Iscar Winterwell arrived late.

  Not fashionably late.

  Late enough that the auction hall had already settled into its rhythm. The noise had smoothed into something steady and familiar. Bids rose and fell without hesitation. Conversations layered over one another, confident and unhurried. The air felt heavier for it, as though the space had already been claimed by those who belonged there.

  He paused just inside the entrance.

  Iscar looked like a man nearing the end of one stage of life, not yet fully settled into the next. His youth had not vanished, but it was clearly retreating. His shoulders were broad and held straight by habit rather than comfort. His hair was neat and practical, cut for convenience instead of style. His eyes were sharp, carrying a warning that suggested he did not tolerate excuses or disrespect.

  Tonight, the world seemed interested in testing that.

  He was the eldest son of House Winterwell.

  The future head of the family.

  The man who would rule once his father stepped aside.

  He had not come by choice.

  His father had been unable to attend the auction, and the responsibility had fallen to Iscar at the last moment. There had been no preparation. No warning. Just expectation, delivered as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  And worse than that, delay.

  The guild staff had stopped him at the entrance, insisting on full verification despite his name, his seal, and his lineage. Procedure, they called it. Necessary checks. He had stood there longer than he should have, jaw tight, hands clasped behind his back, swallowing irritation with practiced discipline.

  By the time he was finally allowed inside, nearly half the auction items were already gone.

  Not that it mattered.

  He had not come for any particular item. This was duty, nothing more.

  Still, being late left a sour taste.

  His steps were quick as he moved through the outer corridor, boots striking stone with restrained urgency. When he reached the entrance to the VIP section, his section, he slowed. He drew a steady breath and forced calm into his expression before crossing the threshold.

  Too late.

  The moment he entered, eyes lifted. Conversations dipped for a brief instant, not stopping, merely bending around his presence before resuming.

  He felt it immediately.

  The Merchant Guild Master was already seated.

  So was Duke Merlo.

  Both glanced at him.

  Then both looked away.

  No greeting.

  No acknowledgment.

  No courtesy beyond bare recognition.

  Iscar pressed his teeth together.

  It was a quiet insult.

  He was not a minor lord. He was the heir to a count’s household, a noble of the kingdom in his own right. In another room, that would have carried weight.

  Here, it did not.

  He kept his expression neutral. Control came easily after years of practice. From the outside, he looked composed and unbothered.

  Inside, something tightened.

  He moved to an empty seat and sat down, shoulders squared, hands resting neatly on his knees. He lowered his gaze to the floor, not in submission, but because it was easier to remain steady when he was not looking at them.

  If not for her.

  The thought surfaced without effort.

  Seven years ago.

  His younger sister.

  Helena Winterwell.

  The name still carried heat.

  Their house had been on the verge of elevation. A promotion. Marquis status. Influence that would have reshaped their standing. His own future had been clear, orderly, secure.

  Then she ruined it.

  She had been the fiancée of the kingdom’s second prince. A match meant to lift their entire bloodline.

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  Instead, it dragged them down.

  Everything his family had endured since then traced back to that single point. To her.

  Iscar’s fingers curled against his palm, nails pressing into skin.

  He had endured it for years. The sideways glances. The careful half-respect. The way rooms like this treated him as an afterthought rather than a rising power.

  He had learned to endure.

  That did not mean he had forgiven.

  His jaw tightened as his hand clenched fully, knuckles whitening.

  If I find you someday,

  the thought was calm, deliberate,

  I will make sure you pay for everything our family lost.

  He loosened his grip, forcing his hand to relax before anyone could notice. His posture did not change.

  The auction continued.

  And Iscar Winterwell sat in silence, carrying seven years of resentment with him, held close and unseen.

  Iscar was in the middle of swallowing his frustration when someone stopped in front of him.

  He looked up.

  It was the same overweight noble who had blocked Helena’s path earlier outside the auction house. Viscount Chubbington. Round face, flushed cheeks, expensive clothes stretched to their limit. He was smiling broadly, as if this were a pleasant coincidence rather than an intrusion.

  “Iscar,” Chubbington said cheerfully. “How are you?”

  Iscar held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary.

  Him again.

  In truth, he had no desire to speak with the man. He would have preferred not to acknowledge him at all. But those were old instincts, from before. Before the fall. Before their connections had thinned and their influence had shrunk.

  House Winterwell did not have the luxury of ignoring small houses anymore. What remained were people like Viscount Chubbington. Minor nobles clinging eagerly to the edge of relevance.

  A last strand instead of a safety net.

  So Iscar rose from his seat and arranged his face into a polite smile that did not reach his eyes.

  “Lord Chubbington,” he said. “I am quite well.”

  Chubbington laughed, loud and unrestrained. “You don’t look it. You seem out of breath. Are you eating properly?”

  Iscar resisted the urge to clench his jaw.

  “I am perfectly healthy,” he replied lightly. “I simply arrived a little late. I walked faster than usual.”

  “Ah, I see, I see.” Chubbington nodded, then glanced around the VIP seating. “But where is your father? I don’t see Lord Andrew anywhere.”

  “He was unwell today,” Iscar said. “So I came in his place. Did you need to speak with him about something?”

  Chubbington’s smile widened.

  “Well,” he said, chuckling, “I did want to talk with him. About your marriage. With my sister.”

  Something dimmed behind Iscar’s eyes.

  For a brief, unguarded second, a thought crossed his mind.

  Stop laughing for no reason. And stop spraying spit when you talk.

  He did not voice it.

  Chubbington continued, oblivious. “But I suppose speaking directly with you works just as well. My sister has been waiting for you for quite some time now.”

  Iscar bit the inside of his cheek.

  This again.

  The viscount had been pushing the match for years. Back when House Winterwell still held weight, Iscar would have crushed the proposal without hesitation. At their peak, their influence had brushed the limits of what a count’s house could reasonably hold.

  But that was then.

  Now, despite their title, they were treated like barons. Sometimes worse. It would not have surprised Iscar if, in a few years, the royal family quietly demoted them outright.

  There was only one path left that might preserve their standing.

  Helena.

  If he could find her. If he could hand her back to the second prince. It was the only way House Winterwell might remain a count’s house. The dream of becoming marquis had been abandoned long ago.

  And she had ruined even that.

  She had fled the convent and vanished. Iscar had exhausted every contact he still had, chased rumors, paid informants.

  Nothing.

  No trace.

  No evidence she had ever passed through any expected route.

  Thinking about her made his temper flare.

  He forced it down.

  When he spoke, his voice was calm and even.

  “I do not think I am ready for marriage yet.”

  Chubbington frowned, then laughed again. “What are you saying? Iscar, you are already losing your youth. If not now, then when? You do not want to stretch your bones when you are an old man.”

  Iscar let out a short, awkward laugh. “I understand your concern, my lord. But I have my own matters to deal with.”

  He did not mention that he had no such matters. He simply did not want to marry Chubbington’s sister. The woman was more than twice his size, at least four years older, and possessed a voice that could fill a hall without effort.

  He would rather die.

  At the very least, not in this lifetime.

  Chubbington sighed theatrically. “You young people are always so hesitant.”

  Iscar smiled, nodded politely, and said nothing more.

  Iscar’s frustration kept building as Viscount Chubbington continued talking beside him, words spilling freely without pause or awareness. The man seemed determined to fill every moment of silence.

  Iscar could feel his patience thinning.

  Calm down.

  Endure it.

  Focus on the auction.

  He forced his attention forward and fixed his gaze on the stage.

  The auction was already nearing its end. Most of the worthwhile items were gone, snapped up earlier by people who had arrived on time and knew exactly what they wanted. What remained were filler lots and the main attractions reserved for the end. Large, attention-grabbing items meant to wake the room back up.

  One was a duke’s property holding, a stretch of land that would change hands between people who already owned too much.

  The other was the final item, still concealed, deliberately kept secret by the auction house as a last surprise.

  Iscar scanned the upcoming list and hesitated.

  He should buy something.

  Even if it was minor, leaving empty-handed would only underline how late he had been. House Winterwell still had money. A count’s territory, diminished or not, was not small. Their income had taken a hit, but it had not vanished.

  His eyes settled on the current lot.

  A stack of healing potions, brewed by a master alchemist.

  Not rare, but reliable. Stronger than standard potions. The sort adventurers paid extra for because they worked when it mattered.

  He considered it briefly, then decided.

  Iscar lifted his bidding paddle.

  “Two thousand five hundred gold,” the auctioneer called smoothly. “From bidder number sixty-seven. Any further bids?”

  Iscar relaxed slightly. The price was reasonable. Healing potions were useful, but they were not prestige items. He doubted anyone would bother driving the price up.

  Beside him, Chubbington leaned closer.

  “A stack of potions?” the viscount said, sounding amused. “Are you planning to go hunting?”

  Iscar offered a polite smile. “No. It is always wise to have some on hand. For emergencies.”

  “Hahaha.” Chubbington laughed loudly. “Then why not vitality potions? Much more exciting.”

  Iscar imagined blood filling his mouth. He swallowed it down just as easily as everything else.

  The auctioneer raised his gavel. “If there are no further bids, this will be the final call.”

  Good, Iscar thought. At least something had gone smoothly today.

  “Five thousand.”

  The voice cut in cleanly.

  Iscar frowned and looked around.

  Who now?

  “Five thousand gold from bidder number thirty-three,” the auctioneer announced, eyebrows lifting slightly. “It seems someone is warming up for a showdown.”

  A low murmur rippled through the hall.

  Iscar lowered his paddle slowly, eyes fixed on the direction of the new bid, irritation stirring again as he tried to place the number.

  Today, it seemed, even the simplest things refused to go quietly.