The Blackwell Auction

Officially, he was a cultural liaison. Unofficially, Agent Griffin was there to track down real artifacts.

His department within British Intelligence, the Division for Cultural Recovery and Antiquities Oversight, had one goal: identify and secure illicit or stolen relics of historical value.

His task was straightforward: catalog every lot, identify suspected stolen antiquities, and if possible, note who acquired them. One name matched to one item was enough to open negotiations or leverage. The British Museum had a long memory and a longer reach. Many of the world's so-called "collectors" didn't like to be reminded that provenance mattered—even when it was inconvenient.

The venue changed. This year, it had quietly slipped from Manhattan to the underbelly of London—like a rat disappearing down a hole.

The auction took place in an old converted theater—circular, tiered rows spiraling around a central pit. The lighting was soft and hazy, intentionally so. Every wall, floor tile, and seat cushion were upholstered in muted tones—ash gray, antique gold, and deep wine—designed to mask both opulence and identity. A place where wealth didn't announce itself; it simply existed, watching.

Griffin found his seat in the middle ring. He wore an unremarkable gray suit, thick-rimmed glasses, and an old watch that hid more tech than a standard MI6 field kit. To his left and right sat men and women from across the world: oil magnates, aristocrats, private collectors, crime lords in tasteful disguise. He scanned the room methodically, cross-referencing features with internal watchlists. Several red flags. Many unknowns.

And then came the man beside him. Two seat over. Immaculately dressed, dark tailored coat, a stillness that didn't match the room's jittery energy. He had the look of someone accustomed to watching rather than speaking. Dante Carter. The name was on the auction ledger. Wealthy, discreet, unsettling. Said to be a traveler, a collector, a scholar… depending on who you asked.

With him sat a woman—young, pale, impassive—whom Griffin assumed to be a maid.

Then the last in their trio arrived late, slipping into the empty seat between Dante and Agent Griffin.

Laurance Everhart, heir to the Everhart shipping conglomerate. Smile too wide, voice too casual. The kind who hid intelligence under laughter.

"First time?" Laurance asked, flashing Griffin a grin as the lights dimmed. "Or are you one of the regular ghosts?"

"I stop in from time to time," Griffin said evenly.

"So what item do you have your eyes on?" Laurance asked, swirling his tea slightly before taking a sip. "Let me guess—Phoenician idol, possibly cursed? A fragment of Noah's ark? Or are you one of those practical types that buys maps and knives?"

Griffin offered a neutral smile. "Nothing in particular. I'm just here to observe."

"Oh, an observer. The most dangerous kind." Laurance leaned back in his seat, looking amused. "You lot always act like you're not interested until you suddenly outbid everyone and walk off with something wrapped in velvet."

"I assure you," Griffin said dryly, "I'm mostly here to watch. Some of the pieces have... historical interest."

Laurance gave a mock sigh. "Shame. I was hoping to see someone panic-bid a million pounds on a cursed urn. Always the highlight."

"You've skimmed the catalog—anything worth watching for?" Laurance continued, flipping through the auction booklet.

"One or two entries stood out," Griffin said. "Names that doesn't appear often, like Durandal."

Laurance blinked, then chuckled gently then gesture at Dante. "So, you've your eyes is on the French sword too? It's this year main attraction. Dante here suggests it being special too. Oh, I'm Laurance by the way." 

Griffin raised an eyebrow, half-heartedly asking for more details.

"It's an obscure riddle I found," Dante replied, tone unreadable. "It's fragments, really. Things about angels and a seal... and Durandal being a key."

Laurance stared at him, then grinned. "You always manage to make nonsense sound like prophecy."

Before Dante could reply, the lights dimmed further. All conversation tapered into whispers as the stage came to life. A circular platform at the center of the room illuminated in slow bloom, and the auctioneer stepped into the spotlight—poised, elegant, and smiling with practiced charm.

"Welcome, honored guests," she said, her voice smooth as silk and amplified with perfect clarity. "Tonight's offerings have been assembled with the utmost discretion and care. As always, authenticity varies—buyer beware. But for those with a discerning eye, I promise you will not leave disappointed."

A hush fell. The first item descended slowly from the ceiling—an ornate dagger in a glass case, the metal dark with age, its hilt shaped like twin serpents twisted around a rose.

Griffin let his gaze drift across the room. Dozens of faces, cloaked in shadows and secrecy. A smattering of accents, wealth, and influence. And more than a few with a collector's hunger in their eyes.

He wasn't here to bid. He was here to list item that might one day resurface in a backroom exhibit, "donated anonymously" to the British Museum.

The first few items came and went quickly: A carved obsidian blade attributed to an Olmec high priest. A Sumerian astral idol, disturbingly intact. A canopic jar, sealed with countless yellow talisman.

Griffin noted buyers where he could, flagging four items with potential claims under the UNESCO 1970 convention.

Laurance, to Griffin's growing annoyance, insisted on commenting—loudly—on nearly every item brought to the floor. Whether it was a supposedly ancient Mesopotamian tablet ("Looks like my uncle's tax forms"), or a cursed Venetian mirror ("Tempting, but I'd rather not be haunted before my next birthday"), he had something to say. And to Griffin's quiet disbelief, he actually raised a paddle and bought a feathered dreamcatcher rumored to belong to a Lakota shaman.

"For the vibes," Laurance explained cheerfully. "And the nightmares. Keeps life interesting."

Griffin didn't respond, merely marked the item down in his notes with a slight frown.

Then, at Lot 47, the lights shifted.

The auctioneer stepped forward again, her voice calm but slowed, like brushing velvet over a blade. "Our next item—Lot forty-seven—is the sword known as Durandal," she said, letting the name linger just a moment. "Recovered following its theft from Rocamadour, France, last year. The provenance claims it is a replica—though, as always, interpretation is at the buyer's discretion."

The murmurs rippled.

"In accordance with its history and profile, bidding will begin at $100,000."

"$100,000," the auctioneer called. "Do I have one-fifty?"

Another bid. Then another. The numbers leapt fast. $2 millions. $13 millions. $27 millions.

Laurance raised an eyebrow. "It's barely been on the floor a minute."

The auction continued at a feverish pace. $46 million. $67 million. $72 million.

Dante raised his paddle. "$100 millions."

Someone else matched it instantly. Then came $113 millions, followed by $130 millions.

Dante bid again—$140 millions—but hesitated when the next offer shot past $170 millions.

Griffin, glancing sidelong, saw Dante lower his paddle. "Outbid?" he asked quietly.

Dante gave a small, unreadable smile. "Let's say… outweighed."

Laurance groaned and dramatically sank into his seat. "If I even try to wire that kind of cash, my father's going to put me on financial probation, or have me killed, either or really."

The auction continued at a feverish pace. The crowd thinned. Many bidders dropped out.

Only three remained. Then two.

One was seated far across the room—an anonymous figure in a fine black suit with gloved hands. The other, even harder to track—possibly one of the veiled parties bidding remotely through a delegate.

The numbers climbed past reason. $277 million. $560 million. $1.16 billions.

A collective murmur passed through the audience.

Griffin leaned in. This wasn't just an eccentric auction—this was monumental. Whoever bidding Durandal wasn't doing it for prestige, they were insane.

The auctioneer's voice faltering. "Do we have $1.25 billions?"

A pause.

Then a bid: $2 billions.

Then, after what felt like a breath held across the room, another: $2.1 billions.

Griffin blinked. Laurance swore under his breath. "This is madness."

Then came the next offer—clean and final:

$3 billions.

The entire room fell silent.

Laurance turned, stunned. "You're joking, right?," he exclaimed. "They would spend billions—for a rusted sword?"

Griffin nodded, eyes still on the floor.

Dante, next to him, gave the faintest nod of agreement.

Then—like steam rolling off invisible water, the very air groaned. The temperature plummeted several degrees in seconds as a cold, spectral mist blanketed the room, coiling around ankles and pooling under seats, obscuring the entire auction house. It tasted of ozone and ancient ice.

"What the hell—" Laurance started, half-rising from his chair.

Then came the clash—a resounding, metallic strike that echoed like a cathedral bell, and with it, a gust of force that blew the spectral fog away in a single, concussive burst.

Two figures stood in the center of the marble floor.

One, clad in deep violet robes laced with glowing runes, held a crooked staff in one hand and Durandal in the other. His face was partially obscured by a veil of shifting energy, his eyes burning with arcane light.

Opposite him, a towering knight clads in ceremonial plate, silver tarnished and blackened by time. The edge of his massive sword shimmered with radiant fire as ashes fluttered as its blade locked against Durandal.

A stunned silence fell before the knight growled lowly across the chamber.

"So your cabal sends a thief. Figures. Couldn't win the blade legally, could you?" He tilted his head mockingly. "Too poor? Or just too weak to compete?"

The wizard sneered beneath his mask, distanced himself as he teleported and suspense himself midair. His staff crackling to life with dark energy. "Céu de mil espadas!" he intoned, and a faint, shimmering purple light began to coalesce around him in the form of countless radiant blade, ready in rain down when commanded. "And you're still barking like the loyal dog they've trained you to be." He held Durandal, with a taunting tone. "This blade belongs to whoever dares to claim it. Not some rusting church relics and their lapdogs."

There was no further warning.

"Feu de sang!"

With a scream of arcane force, the wizard raised his staff and unleashed a torrent of writhing crimson flames that snaked across the floor as radiant blade weave in-between. The knight charged through it without hesitation, his radiant blade cleaving the air in brilliant arcs, deflecting all that approached him, each movement a testament to centuries of martial discipline. They collided in the center with a deafening crash—magic and metal sending a shockwave rippling through the chamber.

Guests screamed and scrambled from their seats, a chaotic tide of panic.

"Vento Furioso!"

The wizard spun with a hiss, weaving wind around his form, sending chairs flying, twisting them into a storm of splinters. Marble tiles didn't just crack; they exploded outwards in deadly shrapnel. The knight retaliated with a burst of searing, blinding light from his blade, a holy fire that sliced the remnants of the auction platform in half with surgical precision.

Griffin stood frozen for a half-second longer, watching with wide eyes. "Bloody hell—"

Dante tugged at his shoulder. "Time to move."

Laurance was already hauling a stunned guest to his feet, his face pale. "This isn't part of the show, is it?!"

"Let's assume not," Griffin snapped, ducking as a blast of raw magical energy roared overhead, scorching the ceiling. They turned and bolted with the others, weaving through the fleeing crowd.

Alpha led the way silently, calculating paths between toppled chairs and bursts of debris, her movements fluid and precise. Calm, focused, as if she had seen worse.

Then the ceiling cracked.

A vast groan echoed above as a section of the vaulted marble roof split—a slab easily the size of a car broke loose, falling directly toward the fleeing guests below.

Gasps and shrieks rang out.

But before it could hit, a line of glinting, razor-thin wire snapped through the air, carving the falling debris into clean, smoking fragment mid-air.

Another figure—suit, sunglasses, and gloves—raised one hand and stopped the rest in mid-fall with a sharp, invisible force. The chunks of marble hung, suspended for a breathless second, then were pushed aside with an audible whoosh to land safely out of harm's way against a far wall.

A team of five, all dressed in near-identical dark suits, moved with impossible coordination through the chaos. One shielded civilian behind him with a flick of the hand, deflecting a shard of magical fire that dissipated into black smoke. Another swept a hand horizontally, creating a clear barrier that held collapsing wall panels at bay, a shimmering, nearly invisible wall.

They were eerily silent. No orders. No insignias. Just precise, practiced action, like a well-oiled machine.

"Who the hell are they?" Laurance gasped as he ducked beside Griffin and Dante, just behind a shattered pillar.

"Security detail?" Laurance asked, though he already knew the answer was far more complex.

Griffin kept his eyes on them even as he moved. Every detail mattered. Every gesture. Every unexplained phenomenon. Because someone would want a full report—and right now, the only certainty was that magic, real or staged, had just been witnessed by over two hundred elite bidders in a locked-down London vault.

And the sword—Durandal, was at the center of it all

_______________________________________________________________

Griffin didn't know how, but they made it out. Shouts, shoves, and the sheer momentum of the panicked crowd propelled them through the grand entrance and onto the street. The cool night air hit them, a sharp contrast to the chaotic inferno they'd just escaped.

"Everyone alright?" Laurance gasped, steadying a disheveled Dante. Alpha, already scanning the perimeter, gave a curt nod.

Griffin, however, was still replaying the scene. "Those suited figures," he muttered, more to himself than the others. "They weren't just security. I saw them. They were fighting the knight and the wizard too. Trying to get to Durandal." He'd caught glimpses through the swirling chaos – a precise, almost surgical attack from one of them, aiming to disarm the wizard, another trying to intercept the knight. But before he could observe more, he was swept out with the last wave of evacuees.

A few minutes later, a guttural groan ripped through the night, followed by a deafening KA-BOOM! The ground trembled beneath their feet. They spun around just in time to see the upper floors of the auction house buckle, then collapse inwards with a roar of tearing metal and splintering stone. A cloud of dust and debris plumed into the sky, illuminated by the flashing lights of converging emergency vehicles.

On the street, dozens of auction attendees stood dazed, their expensive suits and gowns covered in dust.

"My God… it's gone!" someone shrieked.

"I'm suing! I'm suing everyone!" another voice bellowed, indignant.

A younger woman with smudged makeup fumbled for her phone. "No one's gonna believe this! I need to get this online, right now!"

"Did you see that, wizard? The glowing eyes?" a man whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and awe.

_______________________________________________________________

Hours later, the four of them sat in a dimly lit, anonymous bar a few miles away. The clinking of glasses and low hum of conversation did little to soothe the lingering adrenaline. A large, flat screen TV above the bar flickered with a breaking news report.

"...the unfortunate collapse of the historic Blackwell Auction House in central London tonight," a sober news anchor reported, a graphic of the demolished building filling the screen. "Authorities are confirming a structural failure, speculating of it being a gas leak, though the cause is still under investigation. Remarkably, despite the extensive damage, preliminary reports indicate only a few minor injuries, with no fatalities reported. A true miracle, given the scale of the destruction."

Laurance took a long swig of his drink, his eyes fixed on the screen. "A miracle," he echoed dryly. "Or a damn good cover-up."

Dante remained silent, swirling the ice in his glass, his expression unreadable. Alpha, ever watchful, stood by. Griffin leaned back, the chaos of the night still buzzing in his ears. The auction house was rubble, and a new, unsettling player had entered the game. His instinct told him that this was far from over.