Chapter 12
ARK
Her words settled somewhere beneath his skin, a place he couldn’t quite reach. He hadn’t expected her to understand. Hadn’t expected to tell her—about the dog, of all things. The Halewick cleansing must be affecting him more than he’d realized.
Yet, she had not pitied him, or scorned him, but answered with something that felt like shared pain.
He had spent his whole life learning to hide. To deflect. To turn his vulnerabilities into weapons or bury them so deep no one could find them. His mother saw a project. His father saw an heir. Alderrath and his kind saw a target, or a stepping stone.
But Cassia . . . Cassia had looked at him, heard him admit to feeling small and needy and weak, and hadn’t sneered. She hadn’t used his admission against him, or filed it away for later leverage. She had simply met him on the same plane, in the raw, ugly truth of it, and lifted him up.
He cleared his throat and sat back, pushing the thought aside.
When the final course was cleared—a bland chocolate mousse that tasted the way he imagined wet cement would—a single chime rang through the Aetherium. Heads lifted expectantly. The ambient light dimmed, pooling into a focused beam on the central dais. The murmur of the crowd vanished.
The auction was beginning.
His gaze drifted to Cassia. She was leaning slightly forward, her expression holding the same intent focus he imagined she’d give a cake baking in her oven, just as a glass case floated down from the ceiling.
Wards shimmered around the crystalline box, and within it, a gnarled, fossilized root lay coiled like a slumbering serpent, its petrified bark etched with sigils too ancient for any living soul in Meredith to decipher.
The auctioneer’s voice rang out. “Lot One. The Roots of the First Binding.”
Cassia sucked in a soft, sharp breath. “Wait—is that . . . real? From the Maleficia tree from the Convergence?”
“The very one,” Ark murmured.
Her brow creased. “I thought it was in the Meredithian Museum of History. I’m certain I saw it during a grade school trip.”
“That’s the official one. But over the years, scholars uncovered others. Some made it into museums, others into private collections. And a few”—his eyes flicked to the case—“onto auction blocks like this.”
“Are you planning to buy it?”
Ark chuckled and shook his head. “You’ll see.”
They watched as the bidding began—one hundred thousand gildens. An obscene sum for something once pulled from the roots of a dying forest. By the time Ark took his second sip of wine, the number had doubled. Then tripled.
The Roots of the First Binding was sold for seven hundred and fifty thousand gildens.
During the applause, Cassia leaned in, her voice low. “There’s no chance it’s a fake?”
“Every item goes through a rigorous verification process. Authenticity’s not a concern.”
They watched a few relics get auctioned off until the one he’d been waiting for finally floated down to the dais.
“Next, a very special relic: the Lens of Unseeing. It does not show you what you wish to see, but what was. Every moment of pure, unedited truth, drawn from the memory of a place itself. The Lens brings those memories to the surface, clear as if you were standing there in that very moment. An invaluable tool for historians.”
Gently, he nudged Cassia, giving the case a pointed glance. Her eyes widened.
Leaning back, he assumed the picture of casual interest, but his mind sharpened.
Alderrath’s presence here was useful. The Sanguine’s weaknesses were well-known: paranoia, hunger for control, the desperate need to be on top.
If Ark showed the slightest interest in the artifact, Alderrath wouldn’t see history.
He’d see leverage—something to use, to hoard, to beat Ark with.
What a fool. No one knew the Lens was one of Aegis & Ash’s most remarkable recoveries. A nightmare to cleanse, but an interesting one to study. It had taken them years to split it successfully without compromising the magic.
And now, its twin lay in the secure vault inside their office.
Selling the other half anonymously through the auction was the perfect way to funnel a massive amount of capital back into their operations. And if he could manipulate his most detested rival into being the buyer . . . all the better.
The bidding opened at a quarter-million gildens. It climbed quickly. Alderrath remained silent, watching. Ark waited until the bidding stalled at four hundred thousand. Then, he lifted his hand, giving a subtle, almost bored signal.
“Four hundred and fifty thousand,” the auctioneer announced, indicating Ark’s platform. “From Lord Varil Arkenoth.”
A ripple went through the crowd. Of course it did. The Daemar’s son entering the fray was bound to draw attention. Soon, others would start wondering if they should follow.
From the corner of his eye, Ark saw Alderrath’s head turn slightly. A predator noticing another in its hunting grounds.
The bids climbed again. Five hundred. Five-fifty.
Ark raised his hand once more. “Six hundred thousand.”
This time, Alderrath didn’t wait. “Six-fifty,” his voice rang out, cool and confident, cutting off another bidder.
There you are, Ark thought. He let a beat of tense silence pass, then offered a slight, almost reluctant nod.
“Seven hundred thousand from Lord Arkenoth.”
“Seven-fifty,” Alderrath countered immediately, a challenge in his tone.
Ark made a show of leaning toward Cassia, murmuring something inconsequential about the price of historical artifacts. He let the pause stretch, letting Alderrath stew in his own competitive fury.
Then, he considered his options. He must be cautious. If Alderrath didn’t take the bait, Aegis & Ash would be paying out of pocket for something that was theirs to begin with—and neither Caius nor Rhodes would let him forget it.
He turned and gave a single, decisive nod to the attendant.
“Eight hundred thousand.”
The number hung in the air—obscene and magnificent all at once.
Other bidders put their hands away, shaking their heads discreetly at the auctioneer.
Ark held his breath. He had set this exquisite trap, but he had also backed himself into a corner.
Now, Alderrath could either let him bleed at this astronomical price, or . . .
“One million,” Alderrath’s voice rang out.
A stunned silence fell. Then a wave of excited whispers erupted through the hall. The auctioneer beamed, and his gavel struck with a final thud.
“Sold! To Agmon Alderrath, for one million gildens!”
Ark didn’t smile, but the relief was cold ice down his back. He put a little scowl on his face, sullen—the picture of a sore loser. But inside, triumph crackled like lightning on water. He had just coaxed Agmon Alderrath into pouring a fortune straight into Aegis & Ash’s coffers.
And the fool thought he’d won.
“I would’ve said I was sorry you didn’t win,” Cassia murmured beside him, her voice light, teasing. “But I have a feeling you’re not terribly disappointed. Are you?”
His brow lifted. She wasn’t supposed to see through it all.
“Why do you say that?”
She shrugged and took a slow sip of wine. “Just a hunch.”
During the thirty-minute break, they rose to circulate, to play their part as a courting couple very much in love.
Cassia fell into step beside him, close enough that her shoulder almost brushed his—a small, deliberate choice that made the performance feel real.
They had only made it a few steps into the shimmering sea of Daemaric-blue silk when a husky voice cut through the murmur.
“Arkenoth. It’s been a while.”
As Cassia turned, he shifted his stance, placing himself subtly between her and the speaker.
A demon woman stood before them, staring at him and, pointedly, at Cassia. Her gown was a spill of Daemaric blue, her hair a severe architectural masterpiece.
Ark inclined his head. “Lady Daaya.”
The attention of her small coterie was a physical weight. Their collective gaze shifted, with unnerving synchrony, to Cassia. He watched as Daaya’s eyes—the pale, chilling grey of a winter moon—swept over her. It was not as much of a glance as it was an audit.
“You have not yet been introduced to my Chosen.” He made his voice not a request, but a reminder of protocol, delivered from a position of undisputed authority. “May I present Miss Aura Cassia.” To Cassia, he said, “Starling, this is Lady Daaya, an old acquaintance.”
The pause that followed seemed a deliberate, tactical weapon. Daaya’s smile thinned. “How enchanting. I don’t believe I’ve heard the family name before.” A shallow crease appeared between her brows. “Is it . . . established?”
“Not in the way you mean, no,” Cassia replied, her voice infused with a light amusement that was far deadlier than any defiance. “The name ‘Aura’ came from the brand of suitcase the orphanage found my father in as a newborn. So you see—it may not be established, but it certainly is resilient.”
The effect was instantaneous. The proof that a child, packed away like forgotten luggage, had produced a daughter now standing beside a Daemar’s son—seemed to short-circuit Daaya’s mind. Her gaze flickered to Ark, as though checking if this was some elaborate jest.
He smiled innocently at her.
“How . . . colourful your origins sound,” she managed, the words strangled. “Why have we never seen you in society before?”
Cassia’s smile was perfectly polite. “Oh, I am out and about. We just don’t often circulate in the same rooms.”
“Did you enjoy the auction?” Daaya pressed, seemingly desperate to steer the conversation back to familiar, shallow waters.
“Immensely. It’s my first time. I had no idea the bidding would be so passionate.”
“Hmmm. Yes.” Daaya’s moonbeam eyes slid pointedly from Cassia to him and back again. “Though some need to take precaution. Excess passion might lead to a regrettable investment, as they often say.”