Chapter 172: Black market

“So…” he said, straightening up. “Time to get really ready.”

Aria slid off the table with a small jump, too excited for someone about to enter Arven’s illegal underworld.

“Finally. I was getting bored.”

Ester gave him a serious look.

“This isn’t a ball.” He picked up the white mask again, observing the cold reflection on the surface. “Every detail matters. Body language, posture, silence.”

“You say that as if it’s news,” Aria replied, already walking towards the bedroom. “Relax. I know how to behave… when I want to.”

Damon shook his head, suppressing a smile, and went to his own room. The space was simple: a bed too neatly made for someone who slept little, a desk with papers organized by invisible categories, and a small chest where he kept the essentials.

He opened the chest.

Inside, clothes.

Not noble clothes.

Not student clothes.

Something in between.

He chose a black shirt of flexible fabric, almost glare-free, with discreet zippers on the side. Over it, a long, dark coat, simply cut but with internal reinforcements—not decorative, functional. The trousers were fitted enough not to hinder quick movements, and the boots were silent.

As he dressed, his thoughts raced.

Black market.

Auction.

Lot D-13.

A sealed entity.

The woman crying in the darkness.

He clenched his fists for a second longer than necessary.

“Focus,” he murmured to himself.

Across the hall, Aria stood before the mirror, adjusting a dress that seemed to have come from nowhere—dark red, perfectly fitted, with strategic cuts that suggested more than they revealed. The fabric had a subtle, almost organic sheen, as if it absorbed light instead of reflecting it. She pinned her hair back on one side, letting the other fall freely, and tried on the red mask.

She tilted her head.

She smiled at her reflection.

“Perfect.”

She twisted her wrist, and small daggers appeared, fastened in almost invisible supports beneath her dress. Nothing exaggerated. Nothing obvious.

“You never know,” she murmured, satisfied.

Esther, for her part, dressed with almost ritualistic precision. She chose a long, elegant, dark blue dress, with sleeves that concealed restraining runes embroidered inside. The fabric felt cold to the touch, even from a distance.

She put on thin gloves, adjusted her hair in a tight bun, and finally, put on the white mask.

The effect was immediate.

The delicate expression vanished.

In its place, something distant appeared.

Cold.

Unattainable.

She observed herself in the mirror for a moment.

“Appropriate” he concluded.

When the three reunited in the main room, there was a brief pause.

Not because they were insecure.

But because the transformation was evident.

Damon put on the black mask last.

As soon as it fit his face, he felt the slight tingling of the enchantment activating — muffling nuances of the aura, distorting the perception of others. It didn’t make him invisible.

It made him indefinable.

He adjusted the horns with a firm gesture and raised his gaze.

Aria was the first to speak.

“Wow.”

Ester analyzed him from head to toe.

“Intimidating” she said, with restrained approval. “No one will question your presence.”

“Great” Damon replied, his voice sounding slightly different behind the mask. “That’s the goal.”

Aria approached, circling him slowly.

“I admit… you’ve become dangerously interesting.”

“Focus,” Ester warned.

Aria laughed.

“I am focused. I only appreciate a good work of art when I see it.”

Damon sighed.

“Final rules,” he said. “Inside, no names. No personal stories. If anyone asks…”

“We’re shadows with money,” Aria finished.

“…or the appearance of money,” Ester corrected.

“If we split up,” Damon continued, “meeting point at the east exit, near the service stairs.”

Ester nodded.

“And if something gets out of control?”

He hesitated for a moment.

“Then we improvise,” he replied. “But without unnecessary heroism.”

Aria tilted her head.

“You say that as if it were possible.”

He glanced at her.

“I trust you.”

For a second, no one joked.

The silence that followed was brief, but heavy.

Then Aria snapped her fingers.

“Alright. Before I get sentimental… let’s go.”

They left through the back door, avoiding main streets. Arven at night was another city—long shadows, lively alleys, gazes that didn’t linger for long.

They descended.

Each step took them further from the orderly surface.

The magic lanterns became scarcer, replaced by blue torches, then red ones. The air changed. It became more humid. Heavier.

Until they reached an iron door embedded in ancient stone.

Two masked guards stood before it.

Damon took out the letter and presented it.

The symbol of the broken horn glowed faintly.

The guards stepped back without a word.

The door opened.

And Arven’s underworld welcomed them.

A vast, subterranean hall, illuminated by dark crystals. Whispering voices, low laughter, clinking coins. Masked figures of all kinds—some human, others… not exactly.

Aria let out a restrained sigh.

“So that’s it.”

Ester was already observing everything, absorbing details.

“Remember,” she murmured. “Here, everything has a price. Even mistakes.”

Damon took the first step inside.

Beneath the goat mask, his eyes gleamed.

“Then let’s find out,” he said softly, “how much the truth costs.”

The air changed as soon as they completely crossed the threshold.

It wasn’t just the smell—a mixture of heavy incense, ancient metal, and something slightly sweet that Damon preferred not to identify—but the feeling. Arven’s underworld seemed to breathe on its own. The stone walls were too curved to have been carved by human hands alone, and veins of dark crystal pulsed slowly, casting red and violet reflections on the masked faces.

Aria walked a step ahead, confident, as if this place were just another exotic hall. Her eyes moved quickly, curious, attentive, absorbing everything. Ester remained to Damon’s left, elegant posture, restrained steps, analyzing patterns—who was talking to whom, who was observing too much, who seemed out of place.

Damon walked in the center.

Not because he wanted to lead.

But because, instinctively, people made way.

The goat mask did its job. Some looked away. Others stared for too long, curious or assessing risks. No one approached without a clear reason.

“Impressive,” Aria murmured softly. “No one has stopped us yet.”

“Yet,” Ester replied, without turning her face. “This isn’t the main event.”

They passed tables where impossible objects were displayed like common jewels: blades that whispered, vials that seemed to contain living mist, scrolls sealed with dried blood. Damon felt the urge to stop, to observe more closely, but he restrained himself. Information now. Greed later.

“Eyes open,” he murmured. “Don’t say anything out loud.”

Aria smiled beneath her mask.

“You look cute when you try to be serious.”

Esther sighed, but didn’t disagree.

As they advanced, the murmur changed. Less laughter. More whispers. Masked guards began to appear more frequently—tall, silent figures, armed with black spears adorned with runes.

At the far end of the main hall, an arched passageway stood out.

Unlike the others.

There, two heavy curtains of dark fabric concealed the interior, and a symbol was engraved above the arch: the broken horn, larger, clearer. Guards stood on either side, motionless as statues.

“Auction,” Esther murmured.

Damon nodded.

They approached slowly.

Before they could cross the passage, a figure moved in front of them.

It was tall, slender, shrouded in a dark gray cloak. The mask was simple, metallic, without expressive features—only narrow slits for the eyes. The voice that came from within it was neutral, professional, emotionless.

“Invitation.”

It wasn’t a request.

Damon stopped.

Without theatrics, he reached inside his coat and pulled out the letter. The paper seemed heavier there, in that light. He held it out between two fingers.

The figure took the invitation with excessive care, as if it were fragile—or dangerous. He brought it close to a small crystal blade attached to his wrist. The symbol glowed, reacting to the authentication.

There was a brief silence.

Then the figure nodded.

“Invitation valid.” Her eyes swept over Aria and Ester. “Companions authorized.”

She returned the letter to Damon.

“Seat fifty.”

Damon inclined his head slightly.

“Thank you.”

The figure stepped back, pulling back one of the curtains. A narrow, descending corridor was revealed, illuminated by low, red lights.

Aria exhaled slowly.

“Seat fifty… does that sound important?”

“Or strategic,” Ester replied. “Auctions usually arrange seats by interest or… profile.”

“Great,” Aria murmured. “Already and…”

The corridor led to a circular arena, carved deep into the rock. Rows of seats in a semicircle surrounded a central stage of black stone, marked by symbols of restraint. Above, a natural dome displayed crystals that pulsed in slow rhythms, almost like a heart.

The audience was already settling in.

Elaborate masks. Extravagant costumes. Presences that made your skin crawl just by passing by.

Damon walked with firm steps until he found the discreet marking of seat fifty.

It was a privileged position.

Not too close to the stage—which would indicate exhibitionism—nor too far away. Central. Observant.

“They placed us well,” Ester murmured as she sat down. “Very well.”

Aria settled down on the other side of Damon, crossing her legs naturally.

“I’d say they liked you.”

“Or they want to observe me,” Damon replied.

He leaned back slightly, keeping his body relaxed but his senses alert. His eyes scanned the room, counting exits, assessing guards, memorizing faces… or masks.

In the center, the stage remained empty.

For now.

A deep sound echoed through the hall.

Conversations ceased.

A hooded figure emerged from the shadows, walking slowly to the center. His voice, amplified by magic, resonated throughout the arena.

“Ladies and gentlemen…” he began. “Welcome.”

Damon felt a shiver run down his spine.

Somewhere, far below…

Something awaited.

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