Strains of violin music played over the crowd’s murmur, a single virtuoso player drawing fluid, plaintive notes from their instrument. The crowd reacted as Master Ling led Harald and Vic back into the entrance hall by slowly turning, ripples of awareness spreading through the gathered groups, so that one could almost follow its passage to the far reaches of the hall.

It wasn’t his own ugly mug that was eliciting interest, Harald realized; it was the fact that Master Ling was escorting him with an air of intense gratification. The tenor of the conversations changed, going from a rippling, brook-like murmur to a more insectile hum, and Harald saw a dozen hungry gazes leveled at them as people turned so as to be more approachable.

Wait.

Not at him.

At Victor, how strode with an air of studied indifference, his hands linked behind his back, golden ponytail reflecting the scale light, his handsome features and slender, warrior’s frame the most obvious target for the mysterious ‘Harald Darrowdelve’.

For a bitter moment Harald wished they’d agreed to have Vic play the part, field the questions, handle the interactions. Surely Master Ling could have been persuaded?

Ah well. He’d just have to deal with everyone’s surprise and barely concealed disappointment. Not that he hadn’t been getting that treatment all his life.

The crowd was fascinating. There were numerous striking individuals scattered throughout, most of them clearly raiders of some note, wearing their armor and with weapons scabbarded at hips or slung over their shoulders, but Harald’s gaze was irresistibly pulled to one lady who towered over the rest, her awe-inspiring stature and commanding presence making her pre-eminent: Lady Hammerfell.

It was toward her that Master Ling was leading them, and the crowd, acknowledging the Dragonslayer Knight’s right to have the first conversation, melted aside before them to clear a path.

It was hard to come to terms with Lady Hammerfell’s physicality. She easily stood eight feel tall, and was clad in beautiful armor that was burnished to a dark sheen, its edging subtly inlaid with gold that caught the light. Her paldrons were ornate and bulky, each stylized to resemble a dragon, wings arching protectively over her shoulders, while her massive gauntlets were cunningly articulated and ended in sharp, claw-like tips.

A red cloak as vivid as blood fell from her broad shoulders to pool at her feet, matching the crimson tabard that hung from her belt to drape down over her legs. A dagger at her hip would have been a short sword for anyone else, and the sword strapped to her back was a wonder. Harald doubted he’d be able to lift it off the ground. It had to be over seven feet in length, it’s hilt alone two feet long, all of it crafted from black metal, its blade broad, its crossguard formidable.

Approaching her felt like approaching a figure out of legend, but her gaze was kind, her smile gentle. Burgundy hair framed her features, falling in twisting curls just past her shoulders, and their was in her dark gaze an unexpected compassion, even a hint of humor, that gave Harald the courage to square his shoulders and gaze up at the seventh most powerful raider in all of Flutic.

“Lady Hammerfell,” began Master Ling, pitching his voice to carry. “You honor my humble auction house with your presence. The Platinum Rose holds Sir Gavriel Draken in the highest esteem, and you, my lady, do tower over all others in eminence.”

Harald restrained the urge to wince over that pun.

But Lady Hammerfell inclined her head graciously. She appeared almost twice the height of Master Ling, and even Harald, who was close to six feet himself, barely reached her chest in height.

“You are too kind, Master Ling.” Her voice was husky and resonant. “It is always a pleasure to visit the Platinum Rose. May I introduce my companions?” She half turned, and three other individuals in crimson and black stepped forth, appearing like children beside her formidable presence. “Sir Bandos, Sir Vargrave, and Lady Guilleme.”

Harald recognized the names: they were all members of Lady Hammerfell’s crew, and each a redoubtable warrior in their own right. But he could barely tear his eyes away from the formidable Gold-ranked warrior, so that the other three barely registered.

“And allow me to present you with the patron of today’s esteemed auction,” said Master Ling, bowing low. “Lord Harald Darrowdelve, scion of House Darrowdelve, and his companion, Victor Carmine.”

All eyes visibly tore themselves away from Vic to consider Harald.

How many times in his life had this happened? At least now Harald no longer felt like a half-baked bundt cake, doughy and uncooked. Instead, he resisted the urge to draw himself up, and bowed instead to Lady Hammerfell.

“My Lady,” he said when he straightened. “I just read of your crew’s exploits on the 63rd Level. Truly inspiring.”

Lady Hammerfell’s subtle smile remained upon her delicate lips, and though her gaze remained thoughtful, kind, Harald felt the full weight of her regard fall upon him, and in that moment truly appreciated the power of this woman. There was tremendous strength in her, strength beyond his comprehension, a strength that needed not to be exhibited, such was her own confidence in herself.

“It was a hard won victory, but I wish more credit had been given to my companions. Still, you are yourself deserving congratulations, are you not, Sir Darrowdelve?”

Harald was painfully aware of the dozens of people listening in. He inclined his head. “I had a lucky run, that’s for sure. But honestly, I don’t think my accomplishment on the 4th deserve to be anywhere close to what you all did on the 63rd. I’m embarrassed to even have it mentioned in your company.”

“Don’t,” said Lady Hammerfell gently. “I have been raiding for over a decade now, and only three other times have I seen such a prodigious jump in scales.”

“So many?” asked Victor, leaning in. “My, but I had thought Harald an unrivaled prodigy. May I ask whom these other wonders were?”

“Lady Seraphine’s unmatched and near miraculous run six years ago,” said Sir Bandos, tone officious. He wore his brown hair cut close, and a thick mustache bristled over his lip. “Larox’s incredible if tragic run in 781, and of course, Darius Darrowdelve’s own emergence with a Nightshard a dozen years ago.”

“Indeed,” said Lady Hammerfell. “You are following in your father’s footsteps, it seems.”

Was that a hidden insinuation? Her expression remained benign, but was she aware of more than most about his father?

Harald inclined his head. “I doubt I’ll ever match up to my father’s accomplishments. But even he never slew a vortex hydra. I can’t imagine how incredible a battle that must have been.”

“Perhaps I can tell you about it sometime soon,” said Lady Hammerfell. “If you’re curious? We could have tea.”

The three members of her crew were watching him sharply, Sir Bandos practically glaring. The ring of people around them all but leaned in.

Only Lady Hammerfell looked as if she’d extended him a casual invitation and nothing more.

“Of course,” said Harald. How could he say no? And to be honest, he couldn’t repress a thrill at being invited by such a legendary figure to sit and talk. It felt as if he’d slipped into an alternate reality. “I’m at your disposal, Lady Hammerfell.”

“Wonderful,” said the titanic warrior. “It was good to make your acquaintance, Sir Darrowdelve.”

Harald bowed, and felt Master Ling’s light touch at his elbow, subtly guiding him off to the left. “I have some friends who are most interested in meeting you,” he whispered with obvious self-satisfaction. “If you will step this way, Master Darrowdelve?”

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But as their trio moved away from the Drakenhart contingent, Vic let out a cry of concern. “Master Ling! My sincere apologies, but we forgot to mention a necessary amendment to the contract.”

Master Ling frowned. “Master Carmine, everything has been settled to everybody’s satisfaction.”

“Alas, I just recalled that the rider to the fourth clause stipulates that commission rates are contingent upon bulk bidding, the norm for such estate sales. But surely we can agree that the number of interested parties has spiked, and most likely the items will be bid on in isolation? I believe we must trigger the clause and move to distinct rates.”

Master Ling’s outrage only betrayed itself in a slight clenching of his jaw. “Surely you’re joking, Master Carmine?”

“Alas,” said Vic. “Our crude greed knows no bounds. Shall we review the clause?”

Master Ling simply blinked, composing himself, then smiled. “Of course. If you two will follow me?”

“Oh, Harald need not bother with such tedious affairs. Let’s step aside the two of us and take care of the matter.”

“Very well.”

Vic leaned in close to whisper casually in Harald’s ear, “I’ll be right back. Just smile and assume an enigmatic silence.”

Then both he and Master Ling were gone into the crowd.

Harald linked his hands behind his back and looked around for a passing servant with a drink. Drinks were good. They gave you something to do with your hands.

The crowd around him shifted, different factions gauging each other, and then, with the air of someone cutting the line, a young, dark skinned woman emerged from the crowd to approach him, a metallic card extended.

“Hello.” In comparison to Lady Hammerfell this newcomer appeared petite; Her black hair was gathered in furrows whose length were bound back into a large bun, and her features were delicate, almost doll-like; her expression was severe, her youth startling, her gaze sharp and fierce.

Her outfit insinuated armor without actually being effectively protective; one large bronze pauldron, gauntlets, armored kneepads over a bodysuit of black, with a royal blue tabard and cloak that gradated to a virulent orange whose hem flickered and danced as if made from living flame. Twin belts were crossed over her hips, a scabbarded arming sword hanging from each.

The card was wafer-thin brushed metal, and upon it was incised characters with alien precision; a quick glance revealed her information:

Anita Lothbury

Silver Ranked

Scaleshaper Savant 9

House Emberfell

“Miss Lothbury,” said Harald.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to make this quick,” said Anita, frowning up at him. “And hope that I’m not wasting each other’s time. House Emberfell is always on the lookout for enterprising and ambitious talent. Your near 1,000% increase in scales is remarkable, almost as remarkable as our Lord Blaze’s dream: of returning Flutic to its former glory.”

“A laudable dream,” allowed Harald, tapping her card against his palm.

Anita searched his face. “Does the sight of vines hanging from the elevated scale-train tracks not pain you? The hundreds upon hundreds of dead scale-lights down the thoroughfares? Have you not glimpsed long dormant scale-golems, moldering in abandoned warehouses, and wondered what the city must once have been like, when it hummed and vibrated with such wondrous power?”

“We’ve a scale carriage gathering dust in our barn,” allowed Harald. “And yes. But scale extraction has fallen to such terribly low levels that surely returning to the past is but a dream?”

“Only if we sought to use scales as our ancestors did: wantonly, foolishly, crudely.” Anita’s passion burned bright in her eyes. “House Emberfell is dedicated to refining and improving on that old technology, so that we can do ten times as much with one tenth the scales. Master Darrowdelve, I know this must all sound esoteric and farfetched, but Lord Blazes’s dream isn’t old glory for old glory’s sake: he wants to change Flutic, harness the power of the Fallen Angel to level the playing field and uplift the poor, the broken, those who scrabble in the Shambles and every other forgotten corner of our city. It’s scales that shaped Flutic as it is; only through scales can we reshape it to as it should be.”

Such was Anita’s conviction that her voice fairly shook with emotion.

“That’s… that’s an incredible dream,” said Harald.

“And to turn it into reality, House Emberfell needs more than just engineers and savants. We need frontline warriors who can furnish us with research material. Listen.” She placed her bronze gauntlet upon his arm. “If any of this resonates with you, if you desire power for more than just personal glory, if you’ve any interest whatsoever in making a difference for all of Flutic, and not just yourself, come see me. Present my card at the entrance to the Emberfell Crafting Hall. And I’ll show you wonders you’ll not believe. Yes?”

“I… yes.” Her stare was so intense that Harald felt half-mesmerized. “Thank you.”

Anita took a step back, inclined her head, then swept her burning cloak around and strode off into the crowd.

Bemused, Harald examined her card once more. How had they crafted such a smooth, delicate object? The lettering was not inked into the metal, but appeared… embossed and burned in? The edges were smooth, the whole of it glossy and perfect. By the angels, there even was a subtle watermark: the sigil of House Emberfell that only appeared if you tilted the card just so toward the light.

Feeling himself watched, Harald raised his eyes and saw Ustim Flowervault studying him from across the hall. The older man immediately looked away, pretending to have not noticed Harald, and smiled as he accepted a flute of champagne.

Great. What was he doing here?

Vic appeared, two flutes of white wine in hand. “Ah, good. You still have all your limbs.”

Harald exchanged the card for a glass. “You were only gone for a minute or two.”

“It felt like leaving a lamb in a wolf’s den. A minute is all it takes.” Vic scanned the card, turned it around, then nodded with grudging respect, eyebrows raised as if in surprise. “Well, isn’t this a pretty thing. Miss Lothbury wasted no time in attacking you while I was gone.”

“She had a very different sales pitch.” Harald half turned around as he spoke quietly to ensure nobody was standing too close. “About re-activating the dead wonders of Flutic for the benefit of the poor.”

Vic snorted. “Please. Did she ask for a donation for the Lotus House while she was at it?”

“Lotus House?”

“The house for reformed prostitutes,” said Vic, again affecting surprise. “I’ve never dragged you there? Harry-boy, they have the best parties.”

Harald gave his head a brisk shake as if clearing it of unwelcome thoughts. “Never mind, I should have known better. Still, Miss Lothbury was… intense. She invited me to come see the inside of the Craft Hall.”

“And of course you said yes?”

Harald nodded.

“Harald, don’t tell me you now also care about the poor?”

“Well, I’m not averse to helping them.”

“But there are so many of them, Harald, and they’re usually uneducated, unpleasant, and unsavory in the odor department. Trust me, I know, I was poor once. A most unpleasant experience.”

“Your opinion is duly noted, Vic,” said Harald sardonically.

“Good. Much better to focus our sights on the obscenely rich. Speaking of, here we go. Looks like House Thornvale’s about to make their move.”

A man was approaching them in an unhurried manner, the crowd subtly parting for him. Of medium height and slender stature, he wore a beautiful suit of plate armor, its black surface swirled with abstract curls, and was so finely crafted and articulated that he moved with the utmost ease. But it was his forest green cloak that caught the eye: it was tattered, its hem torn, but vines enmeshed it as if the cloak were alive; they encircled his shoulders, extended from its fabric only to sink back in, the whole of it subtly rippling and imparting upon its wearer a wild, fey aspect.

The man approached, eyes closed, his lashes long upon his unnaturally gray skin. Ash gray hair fell across his face in wild locks, and fine vertical scars ran down his left brow to his cheek. His features were those of a young man, but mostly obscured by a metal facemask that covered the lower half of his face; it sported the same abstract swirls as his armor, seemed part of the set, and gave him a look that was part assassin, part death’s-head.

“Thracos,” whispered Vic, his tone sober, wary. “A rising star in House Thornvale. I’ve heard he raids with no crew, but still brings in more scales than the other Silver-ranked teams combined. What the fuck is he doing here?”

Harald watched the green and black raider approach, his eyes still closed, his steps graceful, certain, his cloak writhing and rustling with living greenery.

Everybody was giving him a wide berth.

“Sir Thracos,” called Vic, waving cheerfully. “Over here. You can’t miss us.”

At this the man did open his eyes, gazing at them both from under his dark brows. He’d clearly known exactly where they stood. A moment later he stopped before them, and Harald realized the man had his own distinct scent; he smelled of wild, dark, green places, of the earth and trees, of shadowed dells and still ponds lost under tight canopies.

“Victor Carmine.” Thracos’ voice was silk drawn over steel. “It’s good to meet you at last.”

Vic drew himself up, surprised. “Why, you’ve heard of me?”

“Oh yes. Countess Sonora’s yapping lapdog. It’s said you carry yourself as if you were Gold-ranked, but have been a Copper for so long the Gazette doesn’t bother listing your name anymore. Ah well.”

Vic didn’t outwardly react, but Harald knew him well enough to immediately sense his friend’s seething fury.

But Thracos had turned to Harald and narrowed his gaze as he stared at him. It was a piercing stare, fearsomely intense, and without any concern for discretion or social niceties.

“I’m afraid we’re not in the habit of conversing with ambulatory hedgegroves,” said Vic, linking his arm with Harald’s. “Let’s move on, shall we?”

“Ah,” said Thracos at last. “It’s as I suspected.”

Vic began to pull Harald away.

“I see the cause of your rapid ascent,” whispered Thracos, voice carrying with eerie effect to Harald’s ear. “The nature of your true patron. I dare you to walk away from me, Darrowdelve.”

Harald froze, glanced back.

Thracos hadn’t moved, was studying him sidelong, and despite the metal mask, Harald could swear the man was smiling. “I shudder think of the consequences if word were to get out. That Harald Darrowdelve was following in his father’s footsteps in a manner far darker than anyone could guess.”

Harald turned to face the man full on. He felt numb, tremulous, shook. How could Thracos know? Was he bluffing?

“Have fun today,” whispered the Thornvale warrior. “You will entertain all offers, make a show of considering their merit, then you will decline them and enroll in House Thornvale.”

Thracos turned to leave, then glanced back over his shoulder, vines whispering around his cloak. “If you don’t, we shall destroy you.”

And then he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and walked away.