The Hidden Relic of the Trickster ( ll )

Chapter 17: The Hidden Relic of the Trickster ( ll )

The Hidden Vaults

The cold night wrapped around Noctis as he moved through the streets, his thoughts threading through the implications of what had just occurred. He was not a man prone to superstition. Power—true power—was something tangible, something that could be understood, manipulated, and wielded with precision. But what he had felt just moments ago was something different.

A presence. A test.

And the Trickster God was watching.

Noctis reached the outer gates of the Erevar estate and slipped inside with practiced ease. The manor was quiet, its corridors lined with the remnants of faded grandeur. A house that had once held prestige now lay shrouded in the quiet dignity of decay. His father was likely still locked away in his study, consumed by his latest schemes. His brother would be training, as always, sharpening the family's martial legacy while ignoring the slow erosion of their power.

Noctis's path was different. His ambitions were not bound by swords and banners but by something far older, something far greater.

He entered his chambers, locking the door behind him. The dim candlelight flickered as he moved toward the desk, spreading out the documents he had gathered over the years.

Maps. Transcripts of forgotten histories. Personal notes scrawled in careful ink.

Everything he had uncovered about the Trickster's hidden legacy.

At the heart of it all was the ruined temple.

A sanctuary lost to time. A god erased from history.

And now, its remnants were set to be sold off to the highest bidder, to be displayed as idle curiosities in noble collections.

Except Noctis knew better.

He reached for one of the oldest parchments in his possession—a faded excerpt, stolen from a restricted archive, its ink nearly worn away by age.

"The Trickster's gift is never freely given. One must earn the right to see what has been hidden. To seek without wisdom is to invite ruin. To claim without cunning is to invite death."

A test. That was what the whisper had been.

Something within that auction was bound to the Trickster.

Something powerful enough to notice him.

Noctis exhaled slowly, his mind settling into clarity. He was not one to act blindly, no matter how tempting the prospect of discovery was. There were still too many unknowns, too many factors unaccounted for.

Tomorrow, the auction would begin. And Noctis would be ready.

~~~~~

The House Evern estate loomed before Noctis, an architectural testament to generations of wealth, power, and ambition. The midday sun bathed its grand facade in a golden hue, making the marble pillars gleam like silent sentinels guarding the legacy of one of the most influential noble houses.

The long entrance drive was a parade of luxury—carriages of deep mahogany and gilded edges, each bearing the crest of aristocratic families. Servants in crisp uniforms flitted about, assisting finely dressed nobles as they stepped onto the cobbled pathway. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, aged wine, and anticipation.

Laughter and conversation flowed freely, but beneath the pleasantries lay something sharper. Rivalry. Calculated bids for power disguised as idle chatter. Every nod, every smile, every seemingly careless glance was a silent move in an unspoken game.

Noctis adjusted the lapel of his tailored coat, feeling the weight of the invitation secured within his inner pocket. His attire was carefully selected—woven with subtle sophistication, rich enough to blend seamlessly among the elite, yet understated enough to avoid undue attention. Today, he was simply another young noble, a curious attendee with an interest in rare artifacts. Nothing more.

He stepped forward, joining the slow procession toward the entrance.

The guards stationed at the grand doors were clad in the Evern house colors, their postures rigid, their expressions unreadable. When he handed over his invitation, the older of the two guards barely spared him a glance before inspecting the seal. A brief nod, then a silent gesture for him to proceed.

The moment Noctis crossed the threshold, the weight of history pressed down upon him.

The Grand Hall

The sight before him was nothing short of breathtaking.

The grand hall stretched vast and magnificent, a display of Evern's boundless wealth and influence. Chandeliers of enchanted crystal hung from vaulted ceilings, their golden light refracting across polished marble floors. Rich tapestries lined the walls, depicting battles won, treaties forged, and legacies secured through blood and coin.

But the true spectacle lay within the display cases.

Lining the hall in careful arrangements, each case housed a relic—artifacts chosen for their historical significance, their craftsmanship, or the power they once held. Enchanted rings that pulsed faintly under the glass, ancient tomes bound in leather so aged it was nearly petrified, weapons with hilts encrusted in jewels, their blades whispering of long-forgotten wars.

Noctis moved through the room, his gaze sweeping the exhibits with the practiced air of a noble idly admiring fine craftsmanship. In reality, he was studying something far more important—the people.

Clusters of aristocrats wandered between the displays, their voices a murmur of speculation and intrigue. Some were scholars and collectors, drawn by the historical value of the items. Others were nobility seeking a prize—something to flaunt in their halls, a symbol of their wealth. And then there were the serious players. Those who knew that true power was often hidden beneath layers of myth and secrecy.

Noctis noted them carefully. The older noble in deep crimson robes, his fingers tracing the edge of a golden chalice with an intensity that spoke of knowledge rather than vanity. The sharp-eyed woman near the enchanted rings, her lips pressed thin in a way that suggested she understood more than she let on. The group of foreign dignitaries murmuring among themselves, their expressions guarded.

And then, finally, he saw what he was truly looking for.

At the far end of the hall, partially obscured by velvet drapes, a smaller doorway led deeper into the estate. It was an entrance that, at first glance, seemed unremarkable—no guards, no overt barriers blocking the way. But Noctis had spent too many years navigating the unseen layers of aristocratic society to be fooled by appearances.

Two attendants stood nearby, their stances relaxed but their gazes sharp, sweeping the crowd with quiet efficiency. They were not ordinary servants. Their presence was too deliberate, their positioning too strategic. They were here to ensure that only those with the proper clearance could pass through that door.

That was his true destination.

But access would not come easily.

For now, he needed to observe.

Noctis continued his leisurely path through the room, pausing at various displays to maintain the illusion of casual interest. At one exhibit, he came to a halt before a glass case containing an ornate dagger. The blade, blackened with age, bore intricate carvings that curled along its length, forming symbols long since lost to common knowledge.

A noble beside him, a man draped in heavy brocade, murmured to his companion. "A relic from the Lost Wars, they say. Cursed, perhaps."

His companion scoffed, a woman in emerald silks. "Or perhaps just another bauble meant to drive up the price."

Noctis allowed a faint, polite smile to touch his lips, offering no comment before moving on.

Patience. Timing. The right moment would come.

As he weaved through the room, his mind was already working. He needed an opening—a reason to slip past those attendants without raising suspicion. An invitation to the restricted collection was likely held by only a select few, but that did not mean he couldn't create another way in.

Then, as if on cue, an opportunity presented itself.

Near the center of the hall, voices began to rise—not in admiration, but in heated debate. Two nobles stood squared off before one of the displays, their tempers flaring over some perceived slight. A small crowd was beginning to form around them, drawn by the escalating tension.

Perfect.

Noctis adjusted his stance, angling himself toward the restricted entrance, waiting for the moment when the argument would reach its peak—when all eyes would be drawn to the spectacle unfolding before them.

His fingers brushed against the edges of his coat.

One breath.

Two.

And then—

The perfect moment arrived.

With practiced ease, Noctis slipped past the velvet drapes, vanishing into the shadows beyond.

The air was different here.

Colder. Heavier.

It carried a weight that pressed against the skin, not just from the chill of the underground corridors but from something deeper, something woven into the very walls of this place. It was the sensation of secrets long buried, of knowledge deliberately obscured.

Noctis moved forward, his footsteps the only sound echoing against the stone floor.

The corridor was lined with ancient statues, their forms frozen in solemn vigil. Each one bore the marks of age—cracks along their marble surfaces, erosion that softened once-sharp features—but their presence remained imposing. They were not merely decorations. Their placement was deliberate, meant to instill unease, to remind those who ventured here that they were being watched.

Noctis did not slow.

The deeper he went, the quieter the world above became. The muffled sounds of the auction, the polite murmurs of nobles, the distant clink of glasses—faded into nothing. Here, only the stillness remained, thick and absolute.

Then, at last, he reached the chamber.

The room before him was vast, yet the ceiling was low, adding to the oppressive weight of the space. The walls were lined with shelves and glass cases, each containing something unique. Something dangerous.

Noctis let his gaze sweep across the collection, absorbing the sheer magnitude of what had been hidden here.

A tome bound in chains, its surface shifting as if the pages beneath struggled to breathe. The runes along the binding pulsed, faint but rhythmic, like a heartbeat trapped in ink and paper.

A goblet of unknown metal, its form impossibly smooth, the surface shifting subtly when the light hit it at certain angles. It was as if it refused to be truly seen, to be understood.

A mask with hollow eyes, its porcelain-like face cracked in places, yet its expression remained eerily perfect. The air around it was colder than the rest of the room, as though it exhaled a presence not entirely human.

But despite the overwhelming presence of these objects, Noctis's gaze was drawn to one thing alone.

At the center of the chamber, upon an ornate pedestal, lay a single fragment of carved stone.

It was small, worn by time, its edges chipped and uneven. At a glance, it was unassuming—a broken remnant of something larger, something long forgotten.

And yet, he knew it.

He had seen its likeness before.

In stolen texts, in the margins of forbidden archives, in whispered legends that spoke of a power lost to time.

The markings along its surface were faded, but their shapes stirred something in his memory. An old script, one few could recognize. But Noctis had studied too many hidden histories to mistake it.

This was no ordinary relic.

This was a piece of something greater. A fragment of a puzzle that had been scattered, its secrets buried to keep them from being understood.

He stepped closer, his breath slow, measured.

The Trickster's whisper returned.

"So… you would seek what was hidden?"

The air around the stone felt heavier now, as if it recognized him just as he recognized it.

This was what he had come for.

Yet just as his fingers hovered over the artifact, the silence broke.

A whisper of movement—too controlled, too deliberate.

Noctis turned just as two figures stepped from the shadows.

The guards were not dressed in standard livery. Their armor was dark, built for mobility rather than show, and their presence here meant only one thing—they were waiting for him.

One moved first, lunging with a curved dagger aimed for his throat. Noctis twisted, sidestepping at the last moment. The blade missed by inches, carving through the empty air where his neck had been.

The second guard was already in motion, a heavy strike aimed at his ribs. Too precise, too fast for a common hired hand. These were professionals.

Noctis ducked low, avoiding the blow, and let instinct take over.

His mind sharpened. The world slowed.

A flicker of perception, a shift in awareness.

The first guard's momentum was still carrying him forward—his weight tilted slightly too much on his right foot. Noctis saw the opening.

A half-step back. A twist.

He guided the movement rather than resisted it, subtly nudging the man's perception just enough to throw off his balance. The guard stumbled—not from anything physical, but from the smallest tweak in his own awareness.

In that fraction of a second, Noctis struck.

A swift movement, his fingers brushing against the guard's wrist. A whisper of suggestion, a distortion of intent—Drop the weapon.

The dagger slipped from the guard's fingers before he even registered why.

Noctis caught it mid-air.

The second guard hesitated for only a breath before lunging again, this time with measured precision.

But Noctis was already moving.

A step back, a shift in focus. Warp the perception of distance.

The guard's blade should have met flesh—but it didn't.

Instead, his strike was just a fraction too short, his depth perception subtly altered by the smallest nudge of Noctis's will.

His eyes widened in confusion.

Noctis didn't give him time to recover.

A sharp twist of the stolen dagger—an upward slice across the exposed shoulder. Not deep, but enough to weaken his grip.

The first guard recovered, lunging again. Noctis countered with a simple misdirection—Make him see what wasn't there.

A shadowy flicker in his peripheral vision—an illusion of movement that didn't exist.

The guard flinched, reacting to the phantom presence, and in that moment of hesitation, Noctis struck hard. A precise jab to the throat—not enough to kill, but enough to send him crumpling, gasping for air.

The second guard staggered, bleeding but still standing. His expression shifted, wariness replacing aggression.

Noctis smiled faintly.

"Leave," he murmured, his voice smooth, laced with something just beneath the surface—a suggestion woven into the very fabric of thought.

The guard hesitated. His breathing quickened.

And then, without another word, he turned and fled.

Noctis exhaled slowly, the room returning to its unnatural silence.

He turned back to the artifact.

The weight of unseen eyes lingered, but no further interruptions came.

Carefully, he reached out, fingers brushing against the stone.

And as he did, the world around him shifted.