The servant’s words hung in the air, a silken noose tightening around the fragile peace of the penthouse. Daryan’s golden eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, bore into Parvani, seeing past her manic cheer. He knew. He always seemed to know. Cold sweat prickled beneath her hairline, her cheeks aching as she locked her grin in place. She couldn't let him discover the truth of her curse. She couldn't burden him. She would die alone, as was her due.
Before Daryan could speak, before Parvani could devise another distraction, his gaze hardened. “They may demand,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards, “but I make the decisions.” He took Parvani’s arm, not gently, but with a possessive grip that left no room for argument. “It seems your kin have chosen an opportune moment for a public display. Let us provide them one.”
The Grand Auction Hall of the Spire of Marzaban was a cavernous space of polished obsidian and gilded filigree, ordinarily teeming with the preening elite of Khadaris. Today, however, an expectant hush had fallen, drawing every eye to the entrance where Daryan now stood. Parvani, nestled beside him, felt like a small, plain pebble beside a towering, polished boulder. Her coarse dun tunic, a stark contrast to the shimmering silks and jewel-encrusted robes of the gallery, was a deliberate act of defiance. It was a choice she knew would infuriate her former family, a silent declaration that she was no longer theirs to dress or parade. Rooz trotted dutifully at her heel, his six scuttling legs barely stirring the thick, plush carpets.
Then she saw them.
Jazmira, draped in cerulean velvet stitched with silver dunes, stood flanked by Old Man Jarak and Elder Sorosh. Their family sigils—a stylized hawk’s talon clutching a sun-gem—gleamed on their chests. Jazmira’s lips, curved in practiced poise, faltered the moment her gaze locked onto Parvani. A flicker of raw disbelief, quickly masked by a practiced sneer, crossed her face.
“Parvani?” Jazmira’s voice, a carefully modulated trill, cut through the quiet. “Is that truly you? My poor, lost sister.” She glided forward, her expression a perfect blend of pity and condescension. “We heard you had run off like a common vagabond. Our family has been so worried, haven’t we, Elder Jarak?”
Old Man Jarak, his face lined with long-festered grudges, merely grunted. “You brought shame to our bloodline, girl. Returning like this, unannounced, is no way to atone.” His gaze then fell on Rooz, his eyes narrowing to slits. “And that… creature. We always said it was an unsuitable pet. It belongs in the wastes, not at a grand sale.”
Sorosh, a matron whose thin lips curled sharp as a flensing knife, stepped closer with mock concern. “Indeed, Parvani. Perhaps you should offer the sand-glider to Jazmira. It would make a most striking mount for a proper Karkhan daughter to parade through the capital. A fine way to make amends.”
Parvani merely beamed, her smile stretching wider, vacant and utterly unburdened. “Oh, Jazmira would look simply divine on Rooz, wouldn’t she?” Her voice was light, airy, carrying a hint of distant madness. “Though Rooz is quite particular about who he carries. He prefers those with a…” she paused, tapping her chin with a finger, “…a truly unblemished heart, you see.”
Jazmira’s eyes flashed with a potent mix of fury and confusion. The slight struck deep. Her feigned sweetness cracked. “Why, you insolent—”
Before Jazmira could finish, Daryan stepped forward, his imposing form eclipsing Parvani. The air in the hall thickened, heavy with cold intent. The murmurs of the gallery died completely, replaced by a suffocating silence. Daryan’s amber irises held the flat, primeval glitter of a stalking predator. He did not raise his voice, yet the sheer pressure radiating off him drove the Karkhan delegation back a step.
“House Karkhan,” Daryan said softly, his tone cutting cleanly through the vaulted chamber. “Parvani is no longer your runaway daughter. She is my ward. My responsibility. Any further attempts to claim her, or her companions, will be considered a direct challenge to my house. Do I make myself clear?”
Old Man Jarak’s face mottled, but he clamped his jaw shut. The elder woman's smirk collapsed into a rigid grimace. Jazmira, however, her humiliation a burning ember in her chest, simply stared. Her eyes darted from Parvani’s vacant smile to Daryan’s terrifying impassivity, a desperate need for validation clawing at her. She would not be dismissed. Not here. Not by them.
The bidding hall, stunned by Daryan’s warning, resumed proceedings with frantic haste. The podium master, mopping his gleaming forehead, hurried to present the next lot. “And now, esteemed guests, a truly peerless artifact! The Aegis-Core of the Serpent-King, unearthed from the Sunken City of Zahar! A defensive matrix capable of deflecting the might of a Shard-Titan, blessed by the elder gods themselves!”
A shimmering orb, the size of a gourd, was unveiled. It pulsed with a soft, cerulean light, its surface swirling with intricate, silver-thread patterns. Raw, primordial hums rolled off its core, drawing sharp gasps from the surrounding aristocracy.
Jazmira’s eyes, still brimming with resentful fury, snapped to the Aegis-Core. This was her moment to assert dominance and establish her standing. “Fifty thousand shards!” she cried out, her voice sharp with a desperate resolve. The amount was staggering, enough to feed a small village for a year.
The bidding escalated rapidly, the Aegis-Core a prize too valuable to ignore. “One hundred thousand!” shouted a merchant lord. “One hundred fifty!” countered a minor princeling.
“Three hundred thousand!” Jazmira shrieked, her face flushed, her eyes burning with a manic determination. She glanced at Jarak, who nodded grimly. This gamble drained a vast fraction of their clan's liquid treasury. But winning the Aegis-Core, especially after Daryan’s public rebuke, would be a statement. It would show that House Karkhan, and by extension, Jazmira, still held immense power.
The hall quieted, the sum immense. The auctioneer’s gavel hovered. “Going once… going twice…”
Daryan’s voice, a low, effortless baritone, cut through the tension. “Three million shards.”
The entire hall went dead quiet. Jazmira parted her lips in soundless shock. Three million shards. Ten times their final bid. It was an amount that would cripple most houses, a sum Daryan had uttered as if he were ordering a glass of water. It was not just a bid; it was a casual, brutal display of absolute power.
Elder Jarak swayed, his face ashen. The matriarch's pupils contracted in stark terror. The Aegis-Core, meant to signal their clan's resurgence, slipped irrevocably from reach. Humiliation, sharp and bitter, washed over Jazmira. Her carefully constructed facade shattered, revealing the raw, envious fury beneath.
“Sold!” the auctioneer stammered, his voice hoarse, his gavel striking the podium with a decisive thud. “To Lord Daryan Roshanak!”
One of Daryan’s retinue, a burly guard with a face like carved stone, quickly retrieved the glowing Aegis-Core. He presented it to Daryan, who took the artifact with an almost bored expression. Then, in a move that sent a fresh wave of disbelief through the assembled nobles, Daryan turned to Parvani.
He tossed the Aegis-Core to her. It spun end-over-end, the cerulean light reflecting in Parvani’s blank, smiling eyes. She caught it with practiced ease, her movements fluid despite the hefty mass of the relic. It fit neatly into her palm, pulsing gently.
“A suitable paperweight,” Daryan said, his voice carrying just far enough to reach the Karkhan elders. “For your sketchbook. That pile of drawings on your desk is always sliding about.”
Parvani giggled, her empty eyes fixed on the glowing orb. “Oh, thank you, Daryan! It’s ever so pretty! Rooz, look! A new shiny for my scribbles!” Rooz chittered in agreement, nudging the core with his snout.
Jazmira watched, her face contorting, a silent scream of rage and despair trapped in her throat. The legendary Aegis-Core, a symbol of power and protection, used as a trinket for a discarded, smiling idiot. It was a humiliation so profound it left her trembling. She had to do something. Anything. As Daryan turned to leave, Parvani still beaming at her new 'paperweight', Jazmira’s eyes fell upon a small, ornate vial tucked into her sleeve. Her grandfather’s… special blend. A dark smile, utterly devoid of sweetness, touched her lips. She moved swiftly, melting into the retreating crowd, her hand darting out. The glass cracked silently against the hem of Parvani’s coarse mantle, oil seeping into the weave as the throng surged past.