The Hidden Relic of the Trickster

Chapter 17: The Hidden Relic of the Trickster

The Invitation to the Auction

Noctis had never believed in fate.

Coincidence was an illusion, luck was the excuse of the unprepared, and destiny was merely the sum of carefully laid plans. Everything could be controlled, shaped, and manipulated—provided one had the patience and intelligence to do so.

That was why he was here.

The House Evern Auction was no ordinary gathering. It was a battlefield of wealth, where the highest bidders did not merely compete for objects of luxury but for power disguised in relics, tomes, and artifacts of forgotten civilizations. Some nobles hoarded paintings that whispered of ancient bloodlines, others sought enchanted jewels rumored to have belonged to long-dead kings. But for Noctis, the value of the night lay not in the items displayed—but in those hidden beneath pretense and ignorance.

A particular collection was to be auctioned tonight: artifacts retrieved from the ruins of a long-lost temple, one thought to have been buried under centuries of history. To the scholars who first discovered them, these were nothing more than remnants of an old faith. But Noctis had spent years studying fragmented records, piecing together clues buried in forgotten texts.

If his research was correct, then this temple was once dedicated to the Trickster God.

And where the Trickster's name was invoked, secrets and power always followed.

The problem was simple: Noctis should not have been here.

His family, House Erevar, had long fallen from grace. Their influence had faded, their wealth no longer substantial enough to secure invitations to events of this magnitude. His father had abandoned old political games for new ambitions, and his brother, ever focused on the family's martial legacy, had no interest in the relics of the past.

And yet, here Noctis stood, invitation in hand.

Because power was not always taken by force.

Sometimes, it was coaxed into offering itself willingly.

The Gilded Briar was where power changed hands in whispers.

Beyond the grand halls where noblemen flaunted their wealth, beyond the dining chambers where extravagant feasts masked silent rivalries, there was a more discreet world—one where deals were struck over candlelit tables, where reputations were saved or destroyed with a single misplaced word.

Noctis had never cared for the excesses of noble society. But he understood them.

He navigated them like an unseen current beneath still waters, unassuming yet pulling everything in his intended direction. And tonight, in the private study of Lord Edgar Lystane, he was here to collect what was owed.

Lord Edgar Lystane sat across from Noctis, stiff and wary, the very picture of a man trying to conceal his unease behind thinly veiled arrogance.

The dim glow of the candelabra between them cast flickering shadows across the study. The heavy scent of aged wine and smoldering incense clung to the air, but it did little to ease the tension settling between them like an unsheathed dagger.

Edgar's fingers drummed against his goblet, the motion restless. His expression was tight, his lips pressed into a line as though chewing over words he dared not say aloud.

"You certainly wasted no time calling in my debt," he muttered at last.

Noctis, seated in the high-backed chair opposite him, exuded a calm that was almost unnerving. He did not shift, did not fidget. He was utterly at ease, as though he were the master of this house rather than a mere guest.

He met Edgar's gaze with quiet amusement. "I prefer efficiency."

Edgar let out a breath, feigning a chuckle, though the edge of discomfort did not leave his voice. "A favor, you called it. But favors, in this world, are never so simple."

Noctis's fingers traced the rim of his goblet idly, his smile faint. "That depends on the person granting them."

Edgar scowled. The weight of their unspoken agreement was thick between them. Three weeks ago, this conversation would have been unthinkable.

Back then, Edgar Lystane had been a noble on the brink of financial collapse.

A missing ledger. A vanished accountant. A gambling debt that had spiraled far beyond control.

The perfect storm, carefully orchestrated.

It had started with whispers—subtle, insidious. Hushed conversations questioning Edgar's solvency, well-placed rumors that made their way to his investors. Doubt spread like rot in the roots of his fortune, and before he had time to react, deals began slipping through his fingers.

Then came the silence.

His allies withdrew, his rivals grew bolder. He was moments away from disgrace, standing on the precipice of ruin with no way to stop his fall.

And then, Noctis had appeared.

Their first meeting had been here, in this very study. But back then, Edgar had been a different man—desperate, frantic, on the edge of begging.

He had barely managed to conceal his shaking hands when Noctis placed his missing ledger onto the table before him.

His mind had reeled.

It was intact—every detail accounted for. The damning evidence of his private dealings, of debts owed and illicit trades, all returned untouched.

But that was not all.

The rumors—the ones that had nearly destroyed him—had vanished overnight. Investors who had distanced themselves were suddenly willing to renegotiate. His business partners spoke of a renewed confidence in his holdings.

It was as though the disaster had never happened.

Edgar had demanded to know how. Why.

Noctis had merely offered a quiet smile, a polite shake of the head.

"I have no need for gratitude," he had said then. "Only the knowledge that, one day, I may ask something of you in return."

Edgar, drowning in relief, had readily agreed.

He had not realized, until now, what a grave mistake that had been.

Three weeks later, Noctis had come to collect.

Edgar's lips pressed into a thin line. "You need an invitation to the House Evern auction."

Noctis corrected him with a slight tilt of his head. "I require one."

Edgar's jaw tightened. "You do realize how difficult those are to obtain? House Evern—"

The noble frowned. "House Evern does not extend invitations lightly."

Noctis leaned back, his gaze steady. "Yet you have one."

Silence stretched between them. Edgar's fingers tightened against the chair.

"…How do you know that?"

"I know many things, Lord Lystane." Noctis's voice was smooth, unhurried. Too much knowledge was dangerous, but just enough? That made people nervous. "More importantly, I know that declining this favor would be… unwise."

Edgar clenched his jaw, glaring at the empty glass before him. Noctis could see the calculations behind his eyes—the weight of the debt he owed against whatever consequences this request might bring. But he had no choice.

Noctis raised a hand in a slow, measured motion, and Edgar immediately fell silent.

There was no need to voice the obvious. Yes, invitations to the auction were difficult to acquire. Yes, they were limited to the most esteemed members of noble society. Yes, House Evern did not simply hand them out.

But none of that mattered.

Noctis's gaze was patient, unyielding. He said nothing.

And Edgar, a man who had climbed the social hierarchy through sheer ambition, a man who had bullied weaker nobles into submission, felt the distinct and unfamiliar sensation of being caged.

It was not a request. It was an expectation.

Edgar exhaled sharply, muttering a low curse.

From within his coat, he withdrew a folded parchment, its wax seal a deep crimson red—the unmistakable mark of House Evern.

He placed it on the table between them, reluctant, as though parting with it caused him physical pain.

"This gets you in," he muttered. "If you plan to cause trouble, leave my name out of it."

Noctis's fingers brushed over the wax seal, his touch deliberate.

"Of course," he said smoothly, rising from his chair. "Your involvement will be… invisible."

Edgar did not seem comforted by those words.

But Noctis was already walking away.

He had what he needed.

And soon, he would have much more.

To most nobles, the auction was an opportunity to flaunt their wealth, to acquire extravagant pieces for their personal collections.

To Noctis, it was a gateway to something far greater.

The ruins of an ancient temple had been uncovered.

At first, the scholars had believed it to be nothing more than a remnant of an old faith, a forgotten monument lost to time. But Noctis had spent years unraveling the cryptic texts buried in the restricted archives of the Academy. He had followed fragmented records, stolen glimpses of forbidden histories, and pieced together a truth long buried beneath deception and time.

The temple had once been a sanctuary to the Trickster God.

And temples did not crumble without leaving behind something of value.

Somewhere within the collection of unearthed relics, there was something powerful—an artifact, a secret, a forgotten piece of history that had not been meant to resurface.

Something that had been hidden for a reason.

Noctis was certain of it.

And if such a relic did exist, it would not be placed in the public auction halls.

It would be locked away in the back chambers, too strange, too dangerous, too unexplainable for the ordinary noble collector.

That was where he would begin.

And if the Trickster God's hand had truly played a role in this—

Then perhaps, just perhaps, things just might slightly become more interesting.

To most nobles, the auction was about status—an opportunity to flaunt their wealth, to acquire rare objects to display in their grand halls.

But Noctis was not here for gold and trinkets.

The ruins of an ancient temple had been uncovered.

What the scholars and aristocrats saw as a mere excavation, Noctis saw as a carefully concealed secret buried beneath centuries of dust. The temple's existence had been all but erased from history, its records scattered in cryptic texts, half-truths, and forgotten myths. But through years of patient research—through connections, blackmail, and stolen knowledge—he had come to believe that this temple had once been a sanctuary to the Trickster God.

More importantly, he had reason to suspect that something had been left behind.

A relic.

Something powerful.

Something meant to be hidden.

If such an artifact existed, it would not be in the public display halls. The nobles would bid on gilded statues and ornamental pieces, blind to the real value of what they had uncovered. But there would be something else—an object too mysterious, too strange to be publicly auctioned.

That was what Noctis had come for.

The Trickster God had always left gifts for those cunning enough to find them.

And Noctis intended to claim one for himself.

As Noctis stepped out of the Gilded Briar into the cold night air, the city stretched before him in glittering lamplight and distant laughter.

The auction was tomorrow.

And yet, as he walked through the quiet streets, an eerie stillness settled around him.

Then—

A whisper.

Low. Unfamiliar. Ancient.

A voice, neither male nor female, yet both. A presence that did not belong in the realm of the living.

So… you would seek what was hidden?

Noctis halted. His breath was steady, but his pulse was sharp, alive with the instinctive awareness of something unnatural pressing against reality.

He did not turn, did not speak.

He merely listened.

Do you think yourself worthy?

The whisper curled around him like unseen laughter, like fingers brushing against the edge of a grand cosmic game.

And then—just as suddenly—it was gone.

Noctis exhaled slowly, the chill in his spine lingering.

He had suspected this path would lead him to something beyond mortal schemes.

Now, he was certain.

The Trickster had noticed him.