Dawn Walker-Chapter 216: Where Is My Son? IV

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He needed her answers. But first he needed to finish this. Because Dickoff Iron had asked a question.

And instead of receiving an answer, he had started a war inside Dawn Auction House’s hall.

And Sekhmet was not the boy who had been chained in darkness anymore.

He was a man who had learned that sometimes the fastest way to end questions was to make the questioner afraid to ask again.

The hall had already crossed the point where order couldn’t be restored with words.

Now it could only be restored with outcomes. 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚

Steel scraped stone. Halberds shifted. Contract clerks backed away with the instinct of people who had seen enough "accidents" to know what the word really meant in Slik City. The remaining spectators hovered at the edges, half terrified and half thrilled, because a rich city always contained two kinds of people: those who wanted to live, and those who wanted a story.

Sekhmet did not waste motion. He did not waste breath. He let the twins and Auri take the first wave’s rhythm and then he cut the rhythm in half with blood threads and short strikes, forcing the Iron escorts to fight as individuals instead of a unit. That was always the first step. Units killed. Individuals bled.

Vera and Vela stayed on their target like twin traps closing. They did not chase him in circles. They did not swing wildly. Vera’s blood control wrapped the escort’s joints in thin binding lines, forcing his movements to become awkward. Vela hit the awkwardness with brutal efficiency, attacking ribs, knees, and throat angles, not because she enjoyed pain, but because pain made strong men hesitate and hesitation made strong men die.

The Rank Three escort tried to break the box with raw output. He surged his chaos energy and tore one binding thread. He stepped forward, fist reinforced, aiming to crush Vela’s face.

Vela slipped under the punch and drove her elbow into the underside of his ribs again, then followed with a knee strike into his thigh. The escort’s balance broke for half a breath, and Vera used that half breath to tighten two threads around his neck and shoulder, yanking his upper body sideways just enough to twist his posture into a bad angle.

Vela stepped in and slammed her palm into his throat.

The sound was not loud.

It was final.

The escort stumbled backward, coughing, eyes watering, one hand clawing at his neck as his pride realized his rank was not the same as safety.

Sekhmet caught the movement at the edge of his vision and approved without saying it. The twins were learning what he needed them to learn: control first, hunger second. They were vampires now, but they were not allowed to be mindless.

Across the aisle, two more Rank Three escorts tried to push through the net Raka’s men were forming, believing numbers would create a path. They did not understand underground discipline. Raka’s men did not fight like noble guards. They fought like street animals who survived by not letting prey escape. They slammed doors, blocked lanes, shoved benches into choke points, and used bodies as barriers. One escort tried to force his way through and found himself pinned between two pillars while three men hammered his wrists and knees until the only thing he could do was roar.

The spectators reacted exactly the way Slik City spectators always reacted. A short, skinny noble whispered, "This is why I do not leave my house." His friend whispered back, "You left your house today, genius." A contract clerk muttered, "If anyone bleeds on my paperwork, I will sue their ancestors." Someone farther back whispered, "Iron House brought seven Rank Three, and still it looks like they brought seven mistakes."

Lily stayed close to Sekhmet’s side, not entering the fight but refusing to retreat. Her eyes were hard, jaw tight, and her presence was a visible claim: she was not afraid of Iron House, even if her body wanted to be. Every time an Iron escort glanced toward her, their gaze shifted away again, because they understood what it meant to touch a city lord’s daughter in public. Even chaos did not erase politics. It only made politics louder.

Mira remained near the platform with the ledger held close to her chest like armor. She was not a fighter, but she was not useless either. She watched the lanes, watched the clerks, watched the spectators, and kept thinking in lists because lists were the only way to keep her fear from turning into panic. If the hall collapses, Dawn House reputation collapses with it. If the clerks run, transfer seals become disputed. If the spectators get hurt, the city lord will demand explanation. If Iron House turns this into public tragedy, tomorrow becomes an inquest instead of an auction outcome.

Her eyes flicked to Vera and Vela again and something bitter tightened inside her chest.

She had wanted power.

Not a childish wish.

A real wish.

A wish that had driven her to the contract market with her spine straight and her pride intact.

Now she watched the twins moving like refined predators, and she could not stop the thought from forming.

Two weeks.

Less than two weeks ago, they had been sitting behind rune-glass with debt chains on their wrists.

Now they were dismantling Rank Three escorts like it was training.

It was not fair.

She hated the thought. She hated herself for thinking it. But jealousy did not ask for permission.

Jealousy simply existed.

Mira’s fingers tightened on the ledger. Her gaze slid briefly toward Sekhmet. He gave them that. He could have given me something. He chose them first. The regret came sharp, then she crushed it down.

Regret was useless unless she turned it into action. She forced her expression neutral again and reminded herself of the contract. Ten years. Ten years to earn trust. Ten years to earn resources. Ten years to become strong the hard way if the twins’ way was not offered.

While Mira wrestled her own thoughts into discipline, the real fight reached its next stage.

Dickoff Iron had not entered personally yet. He did not need to. He stood behind his men, watching the flow of violence like a commander watching the first wave. His gaze moved across the hall, and it measured three things. How fast his escorts were falling. How many witnesses remained. How much longer he could stay without turning this into a political disaster that even Iron House could not justify.

His escorts were losing.

Not all at once.

Not dramatically.

But steadily.