Zarbek’s jaw tightened, the flush on his cheeks fading to a grim line. “The Leviathan sleeps. It stays asleep.” His gaze flickered to Tasmira, whose face was still buried in his cloak, her grip like a vise. He felt the tremor in her body, a tiny vibration against his own. He knew it wasn’t fear for him, but the familiar prelude to her paralyzing shyness, a fear far more potent than any blade. “Indeed,” Olema chuckled, a dry, rustling sound like crushed glass. “But the beast stirs with the influx of Sun-Vein. A delicate balance, my king. One that your cousin, Tavash, seeks to exploit.” Barely three days later, the Obsidian Citadel pulsed with a frantic energy. Tavash, riding high on his perceived triumph, had declared a grand sale. The rumor mill churned, each whisper a gilded lie: he would reveal a new, colossal Sun-Vein find, securing his family's dominance. The actual bait, however, was far more insidious: a shimmering, palm-sized crystal, suspended in a beam of concentrated light within the main rotunda – an orb he claimed was the Imperial Apex, the very cure for the Wasting Curse. Zarbek, cloaked in the drab robes of a lesser peddler, adjusted the hood that obscured his distinctive features. Tasmira, swathed in thick, utilitarian fabric, her face almost entirely hidden by a dark veil, clung to his arm. She stood mute, her fingers digging into his bicep. Murmuring voices, clinking metal cups, and the rustle of expensive silks crushed against her eardrums. Her throat locked; her ribs hitched tight beneath her bodice. This was her hell: the public eye, the scrutinizing gazes, even if they were oblivious to her identity. “It’s a false stone,” Zarbek murmured, his lips brushing her veiled ear, a pre-arranged signal. “Olema verified it. A clever mimicry, but inert.” Tasmira nodded, her response a nearly imperceptible movement against his arm. She squeezed his thigh, a short, sharp jab with her knuckles. *Bid.* “Two score thousand shards,” Zarbek called out, his voice surprisingly robust despite the layers of disguise. A ripple went through the assembled lords and ladies. Tavash, perched on a raised dais, paused mid-sip of his glowing nectar. His lids narrowed toward Zarbek’s cowl. The bidding escalated quickly. Tasmira's knuckles dug into Zarbek's thigh again, a longer, more aggressive squeeze. *Higher. Much higher.* Sweat beaded on Zarbek’s brow beneath his hood. He hated this. He was a warlord, accustomed to the clarity of battle, not the deceptive dance of a bidding war. “Fifty score gross!” he bellowed, the sum absurd, drawing gasps. Tavash’s smirk faltered. He clearly had not anticipated such deep pockets from a hooded stranger. “Sixty score!” he retorted, his tone shrill. His plot hinged on bleeding the rivals dry over the Apex. Tasmira’s hand moved again, a furious, almost desperate clench on Zarbek's thigh. Her shyness was warring with her tactical ruthlessness. She wanted to scream the number, but the words felt trapped in her throat, strangled by the sheer terror of public speaking. *All of it. Every last shard!* Her nails, sharp from days of digging through raw crystal, bit into his leg. The sting dug clean through his wool coat. “A full myriad crates of refined glass!” Zarbek roared, his voice cracking under the sheer audacity of the offer. This was madness, tossing their hard-won vault into the void for a dummy. Tavash spluttered, nearly dropping his goblet. His face went pale, then mottled with fury. He had already overextended his credit, bribing the Citadel Vanguard and investing in his faux mine. This unknown merchant was destroying him. “Double that haul!” he shrieked, his voice thin and reedy. Just as the bailiff raised his bronze mallet, Tasmira’s hand moved. Not to his thigh, but to her own cloak. Her fingers, still trembling from her anxiety, fumbled with a hidden pouch. A small, parchment-bound dossier, weighted with a sliver of unrefined sun-vein, slipped from her grasp. It tumbled to the polished glass floor, skittering across the surface and coming to rest at the feet of Lord Kaelus, the Citadel’s most meticulous auditor. He bent, his brow furrowed, picking it up. He began to read, his eyes scanning the neatly penned figures of Tavash’s illicit transactions, his embezzled funds, his falsified ledgers. “Ten myriad!” Zarbek barked, covering her movement while murmurs erupted around Kaelus. But it was too late. Lord Kaelus, his face ashen with disgust, rose slowly, the dossier clutched in his hand. “Tavash,” he announced, his voice carrying clearly through the sudden quiet of the hall. “Your bid is invalid. Your accounts are… empty. And fraudulent.” The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by Tavash’s choked gasp. He stared at the dossier, then at Tasmira, whose veil remained motionless. He was ruined. Publicly, spectacularly ruined. “Sold!” the bailiff bellowed, slamming down the mallet. “Ten myriad to the masked buyer!” Zarbek strode forward, Tasmira still clinging to his arm, though her grip had softened, a hint of fierce triumph replacing the paralyzing fear. He presented an imperial draft proving their liquidity. The fake relic, now theirs, was lowered from its crane and handed over. When Tasmira reached out, a fracture webbed across the faceted surface. It didn't just shatter; it imploded inward with a sharp *CRACK*, emitting a blinding, blood-red pulse that shot through the floor, a magical homing beacon directly into the Leviathan’s nervous system.

The Grand Auction