Alroy Winter's private salon exhibition exceeded all expectations.

Elvira's raw, visceral "Thorns" collection stunned the influential attendees.


Orders flooded in, and the Field Workshop name surged back into relevance overnight.

Yet Elvira allowed herself no celebration; she knew this small triumph was merely the opening move in a larger game.

A catalog for an upcoming charity auction arrived at the workshop. Elvira leafed through it absently until one page stopped her cold, the breath freezing in her lungs.


Auction Item #73: "Thornheart" Necklace.

In the glossy photograph, the necklace she'd glimpsed by moonlight at the cemetery—and in Cyrus's sketches—rested on black velvet.


The massive teardrop amber, embraced by silver thorns, was captured in perfect detail, its cold brilliance hypnotic. The catalog description was tantalizingly brief: "The legendary 'Thornheart,' crafted from rare amber of distinguished provenance. A piece with a mysterious history."

Her heart hammered against her ribs. They were actually selling it publicly!

How could Cyrus possibly allow it on the market?

The auction evening arrived with an atmosphere both opulent and suffocating. Elvira, in a simple black dress, positioned herself discreetly near the back.

She spotted Cyrus and Isabel in the front row. His profile was granite, unyielding.

Isabel clung to his side, her practiced smile in place, though her eyes darted repeatedly toward the stage with barely concealed hunger.

Alroy Winter slipped into the empty seat beside Elvira. "I saw the catalog," he murmured, his eyes keen. "Tonight won't end quietly."

Elvira nodded, her focus locked on the stage.

When the Thornheart emerged, a collective murmur swept through the crowd. Under the spotlights, it blazed with terrible beauty—mesmerizing yet somehow wrong.

The bidding opened at a staggering figure. After a few cautious offers, Cyrus's commanding voice cut through the room. He named a sum that leapt far beyond the current bid, his tone brooking no competition. His message was clear: he would secure this prize for Isabel, whatever the cost.

The auctioneer repeated the amount, scanning the hushed room.

Just as the gavel began to fall—

"Twenty percent higher," a clear female voice rang out from the rear.

Every head swiveled toward Elvira. She sat perfectly composed, her face a mask of serenity.

Cyrus's hand froze mid-air. Though he didn't turn, the sudden tension in his neck betrayed his shock and fury at this interference.

He immediately countered, his voice arctic, barely containing his rage at being publicly challenged.

Elvira matched him without hesitation. Each astronomical sum she named was like burning another page of their shared history.

In her heart now lived only cold determination; for the truth, no price was too high.

The figures climbed higher between them—a silent, vicious duel.

The room had fallen deathly quiet, the atmosphere evolving from surprise to fascination to breathless tension. The air crackled with unspoken hostility.

Cyrus's expression darkened with each exchange; he'd clearly underestimated both Elvira's resolve and her resources.

Isabel clutched his arm, her knuckles white, her face ashen.

When the bidding reached a truly obscene figure, Cyrus raised it once more, then abruptly turned. His gaze locked onto Elvira like a predator, filled with warning and fury.

Elvira met his stare unflinchingly, her eyes reflecting not fear but iron resolve.

As Elvira prepared to raise her paddle again, Alroy's hand gently restrained her wrist. He rose to his feet, commanding the room's attention.

"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen." Alroy's voice carried effortlessly through the silence. "Before we continue, I feel obligated to share some relevant information about this particular item."

He strode to the stage with measured confidence. Under the stunned auctioneer's gaze, he extracted a yellowed document from his portfolio and gestured for it to be projected on the screen.

His movements were deliberate, unhurried.

It was an official accident report dated two decades earlier. The headline read: "Fatal Collapse at Amber Valley Mine, Vein No. 7."

The report was brutally succinct: multiple miners trapped and killed, the direct cause cited as "unauthorized extraction beyond safety parameters and critical neglect of established protocols."

At the bottom, under "Primary Responsible Party," a single name stood out in stark clarity: Gresham Mining Company.

Alroy gestured toward the screen, his voice resonant with controlled emotion. "My research confirms that the amber in this 'Thornheart' necklace was extracted from Vein No. 7—the site of that tragedy. Its beauty is literally bought with blood." His gaze locked onto Cyrus with laser precision. "I believe Mr. Gresham is intimately familiar with these facts. After all, it was his father who oversaw operations at Vein No. 7 during that period."

The room fell into stunned silence.

Then whispers erupted like wildfire.

The color drained from Cyrus's face.

He lurched to his feet, his chair screeching against the floor.

He stared at Alroy, white-knuckled, chest heaving, speechless with rage. The carefully maintained facade of years crumbled in an instant.

Isabel's face turned ghostly, her body trembling. She reached for Cyrus's arm but he shook her off without a glance.

She sank back into her chair, consumed by panic and sudden, crushing isolation.

The auction dissolved into chaos. The Thornheart, moments ago an object of desire, now sat untouchable, tainted.

Alroy returned to Elvira's side. "Time to leave," he murmured.

Elvira rose and followed him out, feeling the weight of countless stares on her back.

At the doorway, she couldn't resist a final glance back. The glittering auction hall had transformed into a scene of chaos—clusters of whispering attendees, Cyrus standing rigidly isolated at the center, Isabel forgotten in her chair. The devastation wrought by Alroy's revelation exceeded anything she'd imagined.

She turned and walked into the night.

Behind her lay the ruins of Cyrus Gresham's carefully constructed public image—and the gathering storm she'd helped unleash.

This victory tasted of ice and ashes.