Michael watched through Spartan's cold, unblinking gaze.
Six robed figures.
So they were here all along.
Michael studied them carefully. Though none moved, he could see the subtle rise and fall of their chests.
The rational part of his mind immediately whispered that he should strike now—end them before they could react, and shatter the spell anchoring the entire building.
But Michael didn't move.
Instead, he took a long, slow breath, centering himself.
This room…
His gaze shifted from the ritual array to the racks of crates and shelves lining the walls. He saw strongboxes with iron locks, velvet-lined stands bearing artifacts half-wrapped in protective silk, chests bearing the wax seals of noble families.
This must be where they kept the auction's stock.
Michael felt a quiet, almost amused resignation.
Even in a crisis, part of him was still thinking about what he could salvage.
But he wasn't reckless enough to turn his attention away from the six figures entirely.
