Chapter 193: Midnight Theft
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That same night did not stay quiet for long. Dawn House slept in layers.
Servants in the lower wing slept first, tired and practical, the kind of sleep earned by feet that had walked stone all day. The older guards slept lightly, one ear still trained to sound.
Elena slept the way commanders did — never fully, never deeply, as if even dreams were expected to report for duty. Bat Bat and Leaf slept tangled in blankets and bad posture, one tiny hand still draped over the little spirit as if friendship required physical proof. Vera and Vela slept in disciplined stillness, not because they needed less rest now, but because their new blood made stillness look like readiness.
Sekhmet slept last.
He always did.
Even now, after extinguishing the lamp and laying flat in the dark, he did not drop into rest immediately. His mind had too many ledgers still open. Auction routes. Security placements. Mira’s phrasing. Auri’s watch pattern. Raka’s underground reports. Bloodlust. Iron House. The road beyond Slik. The city itself.
The house around him was quiet.
But it was not the comforting kind of quiet.
It was the kind that made him feel like the next sound would matter.
And somewhere else in the city, he was right.
Because while Dawn House slept, another house was moving.
The young master of Iron House did not arrive at the Dawn auction building like a thief.
He arrived like a man who believed theft became lawful if it was done with enough arrogance.
Dickon Iron came after midnight with over fifty people.
They did not march in a single loud formation —that would have attracted city guards too quickly— but they moved in controlled clusters, slipping through alley routes, side streets, and rear market lanes like a private army pretending it was not one.
Still, numbers had weight.
Even spread out, they changed the air.
Two Chaos Rank Three enforcers moved closest to Dickon, their presence heavier than the street around them. They were not decorative bodyguards like the sort nobles used for display. These were hired muscle with real killing behind the eyes, the kind of men who had done terrible things professionally and learned to keep calm hands while doing them.
Behind them came seven Chaos Rank Two fighters, spaced in loose support positions.
The rest were Rank One and below — thugs, hired blades, desperate loyalists, greedy men, and professionals who had been paid not to ask why they were surrounding a rival family’s business house in the middle of the night.
Dickon walked at the center of it all wearing a dark coat trimmed too neatly for a midnight raid, as if he still wanted to look elegant while committing treachery.
His face carried a smile.
Not joy.
Expectation.
Tonight, in his mind, was the night Dawn House bled for real.
He stopped in the back lane behind the Dawn shop and auction building, where the rear delivery entrance sat under shadow and old stone.
A single lamp burned low beside the service door.
The door opened before he knocked.
Manager Reyan stood there waiting.
He had changed from day clothes into a plain dark robe, as though dressing modestly could hide the filth of what he was doing. His face was damp around the temples. Not because he regretted anything.
Because betrayal was easier to imagine than perform.
Still, greed kept him upright.
The moment he saw Dickon, Reyan bowed slightly, lower than dignity allowed but higher than true servility. Enough to show obedience. Not enough to forget he still saw himself as a man of status.
"Young master," Reyan said.
Dickon’s smile widened.
"Reyan," he replied, stepping forward. "Good. I dislike waiting."
Reyan glanced past him, counting the men in the shadows, and a small trace of satisfaction crossed his face.
He liked being on the side that looked stronger.
"I have been waiting for you," Reyan said. "Everything is ready."
Dickon lifted one brow.
"You sound confident for a man selling his own employer."
Reyan’s expression twitched once. "I am selling a sinking house before it crushes the people inside it," he said smoothly. "That is called survival."
Dickon almost laughed.
No one who sold trust ever called it greed. They always renamed it necessity.
"Well," Dickon said, voice light, "let us survive profitably."
Reyan opened the door wider and let them in.
The rear hall of the Dawn building was dark except for two shuttered lamps. The polished dignity of the public front was gone back here. Here it was crates, ledgers, hauling routes, service steps, and narrow corridors built for labor rather than appearance.
Men filed inside in controlled silence.
Even Dickon’s rank-three escorts lowered their steps, because no matter how arrogant they were, they knew the city rules well enough to avoid a riot-level disturbance before the theft was complete.
Reyan closed the rear door behind them and turned.
His voice dropped lower now, more urgent.
"I do not know how he did it," he said. "I do not know where he got them, and I do not know who sold to him. But that boy acquired ten legendary items."
Dickon’s eyes sharpened.
"Ten."
"Yes."
Dickon’s smile thinned.
For a moment, pure dislike crossed his face.
Not because Sekhmet had done something impossible.
Because he had done it without Dickon seeing how.
"I checked the movement myself," Reyan continued. "They were brought into the treasury below the auction house. Proper storage. Hidden handling. He meant to surprise the room."
Dickon stared at him.
"And as manager," he said slowly, "you know exactly where they are."
Reyan let the pause stretch just long enough to increase his own value.
Then he reached inside his robe and drew out a key ring.
The metal gave a soft clink in the dark.
"As manager," he said, "I hold the treasury key."
Dickon’s smile returned in full now.
There it was.
The weakness.
The rot in the beam holding up another man’s roof.
He stepped closer to Reyan and laid one hand lightly on the manager’s shoulder like a lord blessing a useful servant.
"Very good," Dickon said.