Though he could only hear the host's voice, Atticus could feel the tension mounting in the room, the energy of countless wills pressing in, every contender unwilling to back down.
The host looked like he was basking in the frenzy. His smile only grew wider as he raised his hand high.
"Eight thousand high grade will stones!" he announced. Multiple booths lit up.
"Eight thousand five!"
"Nine thousand!"
The air seemed to thrum. Atticus unease grew. They had resources, yes, but there were so many willing to bleed this much for a vein root. What if they couldn't afford to get the item?
Then the host's voice boomed again, echoing across the grand hall.
"Twenty thousand high grade will stones!"
Atticus narrowed his eyes. They'd gotten to that level already? The bidding had reached a different level entirely.
'We only have thirty thousand.'
