Down below, in the bowels of the mansion, silence reigned.
A heavy wooden chest sat alone in the center of the stone chamber—wrapped in chains, its surface carved with ancient sigils that pulsed faintly with a lethal purple glow.
The air was still.
And in that stillness, the chest beat once—a slow, haunting throb, like the echo of a heart that should no longer beat.
The aura it gave off was cold, sharp, dangerous. Enough to make any soul shiver if they stepped too close.
From above, the sound of footsteps began to echo—the descent had begun.
The air changed as they stepped into the underground hall.
Cold. Heavy. Like something ancient had been waiting.
And then—they felt it.
A pulse.
One heartbeat.
Not from a person—but from something else
Thory stopped mid-step. "Did you feel that?"
Fen didn't blink. "Yes."
It wasn't just magic. It was a presence. Lethal.
Thory kept her voice low. "If this goes bad, I stashed an escape rune outside the mansion wall. North garden. It'll open once I trigger it."
Fen gave a slow nod. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
A hush fell over the corridor as the guests were led deeper into the mansion, down marble stairs veiled in velvet ropes and watched by silent, guards in toxido. The light grew dimmer—chandeliers fading to sconces, sconces dwindling to lanterns. Stone walls replaced wallpaper.
The Grand Hall dimmed as the host raised his hand, commanding silence.
A single spotlight bathed the stage where a tall, cracked stone frog statue stood—moss still clinging to its sides. It looked ancient, awkwardly solemn, with wide lips and chipped eyes.
The host stepped forward, voice echoing with practiced grandeur.
"Our first item," he announced, "retrieved from the ruins of a long-abandoned village in the northern wilds—no records, no name. A forgotten place, but this statue was clearly worshipped. Perhaps even feared. An oddity, yes, but one with history, mystery... and maybe more."
He gave a charming pause.
"Opening bid: one million Fehu."
At first, silence.
Then laughter.
A governor near the front scoffed loudly, voice cutting through the air.
"You dragged us here for a glorified garden ornament?" he bellowed. "What's next? Haunted doorknobs?"
The audience rippled with amusement—chuckles, snorts, even a few mocking claps.
But before the host could recover, a hand lifted calmly from the third row.
It was the man Thory had met at the reception.
"One million," he said, voice level, smooth.
The room quieted in an instant. All eyes turned.
And he smiled—not at the statue, but at the people—as if their reactions were more amusing than the artifact itself.
Thory raised an eyebrow, whispering to Fen, "That guy again. He's either brilliant... or bored out of his mind."
Fen didn't reply. He was staring at the man, something unreadable in his eyes.
The crowd's laughter swelled, mocking the absurdity of the bid. The frog statue—an artifact from a long-abandoned, forgotten district—was more curiosity than treasure. Murmurs filled the hall as the statue was silently dragged back behind thick velvet curtains, disappearing from view.
Amid the chuckles and whispered jabs, the man who had raised the bid simply stood. His smile was calm, unreadable—a stark contrast to the mocking crowd around him. Without a word, he slipped from his seat and moved toward the far end of the hall, where a discrete door led to the private gallery.
Heads turned briefly, some sneering, some curious, but no one stopped him. He walked steadily, purposefully, hands relaxed at his sides. As he reached the door, a guard nodded and opened it silently.
Slowly, he stepped forward until he stood face to face with the statue, its cold stone eyes staring back like an ancient sentinel. The faint flicker of the dim lights caught the rough contours of the statue's weathered surface, while the man's sharp gaze locked onto it without a hint of fear or doubt.
Outside the gallery, muffled voices echoed—
"Next item coming up."
But inside, the man was already focused on what mattered most.
A quiet voice broke the silence nearby—
"Boss, the next item will be presented soon."
Without taking his eyes off the statue, the man nodded.
"Alright," he said softly, as if answering the statue itself, "I'll be back."
Turning away from the stone gaze, he melted back into the shadows, leaving the statue alone in the dark—silent, waiting, and watching.
The host raised his hand high—then threw it outward with flair.
In an instant, a spotlight flared to life, cutting through the dim, smoky air. Its beam landed with precision at the far end of the grand hall, illuminating a solitary object that now stole the breath from the room.
There it stood—a wooden chest, bound in thick iron chains, each link engraved with glowing runes that pulsed a deep, dangerous purple. The air around it shimmered faintly, distorted by the cursed aura leaking from within.
"Behold," the host said, voice rising, "the Fang of Nidhogg."
The silence was absolute.
"This unholy relic was forged from the remains of the god-devouring wyrm itself. A blade born not to conquer… but to consume. It is said to carry within it the curse of roots—twisting, spreading, devouring—capable of turning entire cities to rot."
His words hung heavy as all eyes locked on the sealed chest, still as death, yet alive in its menace.
From the shadows, Fen's jaw tightened.
Thory's eyes flicked toward him.
"This is bad," she whispered.
"No," Fen murmured. "This is worse."
Across the hall, the assembled royals and political elites leaned in—hungry, silent, and smiling.
A beat of silence. Then—
Hands shot up.
Gloved fingers, jeweled rings, the delicate twitch of a silk sleeve—the nobles and governors sprang into action, their voices sharp, cold, desperate.
> "Eleven million Fehu— "From a Governor!"
> "Twelve!— From a Rich Noble Woman bids twelve!"
> "Fifteen million!"
The room turned to chaos with elegance. Greedy eyes flickered with ambition, and a fever overtook the hall—not unlike madness. These weren't men and women protecting their cities.
They were hunters, scenting godlike power.
From his seat near the edge, Fen's brows furrowed, fists tight at his knees. The purple glow still throbbed around the chained chest, and his skin prickled with dread.
"They don't even know what they're bidding for," he muttered.
Thory didn't respond. Her face was still, cold in concentration. She hadn't blinked once since the chest was unveiled.
"They know enough," she said finally. "Power that kill an enemy country. That's all they need to hear."
Her eyes scanned the nobles—calculating, dissecting.
"This is exactly how it always starts," she added. "A room full of crowns and Money trying to buy the end of the world."
Another bid—twenty million.
Someone shouted. Applause erupted.
And the auction was only beginning.
At the far side of the hall, near the velvet ropes and golden sconces, the man Thory met earlier sat calmly amid the frenzy. Unlike the others—governors with twitching brows and nobles halfway out of their seats—he didn't raise a hand, didn't lean forward.
He simply smiled.
Not in amusement.
Not in mockery.
But in knowing.
As if the chaos unfurling before him—the desperation, the climbing numbers, the lust for cursed power—was a song he had heard a thousand times before.
And he liked how it played.