Month 8, 919
The rich parts of Endergaln
Lot 27 was unveiled with an air of reverence. The auction house hushed. The air felt taut, as if it might snap under the weight of expectation. The soft scratch of a pen marked the auctioneer’s last note before he looked up.
Gaslight spilled across the stone floor, warming the gilt frame. Within it, seven figures stood nearly life-sized—formal, dignified, their restraint offset by the quiet vitality in their faces. Each wore the ease of old wealth, the posture of those accustomed to steering their own lives. Only the youngest sat, perched on his mother’s lap, smiling without a trace of calculation.
An old man in the crowd stared at that boy. His own boyhood face—round, unlined, untouched by loss—smiled back at him from the canvas. Time had thinned him, carved deep channels in his cheeks, and left his eyes hollowed.
Lord Caldus Evermont stood rigid near the center aisle. Seven decades of rebuilding a name nearly ruined. Caldus was buying more than a painting, no matter how famous or valuable the work may be to others.
“The Evermonts,” the auctioneer announced, “the final completed work of Serrano Mettique—seventy-two by one hundred eighteen inches, original giltwood frame. Commissioned by its namesake, rendered in the artist’s final year, and unseen in public since its reluctant sale. Authentication verified this morning by Miss Mira Verlaine—our resident authority on Mettique’s work.”
A tall woman in a grey coat stepped briefly into view—gloved hands, keen, unreadable eyes. She gave a small, deliberate nod before vanishing back into the wings.
The auctioneer’s pause was precise.
“Opening bid: five hundred gold.”
[ Several weeks earlier ]
A firelit study. Two men sit on opposite sides of a grand desk, each in comfortable chairs.
“It’s not enough to outbid him,” said Lord Arclayne. “Everyone knows we have more coin than the Evermonts.” He rolled a coin across his knuckles as if to emphasize this point. “No, he needs to win. He needs to think he’s won…”
Ethan admired the painting—its impressive detail and the sheer size of it—as Arclayne continued.
“Let him bleed every last copper for his ‘legacy.’ Then, when the truth slips out…” He smiled. “There’s nothing better than watching a rival finance their own humiliation…”
The forgery was flawless, Ethan noted. He’d need to meet the one who made it. They could be useful.
Arclayne continued, either oblivious or indifferent to Ethan’s focus. The rich man’s eyes focused on the imagined future, his grand hand gestures flowing as if he was orchestrating his vision into reality.
“He’ll hang it above the fireplace. Historians will write about it. Until, years from now, someone lets the truth slip—”
“No complications?” Ethan asked, cutting him off.
The false-friendly smile dropped. Arclayne clearly wasn’t used to being interrupted.
“None,” Arclayne replied. “You’ll do the switch. The original will be brought to us. Quietly burned. You’ll be paid the other half once it’s done.”
He poured a drink but didn’t offer one.
Ethan wasn’t worried about payment. The small fortune to him was a pittance to the Arclaynes, and it wasn’t worth the headache of trying to stiff a man with his reputation.
How the hell am I supposed to move this thing, let alone two of them… Ethan wondered.
“I’m interested to hear how you plan to swap something this big from one of the most heavily guarded auction houses in the entire city…” Arclayne pressed.
“I’ve got my ways…” Ethan lied.
[ The auction, moments later. ]
“Six hundred.”
Arclayne’s proxy, elegantly dressed, lifted his paddle with the languid disinterest of someone bidding on a rug.
“Seven hundred.”
“Eight!” Evernont responded too eagerly, his bidding laced with the quiet desperation he could hardly contain.
“Two thousand.” The Arclayne man escalated.
The room’s air changed. This wasn’t commerce anymore. This was a bitter rival publicly putting their thumb in the eye of Caldus personally.
Lord Evermont did not look at his rival’s proxy. His daughter, seated beside him, whispered something too soft to catch. He responded with a shallow nod, never taking his eyes off the painting.
“Three thousand,” he said. His voice trembled, barely.
“Ten…” the Arclayne man said.
“Twentyfive thousand…” Lord Evermont said. His daughter looked concerned. The Arclayne man appeared almost impressed. A murmur spread through the crowd.
“Twenty-five thousand. Going once… twice…”
A long pause.
The auctioneer looked to Arclayne’s man and was met with a shrug. He shook his head slightly.
The auctioneer exclaimed, wrapping the gavel against the block. “Sold. To Lord Caldus Evermont.”
Muted applause followed. Lord Evermont closed his eyes and let out a slow, controlled exhale. An invisible weight appeared to lift from his shoulders as his daughter wrapped her arms around him. Whatever she whispered, he merely nodded along, the faintest traces of tears collecting at the corners of his eyes.
The Arclayne representative applauded along with the crowd, mockingly.
[ The Arclayne estate. Hours after the auction. ]
A private salon. A fire already burning low.
The massive painting stood upright across multiple easels, shadows flickering across its frame. Wine was poured. The room smelled of cedar and self-satisfaction.
Arclayne failed to mention that ‘quietly burned’ actually meant that his entire family would be present for a theatrical grand ceremony.
Rich people…
The Arclayne family posed like a painting themselves—sharp clothes, sharper smiles, beautiful in the cruelest ways.
The patriarch broke the symmetry: rounder, softer, sipping before others had been served. The privilege of absolute power—brazen boorishness without consequence.
He raised his glass. “As you know, this painting represents the last work of the great Serrano Mettique. Those Evermont leeches commissioned it right after ours. With its destruction, our portrait becomes his final masterpiece…” Scattered applause followed.
“None of this would be possible without our new friend, Mr. Thorne.” Weak applause.
“I would say we owe you a great debt… but we already settled on your fees, and they were surprisingly reasonable!” Laughter, polite and forced.
“And while I’m sure you’re a reputable man, beyond reproach…” He beckoned. “It’s always better to verify.”
Mira Verlaine, the expert from earlier entered—coat unbuttoned now, gloves still on. She moved silently to the easel, drawing the room’s attention without a word. She would know better than anyone whether this painting was legitimate - she was, after all, the one who crafted its forgery.
Ethan felt it before she even reached the painting: hesitation. She was still deciding if his deal was worth the risk.
Her eyes scanned the brushwork. Hands moved professionally, but slower than before. One finger pressed gently against the corner of the frame—too long. To everyone else, she appeared to be verifying what had already been declared authentic. Ethan knew she was debating on who she would betray.
His fingers curled slightly around his glass. He watched her eyes, the subtle narrowing of her brow, the flicker of doubt she buried behind perfect posture.
She straightened, folding her glasses back into her hand.
She’d decided.
Ethan held his breath, his body preparing for violence, if needed.
She turned to Lord Arclayne.
“It’s genuine,” she lied.
Ethan’s breath slowly exhaled.
“Then let it burn!” Arclayne exclaimed with delight, tossing the first match.
The painting caught like it had been waiting. Wood popped. Oil hissed. Fire bloomed upward, brilliant and brief.
Arclayne raised his glass. Ethan motioned with the others but didn’t drink. He waited long enough for the flames to consume the room’s attention, then quietly slipped away.
One of the butlers handed him the other half of the payment. He was encouraged to show himself out.
[ Later that night. Evermont estate. ]
A crate arrived at the rear service entrance surrounded by guards. The auction house’s seal prominently displayed and unbroken.
Inside was the painting—untouched. Whole.
The butler said nothing. Just stood and stared until Lord Evermont arrived in his robe.
Evermont looked down at the canvas for a long time. Then slowly—gently—placed one hand against the frame, the other on the shoulder of the butler, as if to steady himself.
“It’s come home,” he whispered, smiling.
[ At the same time, across town. ]
Mira’s flat. Curtain District.
A glass of red wine caught the city’s glow. Mira stood barefoot on her narrow balcony, hair loosed from its earlier precision. The night was cool. Still.
Inside, a heavy envelope lay open on her desk, bearing the embossed seal of The Vellintine Theater of Concordia—one of the oldest and most prestigious institutions in the city.
A letter lay next to it, half folded into itself, fluttering gently beneath the breeze of the open balcony door. The final lines read:
“…are proud to extend this opportunity and look forward to many years of creating art together.
With greatest respects,
The Vellintine Theater.”
She took a slow sip to calm her nerves. Thorne came through. She still worried that she might be caught, even years from now. But for now she looked across the city and tried to see her future. For now, it appeared that she’d made the right call… for now.
[ A cellar below a gambling den near the Drowned Ward. ]
Coins clinked onto a table worn down to the grain. The man counting them had two rings and one eye.
“That washup? You’re paying his debt?” he asked, incredulous. “I can’t even remember the last time he was on stage. Hell, I’d’ve forgotten his name if it wasn’t all over my books…”
Ethan didn’t reply, lighting a match from the wall sconce.
“Bit of a waste, ain’t it?” the man asked. “Could’ve used that coin to disappear for a while. Or buy a favor you’ll need more.”
Ethan finished lighting his cigarette and waved out the match. He held out the last pouch. “The debt’s cleared. He walks. He tries placing new bets, you refuse. Got it?”
The man took it, weighing the money. He nodded slowly.
“Yeah,” he replied. “I got it.”
Ethan turned to leave. The bookie called after him.
“You’re an odd one, Thorne. You know that?”
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