Chapter 98: The Auction War — Five Hundred Crowns Against a Demon Peer

Kōya’s voice carried cleanly across the hushed amphitheater. For three seconds, the tiered galleries stayed motionless.

Then the arcane display board above the proscenium arch flickered, and the glowing gold numerals jumped upward. Beneath the numbers, the house tally runes lit for all four hundred seats.

SECOND TIER—FIVE HUNDRED EARNED CROWNS.

CLAIMED LOTS—ZERO.

A low murmur rippled across the velvet benches.

Up on the stage, the announcer recovered his composure behind a practiced smile. "A generous opening advance from our newly qualified guest on the second tier!"

Kōya stood planted at the brass rail, his dark eyes fixed on the center of the platform. Under the glare of the footlights, Kaela’s ears stayed flat. She stood slack-shouldered between the two handlers, shifting her bare feet only when the iron prod tapped her spine.

The announcer lifted his ivory gavel. "Does the floor offer a counter?"

Four boxes down the curve of the second gallery, a portly syndicate merchant in silver-embroidered silk raised his numbered paddle two inches off his knee. Beside the paddle, a small slate lit with his house tally.

COMMON SYNDICATE—FOUR HUNDRED CROWNS.

CLAIMED LOTS—ONE.

"Advance."

The overhead numerals climbed from one hundred to one hundred fifty.

Kōya turned along the rail. Flanked by two armored retainers, the merchant chuckled over his wine goblet as he met Kōya’s stare. "Don’t take it to heart, boy. It’s commerce."

Kōya gave him no answer.

"Does the floor offer another?" the announcer called.

Kōya raised his numbered iron plaque. "I bid."

The display board flashed higher.

Irritation tightened the corners of the merchant’s mouth. Leaning forward in his cushioned seat, he jabbed his paddle into the air. "Advance again."

Across the lower floor and the middle galleries, dozens of heads turned away from the stage to track the second-tier rail.

"Who is the kid in the travel coat?"

"A northern baron’s bastard?"

"No, that’s the swordsman who cleared the twenty-four-man pit last night."

"Where did a pit fighter get five hundred crowns?"

Kōya tuned out the whispering. Down on the oak planks, Kaela kept her chin lowered.

"Another advance from Box Seven!" the announcer called, his pitch rising. "Two hundred crowns!"

Kōya lifted his plaque before the echo died.

The merchant countered. Kōya answered on the same breath.

Bid. Counter-bid. Bid. Counter-bid.

Within two minutes, every eye in the hall had abandoned the silver-haired prisoner on the block to track the rhythm between the two buyers. Slumped back in his velvet chair, the silk-robed merchant wore a vicious grin. Kōya kept his face blank.

With a flourish of his wrist, the merchant drove the board to three hundred fifty crowns, then pushed again toward four hundred. Down in the standing stalls, several minor brokers sucked in their breaths through their teeth.

Kōya’s eyes dropped to the three leather satchels resting between his boots. The house had counted them at the gate and sealed them under the bond law. Beside them, his pit token carried five hundred earned crowns. The first bag held the remainder of the silver and gold salvaged from his father’s burned estate. The second held the bullion stripped from Zeref’s treasury vault. The third was already half-light from two weeks of road expenses and market supplies.

That combined fortune had been earmarked to fund their entire campaign across the eastern territories: bribes for border magistrates, horses, winter rations, and high-grade steel. The dried blood matting Kaela’s hair and the crimson slave crest coiled around her throat erased the eastern campaign from the ledger.

The merchant raised his paddle again, but Box Seven’s slate dimmed at four hundred. The common ceiling had caught his wrist.

Kōya lifted his plaque and held the board at four hundred.

Barking out a sharp laugh, the merchant leaned over the brass rail toward him. "You have an expensive attachment to this lot, boy!"

Kōya faced him down the gallery. "Yes."

"Good. Let’s test how deep that pit tally goes."

"A phenomenal advance from the floor!" the announcer shouted. "Four hundred crowns!"

Across the amphitheater, factors stood up on their benches to get a clear view of the second tier, laying rapid side-wagers on which man’s tally would snap first.

Behind Kōya’s left shoulder, the old innkeeper stared up at the glowing gold numerals with all the color drained from his face. "You’re throwing away a baron’s ransom, boy."

Kōya kept his eyes on the stage. "I know."

"For that sum you could walk out onto the street and buy ten healthy guards before supper."

"No."

"You need that gold to keep breathing in Slane," the innkeeper hissed under his breath.

"I’ll manage."

Down the rail, the silk-robed merchant’s grin was gone, replaced by a sheen of sweat along his hairline. He had expected the outlander’s tally to bottom out ten bids ago; instead, every time he pushed the ceiling up, the dark-haired boy lifted his iron plaque without a blink. Box Seven’s slate stayed dim; the merchant’s paddle had died at the common limit.

High above them in the shadowed fourth ring, Zarth the Third rested his chin on his gloved hand, tracking the second-tier duel in silence.

The Demon Peer’s slit red eyes narrowed as he studied Kōya’s back. An unvetted swordsman winning a pit brawl was a minor curiosity; a boy dumping a five-hundred-crown pit tally onto the table for a broken, mute beastwoman was something else.

Beside his chair, the crimson slate recorded two accepted female claims and five hundred remaining crowns.

"He is spending a pit tally for a damaged piece," Zarth murmured.

Standing in the shadow behind his chair, his attendant bowed low. "So it appears, my lord."

"To what end?"

The attendant’s attention dropped to Kaela’s bowed head under the lamps. "Perhaps the boy knew her before the catchers brought her in."

Zarth’s mouth curved into a razor-thin smile. "Then let us make the afternoon memorable."

Lifting one gloved hand, Zarth raised two fingers over the fourth-tier parapet.

Across the vast hall, the murmur cut off. Down on the stage, the announcer froze mid-stride, his eyes snapping up to the crimson box under the dome.

The Demon Peer stated his figure in a calm, carrying baritone. "Four hundred fifty crowns."

Pandemonium broke out across the lower stalls. Down the second-tier rail, the sweating merchant dropped his paddle onto his lap, sinking back into his cushions with his chin down. Competing with an outlander was sport; bidding against a sitting Demon Peer was suicide.

Kōya tilted his head back and faced the fourth ring. Across sixty yards of vertical air, Zarth smiled down at him in open mockery.

Kōya raised his plaque. "I bid."

Dead silence dropped over the seats.

Up in the crimson box, Zarth threw his head back and laughed, a deep, booming sound that vibrated in the crystal chandeliers. "Still hungry, little swordsman?"

Kōya kept his mouth shut and his arm raised.

The arcane board flashed.

SECOND TIER—FOUR HUNDRED FIFTY CROWNS.

Leaning both elbows on the velvet parapet, Zarth looked down through the chandelier light. "This is turning into a steep toll for a road traveler."

"You stepped into the lane," Kōya called back.

Zarth chuckled, genuinely entertained, and lifted his hand one final time.

"Five hundred crowns."

The word struck the hall like a hammer.

The announcer’s voice cracked as the numerals surged upward.

FOURTH TIER—FIVE HUNDRED CROWNS.

REMAINING TALLY—ZERO.

Kōya’s eyes dropped to the tally tray fixed to the rail. He lifted the leather pouch of pit crowns and poured the full five hundred across the brass surface. The coins rang out in a bright, merciless stream.

The arcane board flashed.

SECOND TIER—FIVE HUNDRED CROWNS.

EQUAL TALLY.

LESSER-CLAIM BREAKER REQUIRED: ONE OPEN CROWN.

A sharp murmur ran along the galleries as three hundred pairs of eyes swung back to Kōya’s hand.

"Does the second tier offer the breaker crown?" the announcer asked.

Across the footlights, Kaela stood with her chin on her chest, staring at the grain of the stage wood.

Kaela stood in the mud of the training yard with a hickory practice sword in each fist. She barked at him to drop his center of gravity, the sting of her stick rapped his knuckles, and she stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his family when the raiders came over the wall.

Now she wore a glowing collar and moved when a stranger poked her with iron.

Kōya checked his coat pockets, his belt pouch, the lining of his satchel. Nothing left but lint and steel.

One crown short.