The gravity-lift descended with a smooth, magnetic hum.
We stood on the circular platform—myself, Kael, Malakor, and the Prince with his guards—lowering slowly into the main amphitheater.
Below us, servants in white gloves pushed silver tables onto the obsidian stage. Each table held an object covered in heavy, crimson silk.
The audience, a sea of masks and expensive fabrics, leaned forward in their velvet booths, hungry for the forbidden.
Prince Valerian did not step into the light.
When the platform clicked into place at stage level, he moved to the wings.
He leaned against a pillar of black volcanic rock, swirling his wine glass, his crimson robes blending into the shadows.
He was silent. But his presence was louder than a shout.
Every eye in the room saw him. The crime lords stiffened. The corrupt bishops adjusted their collars. The Auctioneer—a woman who looked like she had bargained with glaciers—froze mid-sentence.
The Prince was not intervening. He was observing. And in Zonia, the Prince's observation was a seal of legitimacy.
I stepped onto the stage.
The heat from the lava channels was intense here, pressing against my suit.
Malakor followed, his chest puffed out so far I feared his buttons might become projectiles. He unrolled a scroll with theatrical flair.
"Ladies, Gentlemen, and those of questionable legal standing!" Malakor announced, his voice booming.
"The auction is paused. This is an official inspection by the Master of the Divine Archives!"
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Confusion. Anger.
"He is here to audit the catalogue for dangerous heresies," Malakor continued, gesturing to me. "Cooperation is mandatory. Resistance is... inadvisable."
The Auctioneer looked at the Prince in the shadows. Valerian simply raised his glass in a toast.
She swallowed hard. "Of... of course, Your Reverence. We have nothing to hide."
"We shall see," I said, my voice cutting through the murmurs.
I walked to the first table.
I grabbed the silk cloth and whipped it away.
It revealed an old, leather-bound book. The cover was etched with gold geometric patterns.
"Item One," the Auctioneer stammered. "'The Source Code of Reality'. A tome from the Third Era. It claims to explain the fundamental mechanics of the World, Divine Names, and Dimensions."
I opened the book. I flipped one page. Then another.
"Garbage," I muttered.
It was like watching a toddler try to explain astrophysics using crayons. The diagrams were derivative.
"It confuses correlation with causation," I announced, dropping the book back onto the table with a thud. "It is not heresy. It is stupidity. And stupidity is not dangerous enough to confiscate."
I moved to the second table.
"Next."
The silk slid off to reveal a scroll case made of bone. It radiated a sickly, green energy that made the air taste like copper.
"'The Forbidden Scroll'," the Auctioneer whispered. "Recovered from the ruin of a Mad Mage. It contains words of power that..."
I didn't wait for her pitch. I unrolled it.
The parchment was ancient, skin-like. The ink moved.
I read the first line.
My expression twisted.
Zai... Xul... Vra...
Syllables. But they were wrong.
They were fractured, mutated shards of the Language of Creation.
Someone had tried to transcribe the sound of a Name without understanding the syntax, creating a linguistic virus.
If spoken, these words wouldn't create order; they would cause local reality to leak like a punctured lung.
"Disgusting," I hissed.
I didn't re-roll it. I turned and walked to the edge of the stage.
Below me, the lava channel flowed—a river of molten rock.
"Wait!" the Auctioneer cried out. "That is a priceless artifact of the—"
I dropped the scroll.
It hit the lava. For a second, the green ink screamed—a high-pitched wail—before the paper turned to ash and vanished.
The crowd gasped. A low, angry hum rose from the booths. Millions of Clons, destroyed in a second.
I slammed the tip of my cane into the obsidian floor.
BANG.
The sound was like a gunshot. It echoed through the cavern, silencing the hum instantly.
"That was not knowledge," I said, my voice cold and absolute. "It was a cancer. The syllables were corrupt. Reading it would not give you power; it would liquefy your frontal cortex."
I looked at the stunned audience.
"You should thank me. I just saved you from purchasing your own lobotomies."
I turned to the third table.
"Next."
The Auctioneer was trembling now. She looked at the Prince, begging for intervention, but Valerian was smiling, clearly entertained.
She removed the silk.
A ring sat on a velvet cushion.
It was simple. A band of white gold with a single, clear stone. But unlike the other items, this one didn't leak energy. It held it.
"The Ring of Illumination," she whispered. "Based on the Thirteenth Name..."
I reached out.
My gloved fingers brushed the cold metal.
Pulse.
The moment my skin made contact, the stone flared. A blinding white light erupted, washing out the red glow of the lava.
And then, a voice spoke in my mind.
...Light?
It was weak. Terrified. A consciousness that had been asleep for centuries, suddenly jump-started by the massive voltage of my Divinity.
...Don't... don't put me back in the dark... please... it's so cold in the inert state...
It was a sentient artifact. Rare. Dangerous.
I looked at the ring.
Listen to me, object, I projected my thought, sharp as a blade.
I am not a battery. I am a user. If you want to stay awake... if you want to feed on my resonance... you will obey.
The light of the ring flickered, shifting from white to a deep, submissive gold.
Obey... yes... I will capture the light... I will bend it... just don't let me sleep...
Good.
I looked up. The light from the ring was distorting the air around me, creating halos and prisms.
"Heresy," I declared.
"What?" The Auctioneer looked ready to cry. "But... it chose you! Look at it!"
"It is unstable," I lied smoothly. "It possesses a predatory will. It violates the Third Law of Sanctified Objects. It is dangerous to the public."
I slipped the ring onto my finger. It tightened instantly, fitting perfectly.
"Confiscated. Property of the Church."
"No!" The Auctioneer stepped forward, desperation overriding fear. "You cannot! That is the centerpiece! The Forenzil Group will lose millions! You cannot just walk in here and—"
She stopped.
Not because she was finished, but because the air suddenly screamed.
From the darkness, something heavy was moving. Fast.
A projectile.
I didn't turn. I didn't need to.
Whir-whir-whir.
A heavy decorative battle-axe, thrown with lethal intent, was spinning toward the back of my skull.