Sheila tilted her head as Damien approached, her eyes glinting with quiet amusement. The faint perfume of mana-infused oils clung to her skin—sharp and subtle, like the blades she wore.
"The daggers go on auction later this evening," she said, tapping the black velvet case at her side. "Unless you want them now. One million. Or if you have more Dragonfangs to trade."
"One million?" Fatty nearly choked on his own spit. "No! Nope! We're out of Dragonfangs, thank you very much! Not a crumb left!"
Damien chuckled. "Maybe next time," he said, giving Sheila a small smile. "Way out of my league."
She didn't seem offended. If anything, her grin sharpened. "Your loss."
The lights dimmed slightly on the fourth floor. Velvet curtains shifted. A hush swept across the elegant marble hall lined with enchanted torches and mana-lit pillars. All eyes turned toward the central stage as a single spotlight ignited at the podium.
