First message
The auction house did not exist on any map.
It was buried beneath the bones of a forgotten city—stone arches carved with symbols no modern language could translate, veins of dim blue light pulsing through the walls like something alive beneath the surface. The air itself hummed, thick with restrained power.
This was not a place for men.
It was a place for those who believed they could own gods.
At the center of the chamber, a circular stage rose from the floor—polished obsidian, reflecting the crowd like a black mirror. Tiered seating curved around it, filled with figures cloaked in wealth, power, and secrecy.
And at the front—
They stood.
Three men. Three intentions.
Dorian Blackthorne did not smile.
He stood still—too still.
Hands clasped behind his back, posture immaculate, chin slightly lifted as if the entire room existed beneath him. His crimson gaze was fixed on the stage, unblinking, calculating.
Hungry—but not impatient.
“They understand enough,” he said quietly. “That’s why they’re here.”
A pause.
Then, colder—
“They just don’t understand what it will cost them.”