The air in the penthouse felt heavy, like it was being weighed down by the sheer gravity of what was being bartered. Darien stood perfectly still, though his mind was a jagged landscape of calculation. He knew his worth. Not the billion-dollar portfolio or the skyline-dominating towers, but the raw, biological capital of his heritage. To the hidden world of mages and weavers, a Dragon was nothing more than a walking apothecary. Skin for impenetrable armor, blood for immortality draughts, ground horn for catalysts that could turn lead into something much more volatile.
Everything. Head to tail. He was a collection of high-value components.
And Belica was looking at him with a predatory glint that made it very clear she knew the market price. When she had demanded the scale, her voice had carried a taunting lilt, the kind of poke one gives a caged beast to see if it still has teeth.
