Victory is a cerebral state. Hunger is a biological tyranny.
We had conquered the social hierarchy of the museum, humiliated a noble, and secured the favor of a Prince. By all logical metrics, we were triumphant.
But my vessel did not care about social status. It only cared about sustenance.
As the adrenaline of the confrontation faded, the "meat-box" began to scream. The emptiness in my stomach wasn't just a sensation; it was a structural weakness. My hands trembled—not from fear, but from a lack of fuel.
"Inefficient," I muttered, pressing a hand against my abdomen. "I rewrite the laws of physics, and yet I am held hostage by a plate of food."
"It is the burden of the flesh, My Lord," Malakor said, though his eyes were gleaming with a very specific, gluttonous anticipation. "And fortunately, the White City understands burdens."
I did not have the patience for seven courses of microscopic portions so we did not go to a five-star establishment
We went to the "Altar of Fat."
It was a franchise. The same brand that sold sludge in the slums, but here, in the Uptown district, it had been sanitized for the elite.
The grease-stained walls were replaced with polished ivory. The smell of burnt oil was masked by scent diffusers pumping out lavender and sage.
But the spirit was the same: excessive calories sold to people trying to fill a void that wasn't in their stomachs.
We sat at a marble table.
"Three orders of the Golden Chicken and Saffron Rice Kebabs," Malakor ordered, his voice trembling with joy.
The price was 500 Clons per plate. A controlled price for the wealthy. 1,500 Clons vanished from our account, leaving us with 37,400.
When the food arrived, it was a mountain of yellow rice and glistening meat, dusted with gold flakes—because apparently, mortals enjoyed excreting heavy metals.
I ate with resentment.
I cut the meat, and swallowed. It was a tax payment. Every bite was a transaction to keep this body from evicting me.
Beside me, Kael ate like a hydraulic press. He moved the fork to his mouth at regular intervals, like a machine fueling the engine.
Malakor, however, was having a religious experience.
"The saffron..." he moaned, eyes rolling back. "My Lord, the chicken... it melts. It is not like the rat-meat of the lower districs."
"Eat, priest," I said, stabbing a piece of kebab. "And tell me about the Ember Bay."
Malakor swallowed a massive mouthful, wiping grease from his chin with a linen napkin.
"It is subterranean, My Lord. Located beneath the cliffs of the White City. It is a volcanic vent converted into a theater."
He lowered his voice, leaning in over his plate.
"The security is tight. But... we have the narrative. You are the Inspector from the Divine Archives. I am your scribe. Kael is your guard."
"An audit," I mused. "Bureaucracy is the one force even criminals fear more than the police."
"Exactly. We do not go to buy. We go to judge."
I finished the meal. The heaviness in my stomach stabilized my hands. The vessel was satisfied.
"Let's see what they have to offer," I commanded. "The auction awaits."
…
The entrance to the Ember Bay was not a door; it was a blast shield set into the side of a cliff.
Magma veins ran through the rock face behind reinforced glass, casting a hellish, red glow over the arrival platform.
The air smelled of sulfur, expensive perfume, and impending financial ruin.
Two mages stood guard.
They wore the red-and-gold livery of the Forenzil Group.
Their hands hovered near their cane, eyes scanning the approaching guests for threats.
They stopped us.
"Invitation?" one asked, his voice bored.
Malakor stepped forward. He didn't cringe this time. He puffed out his chest, wearing the arrogance I had taught him like a shield.
"Invitation?" Malakor scoffed, looking at the guard as if he were a stain on the floor. "Do you ask the wind for an invitation?"
He gestured to me.
"Behold the Master of the Divine Archives! Mentor to His Royal Highness, Prince Valerian! We are here to inspect the catalogue for... irregularities."
The guard hesitated. He looked at my suit—the gold embroidery shimmering in the magma light. He looked at Kael, whose hand was resting casually on his hidden blade.
But mostly, he remembered the briefing.
"The Prince..." the guard muttered to his partner. "He said to expect a 'Father' with a dangerous shadow."
The partner nodded, eyes wide. "The one from the museum."
The guard bowed. Deeply.
"Apologies, Your Reverence. We were not informed of an official audit, but... His Highness is already inside. Please, proceed."
The blast doors groaned open.
We swept in.
The interior was a cavernous amphitheater carved from obsidian.
Lava flowed in controlled channels along the walls, providing heat and light.
The attendees were a mix of masked crime lords, high-ranking nobles, and corrupt bishops, all sitting in velvet booths.
An usher hurried over, bowing frantically.
"The Prince requested you join him in the Sky Box, Your Reverence."
We followed him up a gravity-lift.
The Sky Box was the highest point in the room, a private balcony draped in crimson silk.
Prince Valerian was lounging on a divan, holding a glass of wine that glowed with a faint luminescence.
He looked bored, like a tiger forced to watch a vegetarian picnic.
But when he saw us, his face lit up.
"Father!" Valerian called out, gesturing to the empty seats beside him. "You made it. And you brought the Luggage."
"Your Highness," I nodded, taking the seat. Kael stood behind me, radiating a silence so heavy it felt like a drop in pressure.
"Did you dine?" Valerian asked, sipping his wine.
"The Altar of Fat," I replied dryly. "The White City branch."
Valerian laughed, a delighted sound. "How chic. The irony of eating peasant slop on china plates. You always did appreciate a good paradox."
I glanced at the corner of the box.
There, sitting in the shadows like a discarded marionette, was Eugan Aldwulf.
The nobleman looked miserable. He was hunched over, his fine suit looking too big for him.
He had clearly come to the auction to buy the Ring, hoping to regain some dignity, but the Prince had intercepted him and dragged him here to serve as a prop.
Eugan saw me looking. He flinched.
Slowly, painfully, he stood up. He walked toward me, his head bowed.
"Your... Reverence," Eugan stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "I... I wish to apologize for my earlier conduct. I did not know..."
He stopped.
Behind him, Prince Valerian had shifted.
The Prince didn't say a word. He just lowered his wine glass. His green eyes fixed on the back of Eugan's neck with a cold, predatory weight.
It was a look that promised violence without the mess of action.
Eugan froze. He was caught between apologizing to me and terrifying the Prince. He started to shake.
I looked at Valerian.
"Your Highness," I said calmly. "Is it your doing?"
Valerian blinked, the predatory look vanishing instantly, replaced by a mask of innocent shock.
"No, Father!" He grinned, spreading his hands wide. "Why would I threaten a poor nobleman because of a simple thing? Lord Aldwulf is a friend."
I leaned back, crossing my legs.
"I never said you threatened him," I noted.
The smile on Valerian's face didn't waver, but his eyes sharpened. He realized the trap. He had denied the threat before I accused him of it.
He scoffed, waving his hand dismissively.
"Semantics, Father. Look, the lights are dimming. The show is about to start."
He turned away, dismissing Eugan from his reality.
But Eugan couldn't move. He stood there, paralyzed by the Prince's malice and my presence.
I looked at him, into the dilated pupils of a man who had been bred for power but had only learned fear.
I leaned forward.
"Come closer," I commanded softly.
Eugan leaned in, trembling.
I whispered, my voice a sliver of ice in his ear.
"Trying to look dominant when actually being submissive...?"
Eugan's breath hitched. His eyes widened in shock. The accuracy of the psychological vivisection hit him harder than the light beam had.
He opened his mouth. He wanted to defend himself, to beg me, to say something that would put his shattered ego back together.
"I..."
I turned my head away, facing the stage.
"I don't care."
Eugan stood there for a second, his mouth opening and closing like a fish on land. Then, broken and silenced, he retreated to the darkest corner of the box, collapsing into his chair.
Below us, the stage lights flared.
A woman stepped onto the podium.
"Welcome," she announced, her voice amplified by the acoustics of the cavern, "to the Ember Bay. Tonight, we sell the things the Church forgot."
I sat back, my fingers drumming on my cane.
"Let the inspection begin," I whispered.