The first item was brought in a cloche and gently placed in the center of the stage—a wide, empty space reserved for the auction alone. The woman who carried the cloche stood waiting for instruction.
The man overseeing the event, known simply as Komodore, gave a slight nod. Around here, everyone knew him for the peculiar treasures he managed to bring under this roof. The woman lifted the cover, then slipped back towards the storeroom to prepare the rest.
What lay revealed was a severed head—an impaled creature's head, the metal bar piercing through it dripping with a slow stream of blue liquid, almost like blood. Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Komodore didn't so much as glance at the leaking mess. He simply opened the bid at thirty-five pounds.
One voice after another filled the smoky room, calling out higher and higher sums.
René could only watch, silent. Even if he wanted it, he had no means of affording such a thing. Is that the head of a monster? The grotesque thing looked far more cursed and revolting than the photos he had seen on social media. And the prices… ninety pounds? In a place like this? This is supposed to be a pauper's district—why does it feel like the only pauper here is me?
The imp's head was sold, carried offstage, and another item was brought forward.
This time, the woman placed a long glass case onto the table. Inside was a pair of wings, easily three feet tall. Their surface shimmered in impossible hues—flame-red bleeding into emerald, sapphire dusted with gold. Komodore tapped the case with a gloved finger.
"Flame Moth wings," he announced. "Rare. Collected while still intact."
The room shifted, voices lowering with a mix of awe and greed. Komodore started the bid at fifty pounds. In moments it climbed past a hundred. René caught himself staring—wings like that don't belong to moths I've ever heard of. Too vivid, too large...
Before the bidding could cool, the woman returned with another object. This time it was something wet, glistening under the lantern light. She set it down with both hands, and René realized it was a skull—elongated, twisted like a horse's head, but warped, golden in color, and covered with salt stains as if dragged from the depths of the sea.
"Deepryn Lave," Komodore said with a grin. "Straight from the ocean floor. A prize for collectors, or priests."
The crowd erupted with bids. René shifted uncomfortably, unsettled by the empty sockets that seemed to drip sea brine. A golden skeleton horse from the sea… what kind of world have I stepped into?
It went for two hundred pounds before silence fell again.
The next item drew far less noise. The woman placed a velvet-lined case before Komodore, who opened it with ceremony. Inside lay a silver fang—five inches long, gleaming like polished steel.
"Azkalat fang. Hard as any blade you'll find, and sharper still. Try not to cut yourselves."
A ripple of whispers passed through the crowd, but fewer hands rose this time. The fang sold quickly at seventy pounds.
Only then was the cube brought out. The woman carried it bare on a plate, setting it carefully on the table. No cloth covered it. Six sides, each marked by an eye, every one of them weeping blood.
The room grew still.
Komodore started low. "Five pounds."
René blinked. Five pounds? For that? The silence felt heavier than any shout. No one moved, no one raised a hand.
René's gaze clung to it, drawn in spite of himself. He wanted to raise his hand, to claim it, but hesitation burned in his chest. He didn't know what it was. Something that ugly could very well kill him in his sleep. And even if it didn't, he wouldn't have the faintest idea how to use it. Curiosity kills the cat…
And yet, before he could decide, he felt a hand seize his arm. René startled, turning to see a wrinkled old man with a clean, long gray beard and mustache. The elder leaned close, whispering, "I would be careful buying that thing, lad. Nothing good will come out of it."
René swallowed, caught between fear and defiance. "What do you mean, old man?"
The elder chuckled and released his arm. "You've no idea why they're selling such a thing, do you? That cube is no trinket. It's a relic. Required for rituals best left unspoken. But if you're eager to walk into the fire, suit yourself."
He giggled again, as though he'd said nothing at all, and returned his gaze to the stage.
René's heartbeat quickened. Instead of scaring him off, the man's warning stoked his curiosity further. I wouldn't be René if I turned away from the unknown…
Slowly, deliberately, he raised his right hand. His voice rang through the silence:
"Six pounds."
Heads turned, whispers buzzed, and Komodore's brows lifted in surprise. It was rare for anyone here to show interest in a relic, rarer still to bid on one. Yet no one challenged him. Komodore closed the sale, sliding the cube into a box with careful gloved hands before locking it shut.
René was the new owner.
Excitement and unease coiled together in his chest as the auction carried on.
…
The cube was smaller than it had seemed back in the bar. After inspecting its packaging with suspicion, René slipped it into his left pocket, intending to take it out only once he returned home. Something about it felt… wrong. Even through the tightly wrapped layers, he sensed a faint disturbance radiating from within.
Before he had been allowed to leave, he was made to sign a contract: "All damages, losses, and inconveniences caused by the product are the responsibility of the customer. The Lizard's Fang will not claim any liability." The words alone deepened his wariness of the cube.
By the time the auction ended, it was near one o'clock. René left with the package in hand, unsettled by the bizarre items he had witnessed. Hoping to clear his head, he stopped by a nearby café for a brief rest.
To think that a tail of a naked pigeon fish sold for two hundred and fifty pounds… Where do these people even get that kind of money? René's gaze fell to the cube again. I need to put this somewhere safe. But it's too early to head home.
Checking the money left in his pocket, he decided against another drink and hailed a horse-drawn cab.
"I have nearly four pounds left…," he muttered. "I'll need to find work soon. But no one knows me here, nor that I'm even looking. Maybe I can ask around at the church."
He waited in the cold until a carriage finally stopped before him. The driver leaned out.
"Where to, sir?"
"The biggest church in the city," René replied, stepping inside.
"The Great Church, aye." The man snapped the reins.
René said nothing more. A newspaper lay across the opposite seat. He picked it up, scanning for commissions. His scarlet eyes caught on a notice about a missing child—a boy under ten years old. The reward was two hundred pounds.
This could be my first job… A decent sum too, even if I have to split the payment with others. He read the address twice over. West Sol Victus City, Verwen Street, House 17B. Mr. Melbour Andrew. If it's not too far from the church, I should check it out before the opportunity closes.
Other reports were stranger still. One article spoke of a man in his forties mauled to death inside his own home—by a flock of mice.
What? How is that even possible? His mind flicked back to the grotesque items at the auction. With things like those in circulation, perhaps unnatural forces aren't so rare after all…
A quiet chuckle escaped him. What am I now, a detective?
The carriage stopped, drawing him from his thoughts.
"That'll be one shilling and six pence, sir."
René paid the fare and stepped out.
The square before him spread wide, dominated by the overwhelming presence of the Grand Church. It was not merely a building but a district unto itself. Majestic gardens, guarded museums housing priceless relics and ancient tomes, adjoining halls and galleries—all of it fell under the church's domain. Its piazza alone could rival a small quarter of the city.
René walked on, weaving through the crowd, barely restraining himself from entering the gothic museums that flanked the square. Their spires and carved faces called to him, but his path lay ahead.
At last he stood before the church itself. The front loomed silver-gray, six steeples piercing the sky, its vast columns casting shadows like the figure of a giant.
He drew a deep breath and approached the enormous doors.
To his surprise, they opened on their own slowly and deliberately, as though the church itself were inviting him in.
René did not hesitate. He stepped forward.
The interior was vast and hauntingly empty. Tall columns lined the nave, and row upon row of vacant seats stretched towards the altar. Confessionals stood in shadow along the walls, their closed booths whispering of secrets and sins. His footsteps echoed as he walked deeper into the hall, refusing to let the grandeur—or the silence—distract him.
Three figures awaited him at the far end.
The bishop stood at the center, covered with an ankle-length white robe. Despite his age—somewhere in his fifties—and his graying hair, his face was unlined and calm, carrying a warmth that felt oddly disarming.
To his left stood a young woman, striking in both beauty and presence. Her dark hair spilled beneath an exaggerated round top hat tipped with a red feather. A long black dress hugged her body, flaring into a full skirt, and a slender cane rested in her gloved hand as naturally as a weapon. Confidence radiated from her in waves.
On the bishop's right, a man cloaked in black feathers stood impatiently. His long brown hair framed his sharp features, but his eyes looked tired, as though he hadn't slept in days.
René advanced in silence. The feathered man melted into the shadows. In the very next heartbeat, a door slammed behind René. He spun his head, stunned—the man stood there now, impossibly fast.
Then René realized he could no longer move. His muscles locked. His body refused to respond. Panic crawled up his throat.
He was frozen.
The woman began walking towards him, her heels striking the marble with crisp, deliberate rhythm. Each step resounded, closer and closer, her cane tapping like punctuation.
She stopped a short distance away, close enough that René could see the gleam in her eyes.
Only three feet of air remained between them.