The attendant began to lead the way up the curved staircase, her heels tapping with crisp precision against the polished obsidian steps. The sound echoed like soft punctuation marks in a house that breathed in silence and exhaled in gold. The walls were adorned with fine latticework and imbued with golden light that didn't flicker—it pulsed with a deliberate calmness. A scent of aged parchment, amber, and rosewood lingered in the air, suggesting heritage and carefully curated opulence.
When they reached the second floor, Ling caught a glimpse of a grand hall behind soundproof, velvet-padded doors. The velvet was deep emerald, embroidered with serpentine threads that shimmered with faint illusions of movement. There was an invisible hum in the air, like static clinging to one's clothes—and no voice rose above a whisper.
This was the heart of the house's operations. Here, rare and contraband items were assessed with clinical precision and catalogued into ledgers whose pages never tore, whose ink never faded. The third through fifth floors were where the bidding took place, tiered like an ancient amphitheater carved from marble and shadow. Ling had heard stories that on certain nights, all three levels—spanning the vaulting dome above—were filled with buyers who didn't blink at bleeding their fortunes dry.
The attendant—a woman defined by her neatness—stole a glance over her shoulder. Ling, the fifth son of the Sky Family, trailed behind with feline quiet. He was known, but not widely. A shadow of a reputation followed him—the boy who sold stolen heirlooms from his own clan. Yet his expression remained neutral, unbothered by what others imagined him to be.
What unsettled her wasn't the fact that he'd returned. It was what he had requested.
He asked to see the boss.
People didn't do that. Not unless they were desperate or mad. And yet she could not refuse—a decree hung over her head like a guillotine: every member of the Sky Family, even a minor one, was to be accommodated.
She hoped quietly that it wouldn't cost her position.
When they reached the sixth floor, Ling immediately felt the difference. The air was laced with sandalwood and wintermint, and the silence was different here—not absence of sound, but curated ambiance. The walls were a rich matte black, draped with silks so fine they drank the light. Bronze lanterns shaped like peonies hung from the ceiling, glowing like captured fireflies suspended mid-waltz.
The staff glided past them, their footsteps as soundless as the anticipation in a held breath. They wore flowing robes and lacquered hairpins that glinted like needles of moonlight. The people here were no longer petty collectors or middling nobles. These were the upper echelons: financiers, black market barons, warlords in exile. The air around them crackled with calculated greed.
And all of them turned to watch Ling.
Not out of awe. Out of curiosity. What was a minor Sky child doing here, walking among the true players?
He felt the chill of exclusion creep beneath his collar.
"Beggar and prince," he whispered to himself.
His illusionary dragon, invisible to others but all too loud, materialized with a yawn. Its shimmering form hovered lazily beside him.
"You seemed to have wandered into the lions' dens," it muttered, tapping its long tail against his temple. "Want to fill me in before you get yourself skinned?"
Ling ignored it. The curtain at the end of the hall drew near.
They stopped before a heavy drape of imperial crimson, threaded with phoenix feathers and gold sigils that shimmered like water under moonlight. The attendant gave a short bow, then gently pulled it aside, revealing a room infused with warmth and silent wealth.
The curtain fell closed behind him with a soft hiss.
The private suite exhaled comfort and command. A semicircular velvet sofa curved along the walls, upholstered in golden silk so dense it seemed to melt under the light. The plush carpet beneath his feet bore the same hues as a desert at twilight. A darkwood table sat in the center, hand-lacquered and polished to obsidian shine, draped with silk that whispered as it shifted. Atop it: a bottle of aged sake, sealed with wax, and two inverted crystal goblets.
Ling moved to the sofa and pressed his hand to the cushion. He traced the seam of the upholstery. Even the thread glimmered faintly—platinum? Maybe. This kind of wealth wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
Then a voice like silk steeped in tea poured into the space.
"Truth be told, I didn't think you'd ever come upstairs ever. But then, I didn't think my father always told me to expect the unexpected."
Ling turned.
She stood at the entrance like a painting stepping out of its frame.
Li Yuan.
Her skin was alabaster, her lips a perfect, contemplative red. Her eyes were elongated, touched with a hint of pink shadow, making them look like peonies in bloom. Twin pigtails tied with blooming lilies hung from either side of her head. Her gown clung like fire—deep crimson silk with gold flower petals embroidered in gentle spirals. Each movement made the gown shimmer, like sunlight breaking through a lacquer screen. A simple golden necklace adorned her collarbone, and her sandals chimed faintly with each step.
She was too young for this world. And yet—exactly suited for it.
Ling blinked.
"Are women usually this beautiful?" he asked the dragon. It snorted.
Li Yuan narrowed her eyes. She gave a faint pout, as if weighing how much politeness to feign.
"Have a seat, young Lord Fifth," she said with the kind of smile used in chess: distracting, distant, sharp-edged.
Ling remained standing. "I try not to get too comfortable. Makes a man soft."
With an elegant flick, she produced a fan and began fanning herself, hiding a small smirk.
"Here at the Weeping Shallows," she said, "business is conducted with civility. So please, indulge me."
He paused. Then sat.
The sofa hugged him like warm velvet water. Still, he kept his spine straight.
"You don't look like the boss," he said. "No offense."
Li Yuan took the opposite seat, crossing her legs with poise. "None taken. My father used to look the part—old, tired, and greedy. Then he left the auction house drowning in debt. I've been in charge ever since."
Ling raised a brow. "And now you're the mistress of it all?"
She tapped her fan once against her chin. "Correct. Mistress of the Weeping Shallows."
Her eyes were hard to read. Not guarded. Not open. Just—calculated.
She gestured toward the bottle.
"Tradition states that the master or mistress of the auction house pours the first drink only after business is done."
Ling leaned back slightly. He liked her.
He hated that he liked her.
"Then let's talk business," he said.
Their gazes locked.
The gold of the lanterns glinted in both their eyes.
A prince and a merchant queen.
Both with things to sell.
And possibly much more to lose.