Three days have passed since the auction.
I find myself writing again.
Primarily for stress management.
Much like previous entries.
Though admittedly, I am still uncertain whether today's events should be classified as stress, psychological warfare, or revenge.
To this moment, I genuinely do not know whether Miss DeLuna planned this intentionally.
Part of me hopes she did.
The alternative is somehow more concerning.
The day after the auction, everything returned to normal.
No elaborate clothing.
No ceremonial escorts.
No mysterious princess.
Most people no longer recognized us.
A few occasionally glanced our way with vague familiarity, but little more.
Meanwhile, discussion surrounding the Mirror remained everywhere.
The highest winning bid in the history of Dunskar's annual auction.
Rumor claims the final buyer was a prince from the Eastern Continent who traveled specifically to attend the event.
A tragic outcome.
For reasons I am unable to record here without laughing.
Unfortunately, this entry is not about the auction.
It is about Miss DeLuna.
Which is usually worse.
This morning she invited Spathian and me to meet an acquaintance.
Under ordinary circumstances, I would have accepted without concern.
After everything she has done for us recently, refusing such a request would have been rude.
Besides—
what could possibly go wrong while meeting an acquaintance?
The answer, apparently, is quite a lot.
Because the acquaintance belonged to Miss DeLuna.
We traveled through an older section of the city.
Warehouses.
Storage yards.
Forgotten buildings.
The sort of district merchants generally avoid unless something valuable has gone missing.
The area appeared abandoned at first.
Then I started noticing the people.
Not laborers.
Not traders.
Not travelers.
The kind of individuals most merchants instinctively classify as dangerous before negotiations even begin.
Oddly enough, Miss DeLuna appeared completely relaxed.
Even Spathian looked slightly cautious.
That alone should have warned me.
Eventually we arrived at a deteriorating warehouse guarded by several individuals who somehow looked even more dangerous than everyone else nearby.
My first assumption was that Miss DeLuna had taken a wrong turn.
Then she reached into her infinity bag.
Produced a tooth.
And handed it to one of the guards.
The guard examined it.
Nodded.
Then allowed us inside immediately.
At that point I concluded she probably knew where she was going.
Unfortunately.
Inside the warehouse we discovered a staircase.
Or perhaps a tunnel.
The distinction felt increasingly irrelevant the farther we descended.
The air changed first.
Then the smell.
Then the atmosphere.
The deeper we went, the more familiar the rumors became.
Eventually realization struck me hard enough to stop walking.
I looked toward Miss DeLuna.
"Are we in Deepscar?"
She looked mildly surprised.
Then nodded.
The same way one might confirm the existence of a public library.
I immediately became tense.
Because unlike Miss DeLuna, I knew what Deepscar was supposed to be.
Need a disputed property defended?
Deepscar.
Need a debt collected?
Deepscar.
Need someone removed permanently?
Deepscar probably knows someone.
I did not understand why Miss DeLuna had acquaintances here.
I understood even less why she seemed familiar with the place.
The farther we traveled, the more uncomfortable I became.
The people certainly matched the stories.
They did not look up while speaking.
They looked sideways.
Always measuring.
Always calculating.
Thin figures wrapped in worn fabric.
Quick hands.
Faster eyes.
The sort of people who appear ready to disappear halfway through a conversation.
Meanwhile Miss DeLuna purchased food.
Several varieties.
All of them looked deeply concerning.
She paid using teeth.
Actual teeth.
Not coins.
Not trade bars.
Teeth.
At some point curiosity overcame survival instinct.
I asked.
Miss DeLuna calmly explained the local currency system.
Apparently smaller teeth purchased food.
Larger teeth purchased information.
Certain teeth purchased things that should not be discussed publicly.
She explained all of this with the same energy most people use when discussing vegetable prices.
The truly disturbing part came afterward.
Without thinking, I immediately began estimating exchange values.
Food.
Information.
Services.
Conversion rates.
Relative purchasing power.
Approximate Gold Crown equivalents.
Several seconds passed before I realized what I was doing.
I had unconsciously started calculating the economics of tooth-based commerce.
That realization alarmed me more than the teeth.
Miss DeLuna then offered me food.
I declined.
Firmly.
Later, while walking, I leaned closer and quietly asked:
"Isn't this place dangerous?"
She laughed.
Actually laughed.
Then replied:
"Not really."
Apparently the important rule was simply not going too deep.
According to her, this was a public district.
Anyone could enter.
The only requirement was knowing someone who knew someone.
I would like to formally record that this explanation did not make me feel better.
Not even slightly.
The deeper we traveled, however, the more my perspective began to change.
The structure slowly became familiar.
Not an organization.
Not a criminal syndicate.
A marketplace.
An unusual marketplace.
A dangerous marketplace.
But still a marketplace.
People traded goods.
Information.
Services.
Favors.
Access.
Reputation.
Trust functioned as infrastructure.
The more I observed, the less Deepscar resembled organized crime.
And the more it resembled a displaced society.
People here had their own economy.
Their own customs.
Their own foods.
Their own games.
Their own service industries.
Especially service industries.
By the time I reached this conclusion, my anxiety had diminished considerably.
Which, in hindsight, may not be reassuring.
Meanwhile Spathian borrowed several teeth from Miss DeLuna and somehow acquired multiple spoons.
I have stopped asking questions.
Eventually we reached our destination.
A sign hung from what I can only describe as a structure.
Whether that structure qualified as a shop, house, cave, or architectural accident remains unclear.
The sign read:
OrangO Wares.
Inside sat a man who looked entirely capable of arranging the disappearance of an individual, family, or minor government depending on budget.
The first thing I noticed was the gold tooth.
The second was the smile.
The third was the fact he immediately shouted:
"Reinee!"
Then rushed outside to greet Miss DeLuna.
The familiarity between them was undeniable.
Not customer and merchant.
Not traveler and local.
Friends.
Actual friends.
Miss DeLuna introduced both of us.
The man greeted us warmly.
Then almost immediately congratulated us regarding the auction.
Specifically Operation Blind Mouse.
Not directly.
But with enough accuracy that I strongly suspect he understood the entire operation.
Which raises several additional questions I am currently unwilling to pursue.
His information network alone was impressive.
Possibly terrifying.
Mostly impressive.
We spent some time talking.
I accepted tea.
Primarily because it seemed safer than refusing.
To my surprise, the conversation was pleasant.
The man possessed exceptional social instincts.
Exceptional negotiation instincts as well.
At several points I found myself genuinely impressed.
He also offered a variety of professional services.
Many of which I will absolutely not record in this journal.
The remainder of the day became increasingly difficult to summarize.
At one point we attended something called the Veil of Forgotten Faces.
At another point I purchased information I never expected to obtain.
Both topics require separate documentation.
Assuming I feel emotionally prepared to revisit them.
Eventually we departed.
Miss DeLuna promised she would visit again the next time she returned to Dunskar.
The man seemed genuinely pleased by this.
As we walked back toward the surface, I found myself thinking about something strange.
Miss DeLuna was not behaving like someone visiting an unfamiliar district.
She was not behaving like someone being escorted.
She was not even behaving like someone being tolerated.
She behaved as though she belonged there.
As though she were visiting neighboring relatives.
And somehow that realization feels more unsettling than anything else I witnessed today.
At this point, if Miss DeLuna informed me she was secretly related to a pirate king, bandit lord, or legendary smuggler dynasty, I would accept the information without hesitation.
In fact, it might explain several things.
I am recording this entry both as stress relief and as a reminder.
In the future, I should remain extremely careful regarding what I say in front of Miss DeLuna.
Because if I am not—
I am increasingly concerned that one day I may wake up and discover one of her acquaintances sitting politely beside my bed.
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