Chapter 189: Six Days of Pressure
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The next few days did not pass. They tightened.
That was the first truth Sekhmet learned as the auction drew closer. Time did not move the same way when a deadline sat in front of him like a blade on a table. Every morning began too early. Every night ended too late. Between them, the hours filled so quickly that he barely noticed when one day ended and the next had already begun.
On the first morning after the bloodlust warning, Sekhmet woke with his jaw clenched.
Not from pain.
From the memory of the system’s words.
Fifty percent.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling while the early light crawled slowly across the upper corner of the room. Dawn House was quiet at this hour, the kind of quiet that lasted only a few breaths before servants and chores and voices began moving through the halls.
He could still feel the weight of the night before. The idea of Bloodlust State had settled into him like a buried thorn. It was not actively hurting him, but every movement reminded him it was there. A hidden timer in his own blood. A future violence waiting for permission.
He rose before that thought could root deeper.
Cold water. Clean clothes. Calm breathing.
By the time he stepped into the hallway, his face showed none of it.
Elena was waiting. Of course she was. Just like everyday.
She stood near the wall with two folded cloths over one arm and a look on her face that suggested she had already been awake for hours, had already judged everyone in the house, and had already decided who disappointed her most.
"You slept little," she said.
Sekhmet gave her a neutral look. "You say that every morning."
"Because it is true every morning."
He did not answer that.
Elena’s eyes moved across him once, sharp and mothering in the most dangerous possible way. Then she shifted to business, because Elena understood something important about survival: people under pressure needed function more than softness.
"Breakfast is ready," she said. "Mira has been in the study since before sunrise. Lily sent a note. Bat Bat tried to feed jam to the spirit. The twins are asking when training begins."
Sekhmet stopped for half a breath. (Last night Bat Bat asked to sleep with the forest spirit. Sekhmet had allowed it. Elena didn’t ask where it came from.)
Then he looked at her.
"Bat Bat tried to do what?"
Elena’s expression flattened further. "Feed jam to the spirit."
"Why."
"Because Bat Bat says jam fixes fear."
Sekhmet rubbed the bridge of his nose slowly.
That was not the worst logic Bat Bat had ever used. That was what made it concerning.
"Did the spirit eat it?"
Elena’s face became offended on behalf of reality itself. "No," she said. "It looked at Bat Bat like Bat Bat had insulted the forest."
That almost made him smile.
Almost.
He exhaled once and started walking toward the breakfast hall.
"Bring Mira after I eat," he said.
Elena nodded. "She is already prepared."
Of course she was.
Breakfast blurred quickly into work.
Mira entered with ledgers, notes, and three separate sheets of speaking order for the auction. She had done exactly what he expected and slightly more, which was becoming her habit.
The first sheet was the public hosting structure — clean, practiced openings, bidding prompts, transitions between items, and subtle lines meant to flatter nobles without making them feel mocked.
The second was a contingency script.
If an item drew too little interest, Mira had prepared methods to increase urgency.
If an item attracted too much tension too early, she had pacing words to cool the room.
If someone challenged authenticity, she had three different replies depending on whether the challenger was ignorant, arrogant, or deliberately disruptive.
The third sheet was not words at all.
It was a list of faces.
Known buyers. Known rivals. Men and women who liked causing scenes. People tied loosely or directly to Iron House. A minor noble with heavy debts who might try to steal attention with theatrics. A black-market collector who smiled too much and always sent servants to bid in his place. A retired military supplier who would likely want the spear. A witch broker who would almost certainly look twice at the ritual staff.
Sekhmet read it all in silence.
When he finished, he looked up.
"Mira."
"Yes, young master."
"This is good."
Mira did not smile. She dipped her head once instead. On her, that meant more than grinning would have.
"You wrote all of this before sunrise."
"Yes."
"Why."
That made her pause.
Then, carefully, she answered. "Because if Dawn House fails publicly, I fail with it."
Sekhmet studied her for a moment.
Not fear.
Not flattery.
Simple truth.
He respected that more than enthusiasm.
"Auri," he said.
A narrow slit of darkness opened beside the study shelf. Auri stepped through, cloak in place, eyes calm and already alert.
Mira did not flinch anymore when the void opened. She still noticed. She had simply learned not to show it.
"Auri will review this with you," Sekhmet said. "You will both walk the auction floor today. Twice. Once empty. Once with staff. I want every movement tested."
Mira turned slightly toward Auri and held out the second sheet.
Auri accepted it with the same care she gave everything else.
"Yes, master," she said.
The two women left together.
Sekhmet watched them go and thought, not for the first time, that it was strange how quickly Dawn House had changed around him. A week ago, the house had been familiar and sparse in the ways that mattered. Now it was full of moving pieces — Mira with her ledgers, Auri with her quiet vigilance, Vera and Vela with new blood and dangerous loyalty, Bat Bat with mischief and accidental prophecy, and beneath all of it the old bones of Dawn House trying to remember how to stand tall again.
That day became a pattern.