Chapter 7: Going Once

The next day, 6:30 in the evening.

"Hey, Nate! Where're the crates!?" Marco yelled from the outdoor garage. It was auction night, with thirty minutes left.

"Coming, sir!" Without another word, Nathaniel ran down the stairs and out the door, carrying a wooden crate as heavy as four full buckets of water, and dropped it into the car's trunk.

With a courteous bow to Marco, he said, "I apologize, sir." The grass crunched awkwardly under his footsteps as he returned to grab the remaining items needed for the auction.

Meanwhile, Arwyn was busy dressing in his best fit for the event.

In his room, he wrestled with a tie borrowed from Marco, which choked him like a noose. "Fuck this," he muttered, yanking it loose, then tightening it again.

"Best fit for the auction, my ass." His sketchbook lay on the bed, buzzing under his jacket. 5,000 poules itching to flex.

Downstairs, Ria's voice cut through. "Marco, quit yelling. The neighbors'll bid on your lungs next!" She strutted out, clipboard clacking, thermos swinging. "Crates in? Good. Let's roll. Traffic's gonna screw us."

Marco slammed the trunk, knuckles white. "It already is. We're late." He looked wrecked—dark circles, jittery hands, suit rumpled.

Arwyn thumped down the stairs, tie crooked, jacket half-on. "Chill, Dad. Rich pricks love a dramatic entrance."

Nathaniel grinned, tossing the last crate in. "Kid's right, boss. Gives 'em time to drink more."

Ria snorted, hopping into the driver's seat of Marco's sleek new ride, gallery cash well spent. "Well, that's splendid. Late and sassy. Get in; the auction won't wait."

They piled in: Marco and Ria in front, Arwyn and Nathaniel in back. The engine purred, air conditioner blasting, but sweat still beaded around Arwyn's neck. Ria peeled out, tires biting pavement.

Marco gripped the dash. "Traffic's a bitch tonight. We're cutting it close."

Ria flipped her clipboard, pen tapping. "Oh, perfect. Late to your own show. Maybe they'll bid on your excuse: 'Tortured Artist, Traffic Edition.'" She smirked, dry as hell, sipping her thermos.

Nathaniel leaned close to Arwyn, voice low. "Eyes sharp, kid. Cedric'll flaunt that ring—emerald eyes, serpentine. Don't blink."

Arwyn's gut twisted. "Yeah, no shit." His scar itched, sketchbook heavy under his arm. "He better show."

Marco glanced back, frowning. "Who're you talking about?"

"Uh… nobody," Arwyn stammered. "Just… pretty hyped for the art."

Ria laughed sharply. "Since when? Last week it was 'pretentious crap.' Now you're hyped? What's next, ballet?" She twirled her pen, eyes narrowing.

"Lay off," Arwyn snapped, a grin slipping out. "Maybe I'm cultured now."

"Cultured like roadkill," she quipped. Marco grunted—half laugh, half groan—as Ria swerved past a honking cab.

Nathaniel's whisper cut through. "Ring's our shot, kid. Terra Incognita's waiting."

Arwyn nodded, pulse kicking. This was real.

Ria's car screeched into the gallery lot, gravel spitting. The place glowed—swanky, all glass and gleam, chandeliers spilling light. Suits and dresses milled outside, wine glasses flashing.

"Move it," Marco barked, hopping out. He hauled a crate, muttering, "These better sell."

Ria strutted ahead, clipboard in hand. "They will, unless you drop them first." She waved her thermos like a queen. "Inside, people. Showtime."

Arwyn stepped out, the air buzzing against his skin. Nathaniel flanked him, smirking. "Game on."

The gallery smelled of money. The wine, the perfume, and the egos of the visitors hung thick as smoke. Arwyn tugged at his tie, feeling like a fish in a tux. Marco's paintings lined the walls.

Crimson in Morning Light and Hazel at Dusk were up for grabs. Marco had finally hung them on the wall onstage. Chandeliers glittered, floors shone, and the crowd murmured.

"Scope it," Nathaniel muttered, snagging a champagne flute off a tray. He looked too damn comfy. "Cedric's here somewhere."

Arwyn scanned the room—suits, dresses, rich assholes chattering. "Where's the bastard?"

Marco fussed over his painting of 18 years. "Frame's off. Shit." He looked like death. Jittery, drained.

"Relax, Marco. They're buying your soul, not your carpentry," Ria said, her smile dry as dust. Then she exclaimed at a waiter, "Oi, more wine for Monopoly Man over there. He's parched."

Then Arwyn saw him.

Cedric. Polished suit, smug as hell, strolling in. The ring. Emerald eyes, serpentine. It glinted. Arwyn's fists clenched. Cedric mixed with the other rich men, chatting.

Nathaniel's grin went cold. They glanced at each other. "Showtime."

Ria took the stage and grabbed the mic. "Crimson in Morning Light, Hazel at Dusk! A painting beautifully crafted by Marco Delacroix, preserved for 18 years! Bidding starts at ten thousand dollars!"

The crowd fell silent, all eyes on her and the painting.

"Forty-five thousand!" a man up front called, his tone dripping with wealth.

"Seventy-five thousand!" another voice shouted from the side, matching the same rich cadence. The crowd gasped—they clearly knew a bit about value and weren't backing down.

"Three hundred thousand!" someone yelled from the back, emphasizing every syllable.

Cedric's voice slid in, smooth and sharp. "Five hundred thousand." He leaned against a pillar, ring flashing.

Arwyn's jaw tightened. Nathaniel leaned close. "He's playing us. That painting's tied to the ring. Feel it?"

The air thickened, and Arwyn's scar pulsed, a low hum vibrating his bones. The crowd didn't notice, too busy whispering about Cedric's bid. Ria's eyes flicked to Arwyn, narrowing, but she pressed on.

"Five hundred going once," she called, tapping her pen. "Anyone wanna top Mr. Smug over there?"

"Six hundred!" a woman in pearls snapped, glaring at Cedric.

But Cedric chuckled, low and dark. "One million."

Gasps rippled through the room, and heads turned. Marco froze, staring at Cedric like he'd seen a ghost. "What the…"

"Something's off," Arwyn muttered, hand twitching toward his sketchbook.

Nathaniel nodded. "He's not here for art. He's dangling bait."

Ria's voice cut through. "One million, going once! Going twice!" Her smirk faltered, eyes darting to Marco.

"And… so—"

Before she could finish, a phone buzzed at the back. Faces turned to a man in a velvet blazer, who flinched as if he'd stolen a painting. "Ah, sorry, sorry… meetings."

Cedric's voice rang across the massive hall. "May I interrupt the auction for a minute, Ms. Ria Lemuria?"

Ria's eyes narrowed. "What is it, Cedric?"

"One million is big money for a single painting, don't you think?" Cedric strolled through the hall, the crowd parting like the Red Sea. He flicked his gaze to Marco, who stood up front. "It's a generous offer. In fact, it's life-changing."

His smile was unsettling. The Ring of Nyx gleamed under the chandelier's light. Marco swallowed but didn't respond.

"He's pushing, kid. Testing the waters," Nathaniel whispered.

Arwyn felt a surge of anger. He wanted to wipe that smug look off his uncle's face. He glanced at Marco, noting his shaken eyes—was it all fear, or a tinge of knowing acceptance? He gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to sketch.

'Not yet. Observe.'

"The Delacroix heritage has been passed down—descendant by descendant—for centuries!" Cedric continued, his voice booming louder than Ria's with a microphone.

The crowd murmured in confusion. What was Cedric talking about? Suddenly—

"Five million!" Cedric shouted.

Everyone fell silent, stuck in shock. But Cedric didn't stop.

"The Delacroix Curse will never end!"

Nathaniel remained stoic. "The Delacroix Curse. Cedric's manipulating them all." He turned his gaze to Arwyn, frozen in shock.

The man in the velvet blazer returned, eyes wide. "THERE'S A—THERE'S AN INVASION!"

The news spread like wildfire, rippling through the crowd. For a moment, the hall was quiet despite the number of people. Then—

A scream, then another. Next thing they knew, everyone was fleeing the stage, including Marco and Ria. The hall erupted in panic, but Cedric stayed.

Nathaniel patted Arwyn's shoulder with an arrogant smirk. "Let them be. We'll stay, kid."

Arwyn's mind raced. He wanted to run, a shiver creeping up his spine. Yet at the same time, he chuckled, excitement bubbling up.

Nah, he didn't want to run anymore. This was his chance to show the results of a week's training. Cedric looked at them, eyes narrowing. "Oh? You aren't going, nephew? Go, before they arrive."

They didn't reply. Instead, they sat down the chairs beside them. It was only them, Cedric, and the people to come.

"Nice evening, ain't it, kid?" Nathaniel nudged him, as if nothing was about to happen.

"Yeah. The hall's elegant now that I see it," Arwyn answered in the same casual tone.