Iscar sat back as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over him.

  The auction had reached its climax. This was the point where appearances mattered most. He had planned to secure at least one or two items—nothing extravagant—just enough to make it clear that House Winterwell still had means.

  Instead, he had nothing.

  Air.

  That realization settled heavily in his chest. Controlling his frustration took real effort. So did keeping his anger from showing. He had trained himself for moments like this, but that did not make it easy.

  Across the hall, the masked woman caught his eye.

  She was looking at him.

  Not openly, but just enough. There was a faint curve to her lips—subtle, deliberate—as if she were quietly satisfied with herself. As if this had been exactly what she wanted.

  She looks like she enjoyed that, he thought.

  The sounds around him grew harder to ignore.

  Soft laughter. Low voices. The sort meant to be overheard without anyone taking responsibility for them.

  “Master Iscar is still as popular as ever.”

  Another voice followed, light and amused. “Of course. I imagine she found her first love the moment she saw you.”

  A third chimed in. “She must be saving you money. Why else stop him from buying anything?”

  More quiet laughter.

  The words themselves sounded harmless—almost flattering, if taken at face value. But Iscar understood them perfectly. Praise wrapped around mockery. Sympathy laced with amusement.

  He had been made into entertainment.

  His fingers curled slightly against the armrest, then relaxed. He kept his posture straight. His expression neutral.

  He did not respond.

  There was nothing to be gained by acknowledging it. Anyone watching would see a calm nobleman observing the auction, unbothered by idle chatter.

  Only he knew how much effort it took to remain still.

  Iscar stared ahead, jaw tight, and endured it.

  There was nothing he could do now.

  Only the main items remained. The centerpiece lots. Things far beyond what he could reasonably bid for. Iscar was no longer a participant in the auction.

  He was an audience member.

  That realization stung more than he wanted to admit. He sat still, hands folded, gaze fixed forward, as if this were exactly where he had intended to be all along.

  Still, his thoughts refused to settle.

  She hadn’t merely outbid him. She had stopped him from buying anything at all. And yet, it wasn’t as though he had simply folded. He had pushed back. He had raised prices when he could, forced the bids higher, burned at least some of her money before stepping aside.

  Until his courage ran out.

  He exhaled slowly.

  This behavior of hers was childish. That was the only word for it. Blocking him outright instead of competing properly. If she was determined not to let him buy anything, then the least he could do was make it expensive for her.

  Double the price. Triple it, if possible.

  If she wanted to play games, then so could he.

  Chubbington’s words came back to him.

  A rival of Duke Merlo.

  If that was true, then this situation could still be turned to his advantage. Every time he pushed the bidding higher, he weakened her position. Every coin she spent here was one she couldn’t use later.

  And if Duke Merlo secured the main item tonight, then Iscar could frame his actions as assistance. Support. A small, quiet contribution to a greater outcome.

  It wouldn’t be much.

  But even a sliver of favor from a duke was worth far more than a stack of potions.

  Yes.

  That could work.

  Iscar straightened slightly in his seat, attention sharpening as the atmosphere in the hall shifted. The murmurs lowered as silence fell over the hall.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The auctioneer allowed the silence to settle.

  Not the polite kind.

  The kind that made people lean forward without realizing they were doing it.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said at last, his voice steady and deliberate, “we now arrive at the principal item of tonight’s auction.”

  A subtle tension rippled through the hall.

  “This is not an artifact.”

  “It is not a curiosity.”

  He paused.

  “It is a capital residence.”

  The curtain behind him was drawn aside.

  Blueprints were revealed. Clean. Precise. Unmistakably noble in scale. A walled estate. Inner gardens. Layered defensive layouts. Old royal seals embedded directly into the design.

  “This property is located within the Royal Capital,” the auctioneer continued, “in the inner noble district, within close proximity to the Royal Castle.”

  Murmurs surfaced immediately.

  The auctioneer raised a hand, and the hall quieted.

  “This residence was once held by a ducal house.”

  That landed.

  Not loudly.

  But heavily.

  “It served as the capital seat of a duke entrusted with court presence and royal defense.”

  He did not smile.

  “Let me be perfectly clear,” he went on. “The purchaser of this estate will not be granted a ducal title. No elevation of rank accompanies this sale.”

  A brief pause.

  “But.”

  The single word tightened the room.

  “To reside in a former ducal capital house is a matter of record.”

  Eyes sharpened.

  “It is something that will be spoken of. Remembered. Cited.”

  “For decades.”

  He gestured toward the schematics again.

  “This estate includes a fortified mansion, inner and outer gardens, ceremonial halls, guest quarters, and embedded defensive enchantments constructed to ducal standards.”

  Another ripple moved through the audience.

  “As many of you are aware,” he continued, “all land within the Royal Capital remains the property of the Crown. This estate grants no territorial authority, no taxation rights, and no independent jurisdiction.”

  He let that settle.

  “What it grants is recognized residence at the heart of the capital, and the accompanying proximity privileges reserved for houses deemed worthy of standing near the throne.”

  That was the real prize.

  “This residence was previously held under royal assignment.”

  Several expressions shifted.

  “By formal contract between the Merchant Guild and the Royal Family, the Crown has authorized this property to be released through auction.”

  His tone sharpened.

  “Because of this agreement, bidding rights are restricted.”

  He lifted his gaze.

  “Only officially recognized noble houses of this kingdom, or representatives acting on behalf of sovereign states, may place bids.”

  “Private individuals, merchant houses, and guild members are not eligible.”

  Silence followed.

  “Upon conclusion of the auction,” the auctioneer said, “the purchaser will receive immediate residential recognition within the Royal Capital. All documentation will be ratified directly by the Crown.”

  Then, calmly:

  “This is not the purchase of land.”

  “It is the acquisition of presence.”

  A beat.

  “It is the purchase of history.”

  Another.

  “And for some,” he added, “it will be a legacy their descendants will still boast about long after tonight is forgotten.”

  He lifted his gavel.

  “The opening bid will begin at one hundred thousand gold coins.”

  The reaction was immediate.

  “One hundred thousand?” someone muttered from the crowd. “As a starting bid?”

  Another voice followed, incredulous. “Are they insane? Didn’t Duke Merlo’s capital residence cost that much at its peak?”

  A low wave of shock rolled through the hall. One hundred thousand gold was not a casual sum. With that amount, a person could purchase a title outright from a count—a hollow one, stripped of territory and authority, but a title nonetheless. It was a desperate option for fallen houses, rarely used and never spoken of proudly.

  This, however, was only the opening.

  Which meant it would rise.

  How far, no one could say.

  Many nobles sat stiffly, realizing too late that they had not prepared for something on this scale.

  Then a voice cut cleanly through the murmurs.

  “Two hundred thousand.”

  Heads turned.

  Duke Merlo.

  The price doubled without hesitation.

  Some would later say he was burning money. But that wasn’t what this was. He was not merely bidding for property. He was asserting dominance. Where others hesitated at one hundred thousand, he stepped forward and doubled it without pause.

  The message was clear.

  This was his arena.

  The Kingdom of Diamantia had once been supported by four ducal houses.

  Each had carved out its own reputation.

  One was famed for its mages.

  Another for its warriors.

  A third for its mastery of summoning magic.

  And the last was House Merlo, known for its assassins.

  Those four houses had stood at the top of the kingdom’s hierarchy for generations.

  Now, only three remained.

  The ducal house of summoning, House Armis, was gone.

  It had not fallen to war or rebellion. There had been no siege, no warning. One night, every member of House Armis vanished. Toddlers. Elders. Lords and retainers alike. According to the servants who witnessed it, they turned to dust where they stood, all at the same moment, as if they had simply reached the end of something unseen.

  By morning, the house was empty.

  The event had shaken the kingdom at the time. Investigations were launched. Theories were whispered. Then, gradually, life moved on. The mystery faded into history, remembered vaguely and spoken of less with each passing decade.

  Back then, House Armis had been the most powerful of the four.

  House Merlo had been the weakest.

  Not in strength, but in influence.

  Assassins were never celebrated. Mages were admired. Warriors were honored. But killers who worked in shadows earned only fear and discomfort. House Merlo’s reputation had eroded steadily, until it risked becoming nothing more than a den of cold-blooded professionals with no political weight.

  That future was not acceptable to the young Duke Merlo.

  He understood something his predecessors had not. Power did not come from blades alone. Influence mattered. Visibility mattered. Control mattered.

  He needed another pillar.

  He found it in money.

  His father, the previous duke, had opposed him. Wealth was crude. Undignified. Not the way their house had survived for generations. But the old duke’s objections ended with his death, and the younger Merlo moved quickly.

  He invested. He expanded. He reshaped how the kingdom saw his house.

  Assassins were no longer the whole story. Gold became the new symbol. Reliable. Undeniable. Welcome everywhere.

  House Merlo rose.

  Not as the strongest militarily. Not as the most magically gifted.

  But as the wealthiest.

  That was enough.

  Money bridged gaps that blades could not. It bought influence where fear failed. Before long, House Merlo stood equal to the remaining ducal houses in both power and standing.

  Some believed that, in his youth, Duke Merlo might have extended his reach beyond the kingdom entirely. That he could have reshaped the balance of power across the continent.

  But he was old now.

  Still human. Still bound by time.

  Even so, the work of his life had already been done. The once-dreaded house of assassins was now spoken of as the Golden Family, and Duke Merlo himself was known as the Golden Hand of Diamantia.

  And tonight, seated beneath the auction hall lights, he had no intention of losing.