Some sneered, murmuring to their companions, their eyes filled with disdain and anger.
Others wore grim expressions, saying nothing, but their clenched fists betrayed their feelings.
A middle-aged Warlock in the front row, dressed in a magnificent, deep-purple Magic Robe with the insignia of the House of Representatives pinned to his chest, slowly rose to his feet.
He didn't look toward the private box, but at the auctioneer on stage.
"What is the meaning of this?"
His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the murmuring crowd with absolute clarity.
"Since when has an auction at the Silver Tower become a private affair?"
Beads of sweat formed on the auctioneer's forehead.
He opened his mouth to speak but didn't know what to say.
He was just the auctioneer, a hired hand.
He wasn't qualified to handle a conflict of this magnitude.
Fortunately, a voice rang out just in time, saving him from his predicament.
"Everyone, please, a moment of calm."
