A voice from the right side of the private booths cut through the hum of conversation:
"I want the entire set. Fifteen hundred platinum."
The crowd stirred, whispers rippling outward like waves. The auctioneer paused—pure showmanship—letting the tension build before raising his hands to quiet the room.
"I'm sorry," he said smoothly, "but these blades are being sold as individual pieces."
Another voice, this time from the left booth, spoke up:
"I want all four. Two thousand platinum."
A new wave of murmurs swept the audience. The MC gave a long, theatrical sigh, playing the part of the reluctant traditionalist.
"Please... these are individual works, meant to be appreciated separately—"
"Twenty-two hundred," the first bidder interrupted, upping the ante.
The MC hesitated, then turned toward the room with practiced solemnity.
"If there are no objections, we shall proceed to bid these as a set of four. Please—speak now if you object."
A moment of silence followed.
The MC nodded, and assistants wheeled out the remaining three blades. As they were placed beside the first, their shared magic reacted—the air shimmered, and the faint silhouette of an Ice Gryphon formed in the space above them, wings spread, beak parted in silent cry.
"The bid for this set of four Salt blades stands at 2,200 platinum."
Then—
"Three thousand platinum."
The voice was clear. Firm.
Meya Rowe raised her paddle from the second row of Cane's booth, one hand resting on the pommel of her sword—her expression daring anyone to raise the bid.
The silence stretched for several long seconds.
Then—the room erupted.
Gasps, exclamations, excited whispers filled the space as nobles and merchants alike reacted. The MC waited, letting the tension build to its peak before slowly raising his hands for quiet.
Out of a strong sense of self-preservation, he didn't dare push the bidding any further. As expected, no one objected.
"Sold to First Knight Meya Rowe for three thousand platinum."
Cane exhaled—the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding slipping from his lungs.
An instant later, a rune glowed softly behind Nina's ear. She flinched, startled by the sudden activation, and her eyes went wide with disbelief.
"Sir," she began, voice full of urgency, "the Auction House would—"
"Just Cane, remember?" he interrupted gently, smiling at the stunned look on her face.
"Right… Cane," Nina said, taking a slow breath to compose herself. "The Auction House would like to know how you'd like your payment."
Cane blinked. "Payment?"
Then he shrugged. "Honestly, I didn't know there were options. Got any recommendations?"
Nina's demeanor warmed. "The Auction House can issue you a Runic Credit Chit if you place a minimum of one thousand platinum on it. It allows you to save on commission fees, can be used anywhere in allied territories, and is attuned to you only. You'll also receive automatic entry into private booths at all affiliated auction houses."
Cane nodded, impressed. "All right. I'll take two hundred platinum in coin, and put the rest on the chit."
"Excellent choice," Nina said with a smile, bowing her head slightly. "I'll have that arranged right away."
The auction swept by in a blur of tension and spectacle. Cane found himself pulled into the rhythm—financial battles, strategic bluffs, and moments of cold intimidation as bidders plied their wit and coin in the pursuit of rare items.
Fergis placed a few lighthearted bids, mostly on gifts for his family—spending less than 500 gold total.
Cane secured a set of 10 targeted psi runes for 2 platinum, and a log of Living Wood for 700 gold.
Nina returned to their booth, offering him a small black tablet. "Here is your Runic Credit Chit and your 200 platinum in coin."
She smiled, folding her hands neatly. "Now that you hold our chit, you can leave specific requests with us. We'll be happy to arrange lodging, meal reservations, or whatever else you require."
Cane shook his head slightly, then smiled. "I'd like to request that you attend me next time I'm here."
A subtle blush bloomed across Nina's rich, sun-kissed skin. "I look forward to it, Cane."
Across from them, Fergis leaned back in his chair, finishing the last of his roast chicken with a satisfied burp. "You didn't order anything to eat?"
Cane facepalmed. "No… I'm starving."
"Shall I have something boxed for you, Cane?" Nina offered.
He nodded eagerly. "The chicken looks good."
"Right away." She turned smoothly. "Would you like your items shipped to the Academy?"
"Yes—Tower Seven, Room 312."
"Very well. I'll see to it right away. I'll return with your initial deposit, minus your purchases. In the future, you need only present your Runic Chit instead of a deposit."
Cane stood, stretching his arms overhead. The auction house was louder now, filled with the din of the cheaper items being hawked to an energized crowd. The floor had become a hornet's nest of motion and noise.
"It speaks well of you," a voice said.
Meya Rowe stepped in front of him, her expression thoughtful, eyes assessing. "That you treat others so well."
Cane chuckled. "I punched a couple people earlier. What does that say?"
"That you have a lower tolerance for idiots," Meya said with a small smile. "I meant your attendant. You'd be surprised how often people up here don't even look at them—except to demand more wine."
"I'm just a blacksmith," Cane said. "Who am I to act important?"
Meya placed a gloved hand on his shoulder. "I heard you're in my old room in Tower Seven."
Cane blinked. "Seriously?"
She nodded. "Under the window, there's a loose stone. I stashed a few things there. Help yourself."
Then she turned to Fergis, who was listening with interest.
"Cherish the days at the Academy," she said. "You don't realize it in the moment, but later—you'll relive the laughter, the triumphs, even the petty feuds, with surprising fondness."
With that, Meya nodded politely and exited, moving with remarkable grace for someone in full plate.
A few moments later, Nina returned, handing Cane the remainder of his deposit. Cane thanked her warmly and tipped her five platinum.
"You two ready to go?" Brammel called, gesturing sharply as Telamon was already heading for the exit.
"Home or elsewhere?" Fergis asked, rising to his feet.
"Time to go home, lads."
**
Knight Commander!" a courier sprinted toward Meya Rowe, weaving through the crowd with the precision of a spider. "Urgent missive from His Majesty!"
Meya took the letter, cracked the seal, and scanned it quickly. Her eyes widened—first in shock, then joy.
"Is this true?" she breathed. "Are you sure?"
At the same time, the psi rune behind her ear pulsed softly. She touched it, tracing the rune to activate it.
"Meya!" came a voice. "Did you hear? Is this verified?"
[Earlier that day – on the front lines]
The battalion lay devastated—ambushed by an enemy that had blatantly violated the treaties of war. The knowledge that the foe was cheating didn't bring back the dead. It didn't mend the wounded. As they retreated, hopeless and broken, Commander Gera Strong felt morale fraying like a tattered banner in the wind.
The day had started like any other.
Nearly a thousand strong, Raptor Battalion was en route to rejoin the Legion at Stonehold, several leagues away. Small rifts began appearing, disgorging dark, deadly creatures with increasing regularity. But the veteran unit, hardened by dozens of campaigns, held the line—responding with practiced precision, neutralizing each incursion with brutal efficiency.
Corporal Madeline Yanu—Mad to most—reined in her mount.
"Chief scout report," she called.
"Where is your salute? You are reporting to your commanding officer," came the sharp, nasally voice of Executive Officer Brea.
Brea was a legacy officer, the kind whose commission had been bought by a well-connected merchant family. Her front-line assignment was about prestige, not duty. From the first day, she had been a thorn in the enlisted's side—quick to accuse, quicker to condescend.
Mad didn't look at her. "There's an assassin nearby. Hidden. Watching. It doesn't speak our language. Can't read rank. It's waiting."
"Waiting for what, Corporal?" Brea's voice tightened.
"To see who I salute," Mad said evenly. "Then it'll know who to kill."
"Who says there's an assassin?" Brea snapped, red-faced. "Why you little—I'll have your—"
"Enough," Commander Gera Strong interrupted, voice like a blade.
Inwardly, she cursed the bureaucrat who'd saddled her with this walking liability. "The corporal's point is valid. Saluting in the field is not required by regulation." Which you'd know, she added silently, if you'd ever spent a single day in combat.
She turned to Mad. "Report."
Mad's eyes didn't flinch. "We've seen small incursions across several sectors. Grade Four and Five-level beasts. More coordinated than they should be. I recommend we alter course."
"Alter course?" Brea scoffed. "Are you scared? We're Raptor Battalion."
Mad didn't blink. "Of course I'm scared. You should be too."
Before the tension could boil over, she turned back to Gera.
"It feels like we're being herded."
"NONSENSE!" Brea barked. As logistics officer, the route was her domain—a job she was utterly unqualified for. "Diverting now would delay us days! Meanwhile that damned Gryphon Platoon keeps winning battles—earning commendations and promotions. A group of students, led by some elf! It's not fair!"
The absurdity made Mad's fist twitch. She almost punched her.
Gera saw it and placed a steadying hand on her scout's shoulder.
She studied the map. Mad's suggested detour would cost them almost a week.
"Do you have any reason beyond your 'feelings' to change course?"
Mad shook her head. "No, Commander."
Gera hesitated... then nodded. "Carry on, Scout."
Mad turned back toward Brea—and saluted.
Bano and Sal watched their scout leader approach. Wiry and dark-haired, the two were often mistaken for brothers. Both were part of the six-scout unit attached to Raptor Battalion, their leather armor subtly altered with camouflage runes designed to help them blend into the terrain.
"Mad looks... a bit angry," Sal muttered.
Bano shivered. "She's right. Something's off."