“An electromagnetic pulse,” Sivara repeated, her voice a low murmur against the steady thrum of the van. The rain outside picked up, drumming a staccato rhythm on the roof. “Bordan wouldn’t just try to steal it. He’d want to make sure no one else could authenticate anything. Total chaos.” Vannoc rotated the small black cylinder in his fingers, the faint blue light a cool beacon in the dim cab. “Exactly. And if he hits the Solstice Gala at the precise moment Veltren is scheduled to audit your watch, it’s not just your inheritance that goes into default. Imagine the fallout: every Aegis-Caliber timepiece in that room, the keys to vast fortunes, all simultaneously disrupted. Panic, lawsuits, a market free-for-all. Bordan probably has a team ready to exploit the immediate aftermath, buying up distressed assets at pennies on the credit.” Sivara settled against the passenger door, tracking droplets across the glass. “So, my watch needs a shield. Something that can withstand a focused EMP.” “A specialized anti-magnetic escapement,” Vannoc stated, flicking the device into the small console bin. “Something rare. Something expensive. Something that’s usually only found in a premier horologist’s personal collection, or… on the bidding floor.” He shifted the van into gear. “There’s a private horological sale tonight at the Aegis Atrium. High-end collectors, obscure components, the usual Oparia elite spectacle. It’s our best bet.” The Aegis Rotunda was less a sales floor and more a temple of commerce, all polished obsidian and shimmering glass reflecting the city’s nocturnal glow. Attendants in charcoal livery moved with hushed efficiency, guiding armored hover-limos into subterranean parking bays. Vannoc, clad in a rented, slightly too-tight suit of cheap synthetic fabric, felt the stares on him like physical prods. The material chafed his neck, and the knot of his tie felt like a noose. Sivara, however, moved through the opulent space like she owned it, her midnight-blue gown flowing around her. The fabric, cut to expose the elegant curve of her shoulder, shimmered subtly under the ambient lighting. She walked with an innate grace, ignoring the curious, disdainful glances directed at Vannoc. “Just act like you belong,” she murmured, her voice a low current against the din of polite chatter. “Or, better yet, act like you don’t care that you don’t.” “I’m excelling at the latter,” Vannoc replied, adjusting his ill-fitting cuff. “Who knew polyester could cause such an existential crisis?” They found their seats in the main gallery, a tiered amphitheater overlooking a circular podium. The air was thick with the scent of aged spirits and expensive perfumes. A woman in a gown embroidered with tiny, gleaming gears gave Vannoc a once-over that lingered on his scuffed dress shoes before turning her back with a disdainful sniff. Sivara saw it. Her expression remained serene, but a subtle hardening entered her eyes. Later, as the woman drifted past their row, Sivara tilted forward just enough to ensure her words carried. “My apologies, madam,” she said, her tone dripping with honeyed condescension. “It appears the hall's ventilation system has failed. There’s a distinct aroma of… stale ambition.” The woman stiffened, her face flushing crimson, before retreating in a huff. Vannoc allowed a small, almost imperceptible tilt of his lips. “Subtle.” “I’m learning from the champion of bluntness,” Sivara countered, a glint in her eyes. “Now, focus. The catalogue listed an ‘Inertial Balancer, circa 2280, from the celebrated workshop of Kian Volkov.’ That’s our target.” The bidding progressed with a quiet intensity, each lot a whisper of immense wealth changing hands. Finally, the auctioneer, a slender man with a voice like polished quartz, introduced their item. A display case, bathed in focused light, revealed a tiny, intricate cluster of gears, no larger than a thumbnail. Its surfaces seemed to absorb light, an almost ethereal quality. “Item 734,” the auctioneer announced, his voice reverberating through the hall. “The Volkov Balancer. Starting bid, five hundred thousand credits.” A paddle rose immediately. “Five-fifty.” Another. “Six hundred.” Vannoc edged closer. “That’s it. That’s what we need. The inertial unit is the heart of the escapement. It will provide the necessary buffer.” Sivara raised her paddle. “Eight hundred thousand.” The bids climbed, steadily at first, then in larger increments. Higher and higher. Then, a familiar, grating voice cut through the air: “Two million credits!” Bordan Morvath stood near the back, a smug smile plastered across his face. He caught Sivara’s eye, a triumphant sneer twisting his features. He was flanked by Junior Auditor Tyne, whose own status watch gleamed on his wrist, likely a new, authentic one this time. Bordan wasn’t bidding because he needed the part; he was bidding to spite her. “Two point one,” Sivara called out, her voice unwavering. “Three million credits,” Bordan announced, his smile widening, his gaze never leaving Sivara’s. The gallery went silent. Three million for a single, tiny cog was an exorbitant sum, even for this crowd. It was a statement of power, a calculated humiliation. Sivara hesitated, her paddle poised. She knew Bordan could continue this indefinitely, bleeding her family’s already strained resources dry before the audit. Her brow furrowed, a flicker of frustration crossing her features. Vannoc, however, did not react. He remained still, his expression unreadable. “Going once… going twice…” the auctioneer intoned. Sivara glanced at Vannoc, her eyes asking a silent question. He gave the slightest, almost imperceptible shake of his head. “Sold! For three million credits, to the gentleman in the rear!” The gavel struck with a sharp crack. Bordan let out a short, guttural laugh that grated against the hushed reverence of the hall. He bowed slightly towards Sivara, a theatrical gesture of victory. Sivara’s shoulders tightened. The loss and the sting of her uncle’s smirk settled heavily on her. “We needed that,” she whispered, the words laced with a rare thread of despair. Vannoc shifted nearer, his voice a low rumble that only she could hear. A strange, almost predatory light entered his eyes. “No, we didn’t. That Volkov Balancer? It’s a flawless replica, an expert counterfeit, just a few microns off the original schematics. He just bought himself a very expensive paperweight.” He paused, a cold smile touching his mouth. “The real one, the primary gear, sits in the personal vault of collector Joric Kelven. And I know exactly how to get it.”

The Velvet Auction