The chandeliers shimmered above, scattering warm light through crystal prisms onto the gleaming marble floor. Velvet seats lined the hall in graceful curves, while gold-trimmed walls and deep crimson drapes framed the space with quiet grandeur. The crowd leaned forward, breath held, eyes sharp with desire.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen" the auctioneer's voice rang out, too smooth, too rehearsed. "I present to you Lot 21 of this evening's grand showcase—this one's sure to blow your hats off and empty your pockets, all with elegance, of course."
He pointed—both hands sharp, deliberate—toward the edge of the stage. From the left, two assistants emerged—dressed in formal black, white gloves hiding every trace of their touch. They pushed forward a cart made of black lacquered steel and reinforced glass. Emblazoned on the front was the sigil of HouseTaylon: an eagle in descent, feathers trailing like ash from a dying fire. Weird. Kind of emo
This year, it was the Taylons who hosted the auction in their age-old house—a grand chamber built for prestige, precision, and profit.
Atop the cart, secured beneath a pristine glass dome, sat lot 21.
The firearm was a countryside model, long-barreled and matte. The stock was crafted from dark walnut, near-black. What made it truly special were the golden inlays that curled like ivy up the barrel and around the trigger guard, delicate and intricate.
It looked like the sort of showpiece you'd hang over a fireplace or display inside cabinets to flaunt wealth and status—more ornament than weapon, far removed from the violence it could inflict.
"What you see before you is no mere firearm. It is a shard of noble history—once the possession of Prince Cartler of London. A man whispered of in both fear and reverence." the auctioneer declared, his gloved hands rested lightly on the glass dome.
I knew a little about the history, but I knew enough to recognize the name Prince Cartler. I was told he led the forces of London in the war against Spain—the one that painted the Bay of Biscay red. A hero, they called him, but that's all I ever heard.
"Then, bidding opens at fifty thousand pounds sterling. Do I hear sixty?" The whispers stopped at once. A curious hush spread across the room, followed by a subtle ripple. Like a pulse beneath the polished surface.
A paddle lifted in the back—
I turned, curious, and my eyes landed on a glamorous woman in her thirties,
clad in a burgundy velvet gown with a fitted bodice and a gently flared skirt. A black lace collar and a small feathered hat completed her refined look. Her diamond bracelet caught the light, gleaming as she held her hand—and her paddle—raised..
"Paddle 112, sixty thousand pounds sterling!' The auctioneer shouted with excitement.
"That's Cronia Wilbeck. Married to Adrian Wilbeck, the Duke of Milgarden. Got two kids to keep her busy, but she sure loves dressing up and fussin' over her villa. And dark chocolate, she's addicted. He whispered, seated beside me—my closest friend and the one I had asked to assist during the auction. Regis Waeris.
No sooner had one bid gone up than another followed it. The bidder appeared to be in his mid-forties, silver beard groomed to millitary sharpness. His black tuxedo and white-striped shirt graced him that classical look.
"Seventy Thousand for Paddle 47" the auctioneer's voice rang out again.
"Ronalds Aurison," Regis whispered, nodding subtly toward the man in the tuxedo. "He's the current head of House Aurison and CEO of Aurison Industries. "There were whispers he suffered a major loss in the market last year, but… well, he certainly doesn't look ruined, does he?"
I squinted at him, deadpan with annoyance. "Did you conduct a whole survey or somethin' before showing up here?".
"You're the one who asked me to assist with this, remember?" Regis huffed, "That's not fair, Fenris!"
"One hundred thousand!" The words cut through the low hum of the auction like lightning across a calm sky. Heads turned in unison, drawn to the echo as if compelled by magic. My gaze followed the pull.
Paddle 77. A hand raised high, steady, certain. That's the first time it's moved since the auction began, I thought.
I caught sight of a young teenager—barely older than Regis or me. His black hair fell in a curtain down the nape of his neck, dark as midnight, stark against skin so pale it seemed almost translucent. But it was his eyes—deep, bottomless black wells, that unsettled me.
The murmurs began quietly but swelled quickly, and something in the room shifted. The atmosphere of the house had completely changed. The murmurs that once bloomed with excitement at each artifact's reveal, or with disbelief when one slipped from a hopeful bidder's grasp, now twisted into something colder—accusations.
I could make out sounds like
Tch.
Huh?
Is this the Kid?
Is it true?
Why is he here?
I glanced back at the crowd and was seized by a sudden memory—those eyes—no, not the ones now, but the same eyes I'd seen once before.
On the streets of London, ten years ago. That cold, sharp stare that said I'd crossed a line I never should have. The memory flared inside me, fresh and painful as burning coal. Back then, those eyes burned into me, branding me as nothing but dirt. But now? They weren't on me—they were on the boy.
A sudden, strong grip on my shoulder yanked me from my reverie—Regis, his hand tight, shaking me with quiet insistence.
"Fenris! Are you okay? Is that your trauma again?" His voice was rough, edged with genuine fear.
"I'm okay!" Even as I said it, I felt the pull of those memories—unwelcome and persistent. They haunted me still, like a ghost inching closer, stealing my warmth, wrapping me tight in its suffocating shadow.
The auctioneer's eyes flickered with surprise—if not outright shock—when he spotted the boy. He paused, waiting for a paddle to rise in protest, a counter bid to shatter the silence. But none came. With a reluctant breath, he gave in. "One, two, three and the gun of Prince Cartler goes to Paddle 77 for 100000 pounds sterling"
I had hoped the crowd would erupt in applause, like they always did when an artifact found a new owner. But there was only silence—thick and suffocating. No cheers, no claps. Not even Regis. Instead, the man left to me muttered under his breath, "Who knows what that bastard plans to do with the gun?"
I flinched at the offensive word; it was shockingly very out of etiquette for a noble.
"Who is he? Did he do something to earn such scorn? Everyone looks at him like he's plague-touched." I asked Regis realising he hadn't said a single word about that boy when the paddle rose. Not like the others. He left this one out deliberately—and that meant something was very wrong.
Regis shot me a displeased look and dodged the question. "Best you don't know, friend," he muttered. "It'll only bring back things you've worked hard to forget. Just know this—he doesn't deserve to be here."
I was taken aback when Regis showed he felt the same way as all those highfalutin folks in the room. I pretended to admire the nobles, to respect them, to be impressed—but deep inside, I resented them fiercely. But Regis...He was different. He wasn't just another noble pretending; he was real. And that made all the difference.
"I want to know!" I hollered, startling my best friend and the guy sitting to my left.
"Fenris!"
"Regis!" I insisted.
Regis let out a heavy sigh before he spoke. "That boy is Alistair Carnade, born to the Royal House Carnade—an illegitimate child of Lord Barxton Carnade and one of the servants."
No wonder the man called him bastard. I thought, my brain immediately jumped to the man next to me, besides Regis.
"Though he bore the stain of illegitimacy, the blood of House Carnade ran true in his veins. That alone earned him a place within the ancestral halls. But his mother paid the price—they sent her away from Britain in shame."
"That's no justification for calling him unworthy!" I interrupted.
"I know Fenris! But what is done cannot be undone. Five winters past, the boy drew blade against kin—he slew his half-brother, left his lord father bleeding on the floor, and vanished like smoke on the wind."
I swallowed. "Why?"
"When Lord Barxton Carnade officially named his elder son as the heir, everything changed. Alistair didn't take it well. He grew jealous—resentful. He betrayed the very family that raised him. Turned thief. Worse, he used the Carnade name as leverage—extorting, threatening, taking whatever he wanted. And in doing so, he stained the family reputation. They say he is the reason the new king wasn't chosen from the Carnades."
"The Imperial police tracked him down by the end of the year and they sentenced him to prison."
"He's a criminal then?" I asked to Regis.
"He is! But if he's out in the open now, that means his punishment is finished. They wouldn't have let him walk otherwise." Regis confirmed the suspicion gnawing at the edge of my mind."
By the time Regis fell silent, the relic of Prince Cartler had already been sold—snatched up by Paddle 77 without hesitation. Lot 22 was already en route to the stage. This time, it was something less regal but no less intriguing: a pair of worn boxing gloves, once belonging to a legendary fighter.
Time slipped by unnoticed, like the soft breath of a winter morning. Lot after lot was paraded onto the stage, each artifact drawing gasps or murmurs, each paddle rising with the desperate hunger of collectors. From time to time, I stole glances at him from the corner of my eye—Alistair Carnade, the bastard child of Carnades. Since claiming the countryside gun, he hadn't moved. Not a flicker of interest, not even a glance at the treasures paraded before him. He stared downward, motionless, as if trapped in a memory only he could see. But what I feared most was that his silence was just the calm before the storm.
Then came the moment.
Lot 43.
This was why we were here—why Regis and I had waited through every lot, every bid, every breath.
The Black Cane. That's what Master called it. He didn't explain why it mattered so much—only that it was irreplaceable, and that he wanted it no matter the cost. He trusted me with this mission. And I had Regis. That was enough. Or so I kept telling myself, under my breath—just loud enough for my fear to hear.
"Moving forward we have Lot 43" the auctioneer announced, his voice lacking the spark it held at the start of the event. The fatigue in his tone was obvious—just another item in a long string of priceless things. But for me, this was where it all began.
My heart thundered in my chest. The Black Cane. From the moment my master had spoken of it, I had shaped it in my mind—honed it like a swordsmith shapes steel. Obsidian wood polished to a mirror's shine, serpentine coils of gold and silver twisting around it like living things. Diamonds embedded like constellations—glimmering promises in the dark night. Yes. That was it. That was how it should be.
A pair of attendants stepped forward, their movements precise, almost reverent, as they pushed the velvet-draped cart bearing Taylon's crest onto the stage. The moment it crossed the auctioneer's spotlight, a chill brushed against my skin—a sudden gust, like the breath of something old and forgotten exhaling through the cracks of time.
Then I saw it. The cane.
"Black Caaaaaaaaaaannnnnn..." My voice faltered, elongating into a pitiful wail as the final word crumbled before it reached my tongue.
It was… plain.
Black, yes—But that was all.Not obsidian. Not sacred. Just old oak, darkened by time and rot. No gemstones winked from its surface. No carvings coiled along its length. Its surface was dull, scuffed in patches where the lacquer had worn thin, faint cracks webbing across it like veins in brittle skin. Worse still, the shaft was wrapped in yellowed, fraying bandages—clinging like the wrappings of an old mummy.
A simple, old staff of oak, blackened by nothing but time and age. No jewels, no carvings, no gleam. It was dull, scuffed in places, with faint cracks snaking along its surface. Moreover it was crudely wrapped in ancient, yellowed bandages—torn and fraying like an Egyptian mummy. It looked like it had recently escaped a cheap Halloween costume party.
"Before you lies the legendary Black Cane—once held by none other than King Darius l Malcolm, sovereign of ancient Persia" The auctioneer proclaimed. "This relic—untouched for centuries, lost to time—has just been recovered from the depths of an unearthed tomb."
"Bidding starts at One hundred thousand pound sterling" The auctioneer waited for the room to erupt—paddles to rise, voices to shout. But nothing came.
I caught a whisper from somewhere off to the side—two ladies. "Looks like something my grandpa shoved up in the attic ages ago." Another leaned in, squinting. "No sane person would ever buy that thing. would he?"
I turned to Regis, confusion knotting my stomach. Was this really the legendary Black Cane my master prized so fiercely—worth any price? Could it be a fake? Maybe the auctioneer was pulling one over on us—or maybe I was just fool enough to let my hopes run wild.
Regis let out a sigh. Without a word, he reached out, took the paddle from my fingers, and raised it high.
The auctioneer's eyes lit up—suddenly alive, like candles flaring to life in a crypt. "Ah! We have a bid! One hundred pounds sterling to the gentleman with paddle 32"
He straightened his spine, rode the wave of that tiny hope. "Do I hear two hundred?"
Then came the shift. Dozens of eyes snapped in our direction—silent, sudden, sharp. Like blades turning mid-air. All at once, the attention shifted towards the man who had raised the paddle.
Toward us.
I leaned toward Regis, my voice barely a whisper. "Everyone's staring… Do they think we're idiots?"
"Hah! that's not our concern." he said bluntly. "It's about what your master asked for. That's all that matters."
Suddenly, the auctioneer's voice dropped—slower now, almost laced with curiosity. "Oh? We have… another bidder."
The tension shifted again. The attention that had pinned itself on me and my friend now split, like a crack forming across glass.
I turned sharply, my heart skipping a beat, straining to catch the face of the one who dared. My eyes turned wide when I saw it—paddle 77. I caught the number first—bold, black digits against white—and then I saw him.
Exchanging a quick glance with Regis, I turned back to the bidder—only to find his eyes already locked onto mine.
Our gazes met.
It hit me instantly—like stepping blind into a sudden winter storm. My breath caught in my throat refusing to go in or come out. Deadly and Cold.
And then… he smiled.