---
A noble tried to participate, raising with polite confidence, but the moment he did, someone behind him laughed softly like he had just told a joke.
A back-row bidder raised. "One point five."
Another back-row bidder countered instantly. "Two."
A mercenary rep joined. "Two point three."
The room warmed with competitive energy. The whip was not a trophy. It was a tool. Tool bidding always became vicious because tools had immediate use. People paid for what could save their life tomorrow, not for what looked good in a portrait.
Iron House did not bid.
Dickoff sat still, expression unchanged, as if the whip bored him. That told Sekhmet something. Iron House didn't want the room to know they had an interest in flexible weapons. Or Iron House considered this item not worth their stones. Either way, their silence allowed other buyers to become bold.
"Three million," a cloaked buyer said calmly.
Mira repeated smoothly. "Three million."
