The nobles grew conservative in their bid once the second coat appeared. As Adam expected, it was sold for a significantly lower price—ten million instead of the first twenty. From then on, everything went downhill, with the next eight going for about five million each.
He failed to contain a laugh as sharp as a dagger when Eric secured one with the smugness of a crooked merchant. He almost wanted to whisper to the count that he was the mysterious enchanter, just to see how the count's proud face would crumble. Almost. Safety, unfortunately, predated amusement.
As he ignored Eric's boasting about his house's wealth, the man's words died in his throat the moment the auctioneer brought up the last coat. The entire avenue fell silent as well, all eyes locked on the lifelike representation of Leviathan. Tidal waves twisted to the front of the coat, spreading on the sleeves that shimmered like a storm-churned sea with iridescent bubbles.
Before the auctioneer could even talk, an uproar spread across the crowd.
Nobles rose from their seats. Those with insufficient funds clapped, while the high nobles roared prices without using their bidding sign, as if their bidding signs had become forgotten burdens beneath their passion.
Adam tilted his head, frowning at the exaggerated reactions.
"Impossible," Eric muttered, eyes wide. "Did the creator meet Leviathan?"
Desmond scratched his head. "He reproduced her based on the paintings and statues we have of her. I don't understand everyone's reaction, Father."
Adam leaned closer as Eric scoffed. "Why aren't the other artisans doing the same, then?" He shook his head, his voice thick with a mystery that defied reason yet felt oddly natural. "You recognise Leviathan when you see a painting, statue, or emblem of her, but once you try to draw her, things are different. Nothing comes to mind, as though you had never seen her."
"That makes no sense." Desmond pursed his lips. "How do we have those paintings if she's unpaintable?"
Adam moved his head down in half a nod and half a confused gesture. Even now, he could picture Leviathan's colossal body. Her teeth sparkled, and seawater cascaded through her unbreachable scales. Why wasn't he affected?
Frowning, he listened to Eric's strange answer.
"Only the oldest nobles, those from the council and great houses, can paint her. They claim that it's because she has recognised their services. However, I believe Prestige is the key. I've carried our house on my shoulders until we became a respectable county, but marquises, dukes, and royalty tower in a world of their own. They know of secrets we can't fathom, wield ancient powers long forgotten by most."
He let his words linger, the air growing heavy as if Leviathan's gaze pressed on their backs. "There is a reason no dukes graced the auction house with their presence. They don't need magus-ranked artifacts. They have hundreds collecting dust in their vaults, and they can produce even more if they wish."
"Impressive." Desmond shrugged, his tone exaggerated in its dismissiveness. "But with your leadership, we'll catch up with them in no time."
A heavy sigh escaped Eric's lips, the weight of the challenge overwhelming his earlier anger. He scrutinised his son, then scowled at Adam upon noticing he was eavesdropping.
"Let this be a lesson—for that minor nobleman as well," he scoffed, raising six fingers. "A million Prestige is all a commoner needs to pay to become a baron. Most of them never rise to the next rank and live in the countryside, where their limited wealth is enough to sustain their household. But not us. I gathered ten million, then a hundred. I raised the Drevrant name from obscurity by establishing our house as a viscounty, then a county."
His face darkened, the surrounding nobles drowning his words under their vociferous bids. For a moment, he observed his son's sparkling eyes and Adam's focused frown. Some walls were impossibly tall, like the requirement to become a marquess.
He twisted his lips, the number he pronounced almost burning his tongue. "If the Drevrant House wants to become a marquisate, we must gather one billion prestige." His hand shot to Desmond's shoulder, his solemn voice mirroring his tense features. "Do you understand, Desmond? It'll take us millennia or heaven-fated fortune to reach that point. Forget about becoming a ducal house, or royalty."
Realisation dawned on Adam as he rubbed his chin. Each rank required ten times more Prestige, meaning dukes needed ten billion and royalty a hundred, or perhaps even a trillion—since it stood at the pinnacle.
Though he understood, his frown deepened. What were the benefits of reaching a high rank? Was Eric's quest merely about fame, or was there more to it?
"A billion..." As he pondered, Desmond inhaled sharply. His eyes darted between his father and the head of House Tiraquelle, who sat on a balcony overlooking the stage. Then, a defiant glint sparked in his gaze.
"Prestige isn't just a currency, Father," he said in a righteous voice, puffing his chest like a hero departing for war. "The secret lies in the meritorious deeds. And I know exactly how to get the highest honor: the college!"
Adam leaned closer as Eric's gaze instantly sharpened, voice dropping to a whisper. "No one ever succeeded—not even me. What makes you think you're better than hundreds of generations of mages?"
A bright smirk spread across Desmond's face, his violet eyes brightening like two brewing storms. "Didn't you always complain about how different I am?" He struck his clenched fist against his chest with a nod. "Leave it to me. I'll definitely succeed where everyone failed."
However, his grand declaration only met his father's genuinely frustrated scoff. "You know what I meant. When other kids behave like real nobles, you spend your time screaming like a fool. You're indeed different, young man, but not in a flattering way."
While Desmond's mouth opened and closed without a word coming out, Adam finally spoke. He knew Eric would most likely ignore his question, but he asked anyway. "What meritorious deed can you accomplish in the college?"
AN: Finally done with the last big function of Prestige: the ranks.