This has been a very strange day.
Even writing that feels insufficient.
I understand perhaps thirty percent of what happened.
Possibly less.
For the sake of my own sanity, I will only record the parts I understand.
Everything else shall be temporarily classified as somebody else's problem.
One thing is certain.
The princess does not exist.
Or more accurately—
that problem appears to be me.
I will explain later.
Assuming I eventually understand it myself.
The day began with Madam Stella.
Naturally.
By now I have accepted that she materializes wherever necessary.
The auction officially began in the morning.
I know this because I heard people discussing it repeatedly.
Yet somehow I remained inside my room.
Hour after hour.
Waiting.
No Ryn.
No Spathian.
No Old Shard.
Only Madam Stella.
Watching.
Patiently.
Like a highly sophisticated prison warden.
Several times I nearly fell asleep.
Each time a familiar voice arrived immediately.
"Lady DeLuna."
My eyes opened.
Every time.
At one point I attempted to recline slightly in my chair.
"Lady DeLuna."
I sat upright again.
The correction was never harsh.
Never rude.
Merely inevitable.
Eventually I stopped resisting.
The afternoon arrived.
Then continued arriving.
At some point I began considering increasingly unlikely explanations.
Perhaps the auction had been delayed.
Perhaps the building had collapsed.
Perhaps a dragon had attacked.
All possibilities seemed equally reasonable.
Then the Caravan Master arrived.
Still dressed impeccably.
Still speaking Quenya.
And once again my carefully prepared anger vanished completely.
I am beginning to suspect this is intentional.
We departed together.
Along the way I finally asked one question that had been bothering me.
How did he know I spoke Quenya?
The answer was surprisingly simple.
Master Roderick.
Of course.
That explanation immediately made sense.
I should have guessed earlier.
The man could probably establish diplomatic relations with furniture if given enough time.
Eventually we reached the auction district.
Then something unexpected happened.
We did not enter.
Instead, we crossed the street.
And entered a restaurant.
A very expensive restaurant.
One directly opposite the auction hall.
From our table, we could clearly see the entrance.
People arrived constantly.
Nobles.
Guild representatives.
Merchant consortiums.
Scholars.
Investors.
The entire continent appeared determined to attend.
Meanwhile we sat comfortably.
Eating.
Drinking.
Waiting.
I eventually asked the obvious question.
"Why aren't we going inside?"
The Caravan Master smiled.
Then shook his head.
Calmly.
Patiently.
Like a man who already knew how the rest of the day would unfold.
"It isn't time yet."
That was all.
Unfortunately, that was apparently enough.
So we continued waiting.
The longer we remained there, the more uncomfortable I became.
People kept looking toward our table.
Not openly.
But often enough.
I could feel it.
The sensation reminded me unpleasantly of Yggdra.
Of Moonfen.
Of places where observation carried meaning.
Then, eventually, everything changed.
A man approached our table.
Leaned close.
Whispered something into the Caravan Master's ear.
The Caravan Master immediately stood.
Then extended his hand toward me.
"We're going in."
The words arrived so suddenly that I barely had time to react.
As we approached the entrance, I lowered my voice.
"What exactly am I supposed to do?"
The answer came instantly.
"Just nod when I ask you to."
That was all.
Again.
I continue receiving instructions that somehow explain nothing.
Then we reached the doors.
And for the first time, I heard the auctioneer clearly.
A name echoed through the hall.
One I recognized immediately.
Master Eldrin Shardvein.
I smiled.
Then the next sentence arrived.
Artifact Master Eldrin Shardvein.
My smile disappeared.
Artifact Master.
Not appraiser.
Artifact Master.
Suddenly I remembered something.
A conversation from my first visit to Dunskar.
Old stories.
Hunter legends.
Whispers about Artifact Masters.
Then another memory surfaced.
Krong.
A Platinum-ranked hunting group.
Stories about an Artifact Master among their ranks.
I stopped walking for half a step.
My thoughts collided violently.
Old Shard?
Our Old Shard?
The same Old Shard who carried a cooking pot everywhere?
The same Old Shard who argued with furniture?
The same Old Shard who nearly adopted my Infinity Bag?
Surely not.
That sounded impossible.
Then again—
so did many things recently.
Before I could think further, the Caravan Master suddenly spoke.
"The mask."
I blinked.
Then immediately retrieved the White Fox Mask.
And put it on.
No questions.
There simply wasn't enough time.
The doors opened.
And everything became strange.
The auctioneer stopped speaking.
Not dramatically.
Not intentionally.
Simply—
stopped.
For a brief moment, the room seemed to hesitate.
Then something moved.
The Moonfen Sisters.
Not all at once.
But close enough.
Several turned toward us.
Slowly.
The movement reminded me of animals sensing a distant sound.
Or perhaps worshippers noticing something ancient enter a temple.
Then they stood.
And bowed deeply.
Immediately.
Every conversation nearby faltered.
People turned.
Not toward me.
Toward them.
Trying to understand what they were seeing.
A moment later, the elves rose as well.
Hands placed over their foreheads.
A formal greeting.
An old greeting.
One I recognized automatically.
Without thinking, I returned it.
The gesture felt natural.
The reaction did not.
By then, the entire hall was watching.
Which was unfortunate.
Because I still had absolutely no idea what was happening.
The Caravan Master guided me forward.
Past rows of important people.
Past nobles.
Past merchants.
Past individuals who looked wealthy enough to purchase islands recreationally.
Eventually we reached a section reserved near the front.
Very near the front.
Uncomfortably near the front.
The sort of seating arrangement that implies expectations.
I dislike expectations.
While searching for familiar faces, I eventually spotted Ryn.
Still wearing the formal uniform of House Roderick.
Professional.
Confident.
Completely different from the woman who once calculated trade profits while threatening to throw Spathian into a river.
Further away sat Spathian.
Still wearing the uniform of the Resistance.
Still looking unexpectedly dangerous.
Then I saw Old Shard.
And immediately relaxed.
He was still dressed exactly like Old Shard.
The same patched clothing.
The same collection of strange belongings.
The same complete refusal to resemble anyone important.
For reasons I cannot adequately explain, this reassured me enormously.
If Old Shard remained Old Shard—
perhaps reality had not completely collapsed.
At least not yet.
I will stop writing here for now.
Even remembering this much has been exhausting.
There is still more to record.
Far too much more.
But first—
I need food.
Fortunately, the food here remains excellent.
And at the moment, excellent food feels considerably easier to understand than whatever happened inside that auction hall.
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