Verum waited until Henrik rounded the corner and disappeared from view before allowing his expression to shift.
The polite, eccentric-noble mask melted away, replaced by something far more entertained.
"Gods above and below." he muttered, curling his lip. "This body is a biohazard."
He resisted the urge to scratch at his collar as he flexed his fingers, adjusting to the familiar lag between thought and motion. No matter what he was used to, the vagrant's skin was still learning what it meant to be clean, still bristling at fabric that wasn't stiff with filth and old sweat.
'I've possessed corpses with more vitality.'
Not that he was genuinely complaining. Verum had probably spent more time in beggars' bodies than anyone else on the planet. Theatrical grumbling came easily, and he indulged in it the way one might savor a lie you'd told so many times it had started to feel like the truth.
A weak body had meant a weak mind, and a weak mind meant a much cheaper price for Verum to 'temporarily borrow' the body.
Beggars couldn't be choosers.
And right now, Verum could barely even be a beggar.
The bath had helped. The expensive tailoring helped more. The rings and bracelets he'd crafted helped most of all. They were simple yet elegant little things. He was actually quite proud of them, having scouted the schedule of a nearby smithy so he could sneak in and craft them overnight.
Layer by layer, lie by lie, the disguise had taken shape. That was the heart of deception: people didn't see what was; they saw what they wanted to see, and what they wanted most was themselves, reflected and affirmed.
Reality bent easily around vanity.
Of course Henrik had believed him. What man wouldn't want to think that an exotic, reclusive noble had taken a personal interest in his auction, had noticed his taste and praised his curatorial vision?
Why shouldn't such a man exist?
Henrik's taste was impeccable, his auction was worthy of that kind of attention.
"Poor bastard." Verum murmured to himself, adjusting his cuffs as he thought of Henrik. "Works so hard to make his mark on history, and in two hours, he'll be lucky if there's enough left of this place to bury."
The collision had been deliberate, of course. A chance to take Henrik's measure up close, to see if the man had any awareness, any instinct for danger.
He didn't.
Not that the impending disaster had anything to do with Verum.
Well, not directly at least.
He'd come for one thing. Everything else, well… they were just ambiance.
Though he had to admit, the ambiance was going to be spectacular.
He paused at the entrance to the main lobby, taking in the scene with fresh eyes.
Now that he was wearing flesh again, the sensory details were much sharper. The air was thick with perfume and nervous sweat. Nobles had started shuffling in at some point, their laughter too loud, their smiles too wide. Servants moved like ghosts through the crowd, invisible until needed.
And the decor.
Gods, the decor.
"What have they done to this place?" he murmured, his voice low enough that no one nearby could hear.
The cavern had been beautiful once, in its own stark way. Natural stone, carved passages, the kind of space that felt old, but not in a decrepit sense, in the way that ancient trees felt old. Rooted. Permanent.
It had been a sanctuary. A place where dangerous knowledge could be stored safely. Where experimental work that was too risky for populated areas could be conducted in isolation.
Verum had visited several times over the years. The builder had been... hospitable, in their own reserved way. The kind of person who valued their privacy but understood the necessity of occasional collaboration.
Then they'd disappeared. Moved onto some other project, or ascended to some higher plane of existence, or perhaps their lies had finally caught up with them. Verum had never been entirely clear on the details.
And now, merchants were selling off the contents like estate sale leftovers.
Verum took a glass of wine from a passing servant with practiced ease; the body he wore might have last drunk from a drainage ditch, but muscle memory from centuries of social performances made the gesture natural.
'Not bad.' he thought as he took a sip, genuinely pleased as he continued his circuit of the lobby. At least Henrik had decent taste in something.
His path took him past the display pedestals, lesser items meant to whet appetites before the main event. A dagger. A mirror. A set of rings.
And there, sitting between a jeweled goblet and a ceremonial mask-
"There you are."
Geometric sculpture of interlocking bronze rings.
The Resonance Coil.
He'd built seven of them, centuries ago. Soul resonance calibrators, each one attuned to specific frequencies of consciousness. Essential components for a particular type of resurrection ritual, the kind that required precise attunement between a disembodied soul and a prepared physical form.
They could be used for other things, of course, having been over-engineered to the degree that they were, but Verum had always made them with a singular purpose in mind.
Three had been destroyed when his laboratory was raided by those self-righteous hunters who thought they were saving the world from dark magic. Two had been destroyed or used up at his own hands through one semi-succesful experiment or another. Another had been lost to time. And the last...
He'd hidden it here years ago. Asked the vault's builder to store it somewhere safe, somewhere it wouldn't be found by people who'd misuse it or destroy it out of fear.
And here it was.
Finally, in front of him once again.
His eyes dropped to the placard beneath the display case:
Ornamental Astrolabe
Suspected Navigation Device
Age: Pre-Collapse Era
Starting Bid: 800 Gold Kuna.
Eight hundred gold Kuna.
For something worth more than this entire mountain.
A slow smile spread across Verum's face.
He'd known the vault would eventually be breached; he'd even checked on it periodically over the years, probing for weaknesses in the security. But the builder had done their work too well. Even Verum, with all his abilities, hadn't been able to find a way to get a living being inside for infiltration. The wards had been too sophisticated, the physical barriers too complete.
So he'd patiently waited. Knowing that eventually, the only things that had him beat, time, chance, or nature, would do what he couldn't.
And the earthquake had delivered beautifully.
For a long moment, Verum simply stared at the Coil, drinking in every detail of the construction he'd last seen centuries ago. The way the rings rotated on their hidden mechanism. The precise balance despite the impossible complexity. The microscopic inscriptions he'd carved by hand over three months of painstaking work.
He forced himself to turn away. Staring too long would draw attention, and attention was the last thing he needed before the auction began.
The grand staircase leading to the upper galleries rose ahead, the VIP section where only the wealthiest, most influential, or most discreet patrons were permitted. Patrons such as the very real Lord Erastin Vel'mor.
A concierge stood at the top of the stairs, immaculate in black and gold livery, holding a ledger that probably cost more than the average family earned in a year.
Verum smiled.
It was showtime. It was time to weave some more threads.