The golden water stretched where the harbour should have been. Waves of liquid light lapped against shores that had turned to polished brass, each ripple sending flashes of yellow across the surface like scattered coins. It was beautiful in the way a funeral pyre was beautiful, all warmth and light and the quiet understanding that something was ending.
Lucid stood at the top of the hill, his legs burning from the climb, his chest tight with the effort of breathing air that felt too thick. Beside him Fenwick said nothing. The nobleman's spirit had been scarred somewhere in the golden streets, in the alley where a cultist's fingers had closed around his throat, in the moments when he had felt his assets drain away and his body begin to freeze. He walked like a man carrying something heavy, his shoulders hunched, his eyes fixed on the ground ahead of his feet.
'He is broken. Not completely. But enough. Enough that dragging him further feels selfish.'
Was he being selfish? He did not care about Fenwick. Not really. The nobleman was a tool, a means to enter the Domain, a piece of the plan that had already served its purpose. But the guilt would come later. It always came later. And Lucid was tired of carrying more weight than he already had.
Still, he had to speak to him. Could not just walk in silence toward whatever waited at the tree's base.
"How you holding up alright?"
Fenwick glanced at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face pale beneath the pimples and the dark circles. He looked like someone who had been pulled from a grave and told to walk.
"Y... yes."
Lucid considered the speech, the posture, the way Fenwick's hands trembled even when they hung at his sides. He was anything but fine. He looked like he had seen better days and then watched those days get fed into a furnace.
'Need to lighten the mood. Need to put him at ease. If he falls apart completely, he is useless. And I cannot carry him and fight at the same time.'
He tried to recall anything that might relieve Fenwick of some burden. Anything that could put his heart at ease. A memory. A story. Something human that did not involve fraud or freezing or the golden weight of the Domain pressing down on them.
He mentioned something about a brother. Not his own. Fenwick's. The one who had died. Cholera, Fenwick had said earlier, in a moment of weakness, before the masks went back up.
Lucid could not help but feel a strange sense of pity. He did not ask details of him. Did not pry into wounds that were still fresh. Instead he chose something else.
"You wanna make it back, right?"
Fenwick nodded. His throat moved as he swallowed. "Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I need to carry on his legacy." The words came out raw, scraped clean of performance. "He believed in me. Even when I did not believe in myself. I cannot let that die with him."
Lucid nodded. Said nothing. The silence between them was different now. Less hostile. Less transactional.
'I have a much more cleared image now. He was dragged into this. Someone orchestrated all of this and played his character perfectly well. Cannot draw too hasty conclusions but he does not have to be involved with all of this. Not really. He could walk away after today. If he survives.'
He looked at the gigantic tree. Its bark rose from the top of the hill, expanding upward into the air, branches spreading across the sky like the veins of some enormous heart. He did not know how this would go. Did not know if the auction was even here. But he followed the people in purple robes, the groups of guards that trailed behind an important figure he could not quite get his eyes on. The magistrate, probably. Or someone worse. As well as a couple of others moving through the golden haze with purpose.
'It has to be here. My senses are never wrong.'
A voice thundered through the sky. Through the air. Through his bones.
[Participants inside the Domain.]
[Participants within this vicinity shall partake in the event.]
He looked at Fenwick. "Stick to me. And do not be stupid."
Fenwick looked back. A smile crept up his face. Not a happy smile. Something smaller. Something that acknowledged the absurdity of the situation. Who was this idiotic commoner to tell him what to do? The irony was not lost on him. But yet it was also pretty relieving. For the first time he let himself feel something after a tragic past.
A rectangular platform rose from the ground. Pristine white stone that seemed to glow from within. It shot upward, lifting Lucid and Fenwick with it, the air current almost tearing them from the surface. Lucid held firm. Held Fenwick as well, his hand gripping the nobleman's arm, keeping him steady as the ground fell away and the golden clouds rushed toward them.
They broke through the clouds.
The platform stopped. Lucid stood. Looked around.
He was on a platform suspended above the golden haze. Around him, at various distances, other platforms floated, each one carrying its own group of participants. The sky was brilliant, golden hour sunset but not the familiar orange. It was yellow. A deep, saturated yellow that had its own ambience, its own vibrance, its own oppressive weight.
He was amazed. But he quickly masked it with his usual stern look. Could not afford to lose his calm. Not here. Not now.
Fenwick stood up beside him. His face was pale. His eyes were wide. He was scared beyond anything, his hands gripping the edge of the platform like it might tip at any moment.
The platforms moved. Shifted. Drew closer together. Lucid saw figures on the others. Robed individuals in purple, their hoods drawn, their faces hidden. Guards in polished armor. A nobleman with cold eyes and a colder smile. And a lone figure wrapped in shadows that did not quite hide the shape of something dangerous.
'Every faction is here. The cultists. The magistrate's people. The independent powers. All of them want the relic.'
But someone was missing. He could not quite point his finger at it. The nobleman who had conspired with the cultists back in Port Vexis. The one who had laughed with Fenwick outside the tavern. He was not here. Or he was hidden.
He did not care. Let them come. Let them all come.
[The auction shall begin.]
[You are Party 1. Lucid and Fenwick.]
'Sweet. It knows our names.'
The voice was different. Not the same voice as the trial in the streets. This one was distinct. More dominant. More imposing. It pressed against his ears like a hand cupped around his head.
The ground trembled. The platforms shifted again, the pillars beneath them joining together, merging into a single uneven surface that creaked and groaned under the strain. The figures moved, stepping onto the joined platforms, taking positions around a central stage that had not been there a moment ago.
The air changed. Darker now. A dark gold vibrance that made everything look slightly wrong, slightly off, like a painting left too long in the sun.
A woman walked forward. Blue dress. White hair. Escorted by guards.
Something was wrong with these guards.
They were small. Too small. They had the same hair style as her. The same pale skin. The same shape of face beneath their helmets. They wore the same clothing, scaled down to their diminutive frames, and they moved in perfect synchronization, like puppets pulled by the same strings.
'The heck. They are not guards. Is this witchery?'
He shook his head. Looked away. Saw a group of hidden figures on another platform, but one stepped forward among them. Tall. Broad shouldered. Something about the way they moved suggested power barely contained.
'No. Not the same individual.'
He looked to the other side.
An individual with golden hair. Familiar but also different somehow. They wore a gold coat that hung from their shoulders, a black undershirt, black pants. They had blood on their cheek, fresh and red against pale skin. Their eyes were obscured by their golden curly hair, but something about the set of their jaw, the way they held themselves, tugged at his memory.
'The Generous Scoundrel? Valen Thorne? Here?'
He could not be sure. The figure did not look at him. Did not acknowledge his presence at all. Just stood at the edge of their platform, still as a statue, watching the central stage with an intensity that made the air around them shimmer.
All the contestants had gathered. It was about time.
Lucid thought about their assets. Dwindled to almost nothing after the confrontation with the aristocrat. A few promises. A handful of tokens. The pendant he had found in the empty room, purple and gleaming. The ring worth seven gold. The knife from the alley.
These other participants had real wealth. Real belongings. Estates and influence and power that had been accumulated over years, decades, lifetimes.
But that did not mean he would fold.
He grinned.
Fenwick caught the expression on his face. For a moment the nobleman looked confused. Then something shifted in his eyes. Understanding. Maybe even hope.
'Let them have their gold. Their property. Their armies of identical guards. I have something they do not. I have nothing left to lose and a power that is killing me whether I use it or not.'
The voice returned.
[First lot. The Anchor of Forgotten Promises. Opening bid. One thousand marks of recognized value.]
A figure on a nearby platform raised a hand. Another followed. The bids climbed.
Lucid watched. Waited. The relic was not first. The relic would be last. Everything before it was theater, warm-up, a chance for the Domain to drain assets from the reckless before the real prize appeared.
'Let them spend. Let them weaken each other. I will wait. I will watch. And when the moment comes, I will bet everything I have left.'