Chapter 203: Shadows at the Gate II
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The merchant hesitated, then answered quickly because fear made people helpful.
"Dawn House," the man said. "Auction. Tomorrow. Everyone is talking about it. They say the Dawn heir returned and brought legendary items. They say Iron House is furious. They say it will be the biggest auction since last year’s nightmare-grade scandal."
Sofia’s eyes glittered.
"Dawn House," she repeated softly.
Natasha’s gaze narrowed.
"Where," she asked.
The merchant pointed down the street rapidly.
"East district," he said. "Dawn shop and auction building. Everyone knows it."
Alex turned slightly to his companions. His voice was calm.
"That is our direction too. The two vampires are there."
Sofia’s smile returned, sharp. "And the auction is tomorrow," she said.
Natasha’s expression did not change.
"That means the city will gather," she said. "Nobles. Merchants. Buyers. Guards."
Alex nodded once. "A stage," he said.
Sofia’s eyes gleamed with amusement.
"And stages might reveal secrets," she murmured.
Natasha’s voice was colder.
"And stages hide knives," she added.
Alex’s gaze remained steady.
"We do not attack them directly," he said.
Sofia tilted her head slightly.
"Why," she asked, although she already knew the answer.
Alex spoke anyway. "Because we are not the only ones who felt the ripple," he said. "If we strike openly, we attract attention from other sovereigns. We do not share prey."
Sofia’s smile widened faintly. "Then we wait," she said.
Natasha’s gaze stayed fixed toward the east.
"We will attend," she said.
Alex nodded. "We will attend the auction," he agreed.
They moved again, blending into the city as much as half-god predators could blend. They did not rush. They did not need to.
Tomorrow would bring the crowd to them. Tomorrow would bring the converted signatures closer. Tomorrow might force the original vampire to reveal himself by action.
That was better than kicking down a door and yelling into the dark.
Meanwhile across the city, in a mansion built like a fortress pretending to be a home, another kind of anger was waking.
Iron House did not sleep lightly either. Not the way people imagined rich houses slept.
They slept with guards. They slept with paranoia. They slept with secrets. They slept with their hands around invisible throats.
And this morning, Iron House woke up with missing pieces.
In a private office lined with expensive wood and older weapons, Dickon’s father sat behind a desk that looked like it had never known dust.
His name was spoken softly in the house. Not because it was holy. Because saying it too loudly felt like tempting punishment.
Dickoff Iron.
His hair was darker than his son’s. His face was older. His eyes are colder. Where Dickon had arrogance, Dickoff had control. Where Dickon screamed, Dickoff listened. Where Dickon thought pride was power, Dickoff understood power was what remained after pride was burned away.
A servant knelt in front of his desk, shaking.
"My lord," the servant said, voice thin, "Young master has not returned."
Dickoff’s expression did not change. He did not shout. He did not slam the desk.
That was what small men did. He asked one quiet question.
"Where did he go?"
The servant swallowed.
"To... to the Dawn auction house," the servant said. "Last night. He took men. He took... many men."
Dickoff’s eyes narrowed by a fraction. "Who authorized that?"
The servant flinched. "No one," he whispered.
Dickoff exhaled slowly. A second servant stepped forward, trembling.
"My lord," the servant said, "we cannot reach Reyan either. The manager of Dawn house. He is missing."
Dickoff’s fingers tapped the desk once. The sound was soft. But it made the servants sweat harder.
"A list," Dickoff said calmly. "Names."
The servants spoke quickly, stumbling over each other.
"Two rank three escorts. Seven rank two. Rest rank one and below, total fifty-plus."
He paused for a second then continued, "All missing."
Dickoff went still. For a full moment, his office felt colder. Not because of the weather. Because a man like Dickoff did not fear missing men.
He feared missing patterns.
Fifty men did not vanish in Slik without something swallowing them. And Dickoff could guess what kind of thing swallowed that cleanly.
His voice stayed calm. "Did the city guards report a disturbance?"
"No, my lord," the servant whispered quickly. "No alarms. No corpses. Nothing."
Dickoff’s eyes darkened. That was worse than finding bodies. Bodies would mean a fight. No bodies meant something smarter.
Something controlled. Something that the city did not want or the city to know.
Dickoff leaned back slightly in his chair. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, not praying, not thinking of gods, simply letting his mind build the possible shapes of last night.
Then he spoke one sentence, quiet enough to be almost gentle.
"My son is an idiot."
The servants froze. No one dared to agree.
Dickoff’s gaze returned to them.
"Reyan is missing," he said. "My son is missing. Fifty men are missing. And nobody heard a scream."
He tapped the desk again. That meant one thing. The Dawn heir was not as broken as rumors claimed. Or the Dawn heir had something or someone strong beside him.
Something that could erase men...
Dickoff’s eyes sharpened.
"Tomorrow," he said.
The servants looked up in confusion.
Dickoff continued calmly.
"The auction," he said. "Everyone will be there. If my son is alive, I will see his trail. If my son is dead, I will see the reason. And if Sekhmet Dawn thinks he can swallow Iron House quietly..."
Dickoff’s voice lowered.
"...then I will teach him what it feels like when a house decides to bite."
The servants bowed fast.
"Yes, my lord."
Dickoff stood up. He walked to a cabinet and opened it.
Inside were clothing choices that were not flashy, not noble-showy, but expensive in the way only true wealth could be. The kind of clothing that said power without begging for attention.
He chose a coat and put it on. Then he turned back to the servants.
"Prepare my seat for tomorrow," he said. "And find every rumor about Dawn House. Every whisper. Every buyer. Every guard. Every hidden blade."