarwood cologne. Same calm, infuriating smile.
"Enjoying the view?" he asked.
"Depends who's asking," she said lightly.
He extended a hand. "You can call me Emil. Everyone does."
Callen was beside her in an instant, his presence sharp as a blade.
"Friend of yours?" he asked.
"Not yet," Emil said. "But perhaps we'll fix that tonight."
---
Verbal Chess
The conversation danced. Emil knew too much without saying anything at all:
That she'd been in Marrakesh.
That she didn't really belong to the art world.
"Lot Seventeen," he murmured, glancing at the painting. "It has a way of finding the right people. I hope you're ready when it chooses you."
Before she could ask what that meant, the auctioneer called the guests to their seats.
Emil smiled, bowed slightly, and melted into the crowd.
---
The Auction
They sat side by side, keeping their faces neutral as the bidding began.
The first lots went by: a Renaissance portrait, a Roman coin, a stolen Persian dagger.
Then Lot 17.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
The starting bid was outrageous. Bids climbed fast, numbers pinging like bullets.
Callen whispered, "Our fake buyer has a limit. Don't go over it."
"I won't have to," she said. "Someone's going to outbid us anyway. They want us to watch."
Sure enough, Emil raised his paddle with unhurried grace, every motion saying I own this room.
And when the final gavel came down, Lot 17 belonged to him.
---
Aftermath
As guests spilled into the marble hall, Morgana and Callen tried to follow.
But the moment Emil received the fragment, the lights in the gallery went out.
Total darkness.
Then—a scream.
Morgana's instincts kicked in. She pulled Callen down just as glass shattered somewhere overhead.
"Stay low!" she hissed, fumbling for the slim torch hidden in her clutch.
In the beam of her light, she saw one thing clearly:
Lot 17's crate—gone.
---
The mission had just exploded into chaos.