The bar was low-lit and loud, packed with festival-weary locals and soldiers off-duty, drowning their hangovers in strong mead and thick stew. The wooden beams above were dark with age and smoke, and every table carried its own sea of spilled drinks and whispered stories.
Thory sat alone in a corner booth, hood up, boots crossed on the edge of a cracked bench. Her drink had gone warm a long time ago, untouched. Her eyes were fixed on a group of soldiers near the hearth—young, cocky, half-drunk, and too loud for their own good.
She twirled a copper ring around her finger, muttering softly under her breath.
A soft glint shimmered in her pupils as the spell took hold—a hearing enhancement charm, subtle and precise. The distant din faded, and the soldiers' voices sharpened like a knife:
"…you sure it's happening tonight?"
"Yeah. I saw the sigil on the crate—black crow over silver flame. That's them."
"I thought the auction was just a myth. Like some rich-man's ghost story."
"Not a myth. Only nobles and foreign royals get in. I heard the Mayor himself brought something to sell. Something... Powerful and Dangerous."
Thory's fingers clenched around her mug.
"They say it moves between locations. Always hidden. Never advertised. You get invited, or you don't even know it exists."
"Yeah, well. We're not invited."
They burst into laughter, oblivious to the spy in their midst.
Thory leaned back slowly, letting the magic dissolve. Her heart was already racing. A secret auction. Something alive. And the king involved.
She drained her drink and stood up, tossing a coin on the table. As she pulled her hood tighter, she whispered:
"Fen needs to hear this."
the last edge of sunlight bleeding out behind the hills. The mayor's estate loomed under it, lanterns flickering to life one by one like watchful eyes, casting long shadows over the cobbled courtyard.
Fen stood beneath a flickering streetlamp, hands in his pockets, staring down the canal like it owed him something.
"You're getting hard to find, you know that?"
Thory's voice cut through the quiet. She approached with her arms crossed, her boots scuffing softly against the stones.
Fen didn't look at her. "Didn't know I was hiding."
"You're not. Just brooding. Makes you invisible to normal people."
A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Lucky I'm not normal, then."
She stepped beside him, leaned on the railing. For a moment, neither spoke.
Then, Thory glanced his way. "The auction. It's real."
Fen turned. "What?"
"Secret one. Soldiers were talking about it like it's nothing new. Tonight, in the mayor's mansion. Quiet invites, big money, no public word."
Fen's eyes narrowed slightly. "And you just happened to hear that?"
"I may have helped my ears a little," she said, tapping her temple. "Spell. Nothing wild."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure.
He exhaled through his nose, looked out toward the dusky skyline. "So what do we do?"
"We get in. Blend in. Act like we belong."
He raised an eyebrow. "You think I own anything that doesn't smell like ash and blood?"
Thory grinned. "You're in luck. I've got a plan for that too."
An hour later, the back room of a tailor's shop flickered with lamp-light.
Fen tugged at the collar of his borrowed tuxedo, black with silver trim. It wasn't a perfect fit, but he'd worn worse in tighter spots. A small crest had been pinned to his lapel—a forged sigil of a minor trade house, old enough to avoid suspicion.
Thory stepped out from behind the curtain—and even Fen had to blink.
She wore a sleek midnight-blue gown that shimmered like starlight, tight at the waist, free at the legs for movement. Her hair was pinned in a high, loose braid, a silver comb nestled at the crown. A choker of dark velvet circled her throat.
The black carriage rolled up the sloped path, its wheels barely whispering against the polished stone. The mayor's mansion loomed ahead, ivy coiled across its high outer walls, with gilded iron gates opening silently as two guards—dressed in formal military coats bearing a raven sigil—stepped aside.
Fen peered through the curtain. His eyes scanned every posted guard, every too-bright lantern, every servant who moved with a little too much haste. Across from him, Thory adjusted the final clasp on her bracelet—a camouflage charm, subtle enough to shimmer her features and blur her identity beneath illusion.
Thory (quietly):
"Play it cool. Smile when you need to. And remember—we're just spoiled aristocrats looking to waste money."
Fen (dryly):
"I don't know how to smile like that."
Thory (smirking):
"Then just scowl and look rich. That'll do."
The carriage came to a slow stop at the wide marble steps. A liveried attendant opened the door with a respectful bow.
Attendant:
"Welcome to the Mayor's private gathering. Your masks, if you please."
A second attendant stepped forward, carrying a velvet-lined tray filled with masks of all designs—gilded bone-white, midnight blue, feathered, jeweled. A wall of elegant deception.
Thory picked one shaped like a sharp-winged raven, lined with silver thunderstrikes across the eyes. Fen selected a matte black mask with silver edges—expressionless, shadowy, like a hunter in the dark.
They slipped them on, letting illusion finish what fashion had started.
Inside, the mansion had transformed.
Crystal chandeliers bathed the room in warm golden hues. Nobles drifted like wraiths behind silken disguises—whispers and soft laughter floating through the perfumed air. Music hummed from a distant string quartet, slow and haunting.
A massive oil painting hung above the grand entry to the main gallery—a black crow clutching a burning sword, its wings spread in judgment.
Thory (muttering):
"Welcome to the game."
A steward approached, nodding.
Steward:
"The auction begins shortly. Refreshments are to your left. The collection preview is through the velvet arch to the right. May fortune favor your bid."
Fen and Thory exchanged a silent glance.
The velvet curtains parted into a grand reception hall, lit by floating crystal lanterns that shimmered like captive stars. Long tables groaned under the weight of polished silver trays, glass decanters, and foods far too delicate for real hunger—caviar, gilded fruits, frosted grapes.
Thory's eyes lit up.
Thory (grinning under her mask):
"Alright, maybe rich people aren't all bad. I see cocktails and tiny cakes."
She slipped ahead of Fen, moving toward the bar with a graceful sway that belied the warhammer hidden beneath her magic-bound cloak. Her Thunder Anvil, wrapped in cloaking runes, rested invisibly across her back.
As she reached for a tall violet glass of spiced wine, a voice spoke beside her—soft, lilting, cultured.
???:
"The stormbird mask suits you. Are you here to bid, or just for the drama?"
Thory turned.
The man beside her wore a simple silver mask shaped like a smiling fox. He was handsome—down dark hair, grey eyes, pale white skin, and an easy, unreadable smile. His presence didn't feel noble… or dangerous. Just curious. And maybe a little too well-placed.
Thory (smirking):
"Isn't it all drama? Or do you actually enjoy auctions where nobody knows what's for sale?"
He chuckled softly, sipping his own drink.
???:
"Sometimes not knowing makes it more exciting. A little risk. A little myth. But you—"
He glanced toward her again.
???:
"You don't look like someone who leaves things to chance."
Thory (coolly):
"Maybe I enjoy surprises."
Thory gave a polite nod to the fox-masked stranger and slipped into the crowd, her form disappearing among the clinking glasses and murmured voices.
Fen moved with measured steps, weaving through the reception hall. He passed beneath the golden chandelier, eyes sweeping the room until he saw her—
The Valkyrie princess, near one of the towering arched windows, her figure still and composed beneath a dark-feathered mask.
He made his way closer, the crowd soft around him.
Then—
A whisper of movement behind him.
Cold steel met his lower back.
Vallah's blade pressed lightly against Fen's side, hidden from view by the shifting crowd around them. Her voice, soft as silk and twice as sharp, slid into his ear.
"You never give up, do you?" she murmured. "Following me here… bold. Or just foolish."
Fen didn't flinch. His voice was low, even.
"Thanks for the help, by the way. Earlier. With the cage."
There was a pause.
The blade didn't retreat. Not yet.
Then, from behind the mask, Vallah spoke again—cool, sharp.
"Is that gratitude or sarcasm,"
A flicker crossed Vallah's face—an emotion too quick to catch—but before she could respond, a sharp clink-clink of a glass echoed through the reception hall.
A well-dressed attendant in crimson trim raised his voice from the top of the marble steps.
"Esteemed guests," he announced smoothly, "the collection is now ready. If you would kindly proceed—" his gloved hand gestured toward a tall, mirrored doorway being pulled open by two armored stewards, "—the Auction will begin shortly in the Grand Vaults below."
A hush rippled across the room, and with it, movement. Guests began drifting toward the entrance to the underground hall, their masked faces betraying nothing but curiosity and greed.
Vallah lowered her dagger without a word. She didn't wear a cloak, and she didn't need one. Her poise and presence made her just as veiled as any mask in the room.
She gave Fen a parting glance—neither threat nor invitation—then turned and walked away with the others, her stride regal and unreadable.
Fen exhaled and adjusted his coat, slipping back into the flow of guests as they descended toward the heart of the event—
where secrets, and power, would soon be sold.