The hall had grown quiet.
Not silent.
But tense.
The kind of quiet that wasn't peaceful—it was anticipatory, heavy with desire and cruelty wrapped in silk and shadows.
Aiden sat still, posture relaxed, gaze steady behind his matte black mask.
Around him, masked nobles leaned forward in their seats. Drinks were forgotten. Conversations faded. Even laughter felt distant, fragile, as if the room itself were holding its breath.
The Host stepped forward once more.
His cane tapped lightly against the marble floor—once, twice—commanding absolute attention.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said smoothly, spreading his arms slightly, "tonight will not follow tradition."
A ripple of murmurs spread through the hall—excited, hungry.
"Usually," the Host continued, voice calm and deliberate, "we present only one rare item per auction."
He paused.
Then smiled—slow, predatory.
"But tonight…"
His voice lowered to a velvet whisper that somehow carried to every corner.
"…we present multiples."
