Cave Quid Optes - Dry Wells
Fallout New Vegas - Fem!Reader/Vulpes Inculta
Chapters: 1 & 2, 3
Words: 2,745
Summary: Yesterday's struggles settle like dust in Dry Wells. Life in Caesars lands is already a delicate performance of survival for the "free and protected"; but the triumphant return of Centurion Gaius Magnus, Centurion Constantine's different idea of rule, and the shadow of Vulpes Inculta culminate into a storm that could break at any moment. You feel that life could change in an instant as you're caught up in the middle of it.
A/N: I'm going to say Slow Burn, because honestly without spoiling it; it is and isn't exactly the story you might think it is (at least at this point). This is a Legion-focused story, so there are the usual unsettling themes and implied language, but nothing overly super explicit so far. Chapters 1 and 2 here primarily serve as some setup as the story is heavily inspired by/set in ToxicWhiteout’s Dry Wells – Legion Expansion Mod for Fallout: New Vegas. If you haven’t played that, or their Long 15 – NCR Expansion Mod, I highly recommend both; but you should be able to follow along without having playing. Just much of the additional cast featured here has been extrapolated directly from those mods' stories. (Also I've purposely refrained from saying what colour Vulpes' hair is, so you may choose your own adventure on that aspect. Y/N physical details are also quite vague on purpose for easy projecting.)
Chapter 1 - Tua Praeterita
Your life was relatively normal. Or something close enough to pass for it in an occupied town like this after the end of the world. Most mornings began the same. You rose with the light slipping over the canyon walls, washed in water drawn from the river the night before, and stepped out onto the shaded stucco porch of the Villa. The air carried dust and the smell of sun-baked stone. Somewhere beyond the low walls, a brahmin snorted, heavy and wet. Wind combed through the canyon mouth, lifting grit in lazy spirals before letting it settle again. A Legion banner cracked sharply in the dry air, stiff fabric snapping like a warning shot.
Anytime you became frustrated with the idea of not being allowed to work properly or travel eastward alone, you took a slow breath and reminded yourself that things could be worse.
You felt it most clearly on the days when nothing happened at all. Dust drifting. Traders passing through. No shouting. No smoke.
Boredom was a luxury.
Sometimes, in weaker moments, you would almost wish for something to happen. Anything to split the quiet open and prove you were still alive beneath it. But life different than this could be worse.
You could be baking beneath the open Mojave sun, skin prickling and splitting, hands blistered raw from hauling stone until the creases of your palms filled with dust and blood. You could be chained in the sand pits further east, iron biting into your ankles, heat turning the inside of your mouth to chalk. Or worse; passed between men who saw you as no more than spoils of conquest. Men who could just as easily break your neck as pull you into their lap.
Here, at least, you sat in the shade.
Not many townspeople spoke openly about the Legion … at least not their real opinions. If asked directly, most would shrug and say, “As long as you follow their rules, you won’t have any problems.” quite pragmatic.
The traders were grateful for the safe roads, caravans rolling through without fear of ambush; though that was only because the raiders were now all wearing Legionary red. There were a few townspeople who praised the Legion outright. You watched those ones a bit more carefully. The women who openly praised them unsettled you the most; the ones who had folded themselves neatly into doctrine, who lowered their gazes at the correct moments and spoke of order like it was comfort rather than containment.
Most though, no matter who they were, claimed to appreciate the quiet. The quiet meant no fires on the horizon. No screaming in the night. No doors kicked in without warning. It also meant knowing exactly who would kick them in, if it came to that again.
Dry Wells had been under Legion occupation for years or so now. Just long enough that the dust had settled over the memory of what came before.
Legally, you were not permitted proper employment. Legion doctrine was clear about women’s place. Still, the Villa manager was pragmatic. The dishes you washed, the floors you swept, the laundry you scrubbed that all earned you the occasional denarius pressed discreetly into your palm. Enough to keep your ribs from showing too sharply. Enough, most days, to keep from begging.
Sometimes you would sleep with the odd Legionary, that would get you a free full meal, but that's the type of depravity you tried to push off until it felt like your bellybutton might wear a hole into your spine. You would lie still and count the slow turn of the ceiling fan overhead, focus on the smell of oil and dust rather than the weight of him.
One of the many merely transactional actions that kept you alive and breathing.
Many of the remaining women had attached themselves to surviving husbands, brothers, fathers; men who could shield them from the worst of Legion attention and ultimately give them financial stability. You once had someone who, if he were here, might have been that for you.
Now you had only yourself.
It left you more exposed than most, no matter how kindly the other Villa residents pretended not to notice.
While not a slave like the Women you saw cook in the camps, wither away in the fields, and used as pack brahmin as they passed through the trade routes as the Legion moved east and west. … But some days you wondered whether the distinction between you and them really mattered.
Like most here, Dry Wells was home; The canyon walls were etched into your bones as surely as the lines in your palms. You sometimes dreamed of slipping away with one of the caravans the Legion allowed through. But you knew what lay beyond Legion roads; you had no desire to gamble on the West again. And somewhere inside you, quieter but stubborn, lived the thought that if your love ever returned, if by some impossible mercy he stepped back through the canyon pass, he would look for you here.
Technically a body was never recovered and that gave you some sick hope you knew you should’ve let go of years ago.
He’d been in the Hunters Guild. Steady hands. Patient eyes. The sort of man who spoke only when he had something worth saying. He knew the canyon paths better than anyone. Could track gecko through stone and dust, could tell the weather by the way the wind leaned across the canyon mouth.
You still remember the way he used to come home smelling of leather and dry sage; dropping his rifle by the door before reaching for you. He’d always reach for you first.
Back then, trouble meant a disagreement with the Twisted Hairs. They’d skirmish along the trade routes, take a brahmin here or a caravaner there. Your lover had ridden out more than once when the Guild was called to push them back from the cliffs east of town. But even at their worst, the Guild understood on some level that the Twisted Hairs were just trying to survive too.
Then the Legion came.
Some say the Twisted Hairs were wiped out immediately by Caesar’s Legion; Every one of them now a charred corpse along the highway. Others say a few escaped, and/or even joined ranks willingly. Stories shifted depending on who was drinking, and you knew better than to ask about one of the dozens of tribes the Legion had erased from its own territory and thus from History.
If you ruminated on the thought too long you’d remember the smoke. The shouting. The smell of something burning that wasn’t wood. The same day the Legion came for the Twisted Hairs, your lover had gone to the caves to hunt. You didn’t know the kiss he placed on forehead before leaving in the lodge in the early hours would be the last of his touch you’d ever receive.
Sometimes you imagined Legion banners in the dust beyond the cliffs. Sometimes you pictured him caught between tribes, lost but alive. Sometimes you forced your thoughts blank, because imagining anything at all hurt worse than silence.
Not long after, your brother wrote to you. A letter smuggled through in the early days of occupation. Hearing what had happened, he insisted you come west to be with him. He had signed up with the NCR. Steady pay. Rations. A place inside something structured and official that still called itself free. He spoke about it like it meant safety, like walls that wouldn’t fall.
It took several letters before you packed what little you had and left the first time.
You never understood how he could give himself so fully to something that required him to sand down the sharper edges of who he was. He wore his loyalties like contraband beneath a uniform that never quite fit his shoulders. Where he was stationed, a man could serve the Republic proudly, so long as he loved quietly, and never too visibly.
The NCR was better than the Legion. There was no arguing that.
But better didn’t mean that the world was then automatically kinder to them, nor It didn’t mean simpler either.
The towns out west had their own ways of measuring a man. Their own lines you learned not to cross. Your brother knew exactly where those lines ran, and chose to stay anyway. Chose to help anyway.
He tried to build a life for you there. Tried to make you see what he saw.
For a while, you almost did. You almost believed that type of stability could be the same thing as healing. But It wasn’t and you still created plenty of ways for trouble to find you instead.
At least here, in Dry Wells, you didn’t have to believe in anything.
Survival was enough.
~~~~~~~~~
When word spread that Centurion Gaius Magnus would be returning from his latest conquest, the air in Dry Wells shifted almost immediately; word had reached to expect a large party for his return. You had been craving a change in rhythm and the desert, it seemed, had listened.
The Administrative Building was cleared out and repurposed into a temporary hall; Noah Johnson’s establishment wouldn’t hold the numbers expected. Tables scraped across stone floors. Downstairs beds were dragged into storage. Mr. Thomas was instructed to surrender the far wing of the Villa for sleeping arrangements and he agreed; Of course he did.
Technically, he didn’t own the building.
Technically, none of you owned anything.
You tensed at the idea of Dry Wells crawling with their kind more than usual. The one who had been overseeing the town in Magnus’s absence, Centurion Constantine, was almost respectable, if such a word could be used for any of them. Disciplined. Controlled.
Gaius Magnus was not.
He was the kind of cruel man that lesser officers and slime balls alike admired. Ruthless. Ambitiously bloodthirsty. Hungry for the title of Legate. His return carried with it a particular strain of tension, one that settled in your chest and refused to ease.
You knew this gathering would become more than a celebration. It would turn into indulgence. Legionaries often treated the town like a destination when passing through. Recruits who trained nearby this was their last stop before going to war West and those going deeper East this was the first stop in “the Homelands.”
What made your stomach drop was overhearing that possibly high-ranking officers; “top of the tops,” as Tony at the barbershop had put it, would be attending to witness Magnus’s triumphant homecoming.
Dry Wells hadn’t felt this tightly wound since the first week of occupation … when everyone still thought someone might fight back.
Legionaries moved with sharper purpose. Additional patrols. Crates unloaded from brahmin carts, cases of Sunset Sarsaparilla, various fresh supplies, and large requests for gecko meat from the Hunters Guild. You tried to tally all this in your head to get a proper idea of how many Legionaries would be descending here, too many.
You also counted the “free” women left in town.
Nine; Less than ten.
You hated the thought that followed, but you thought it anyway.
Please let them bring their own.
They often traveled with slaves. Camp followers. Captives from lesser tribes. You knew it was wrong to hope others would suffer in your stead.
But survival was not a moral sport.
Chapter 2 - Fractio Vitri
A few of the Villa residents helped wherever they were directed. Noah and Mr. Price requested your assistance with waitressing and cleaning detail. It wasn’t much, but Noah had promised cactus juice mixes free for the rest of the month. Since the Legion’s arrival, alcohol had been outlawed; he’d been forced to get creative behind the bar, dryly renaming it The DRY Well with a humor that never quite reached his eyes anymore. Most only ever went there to listen to the radio nowadays.
You carried a tray of drinks through the press of bodies, wrists straining beneath the weight. Shoulders knocked into yours. Elbows grazed your ribs. The air was thick with sweat, leather, dust, and the sharp syrup-sweet scent of cola. You kept moving. If you stayed in motion long enough, perhaps you would blur into the background. A hand brushed your hip. Another skimmed the small of your back. You did not react and you did not slow.
In a sea of red sashings, brown leather, punctuated by accents of worn steel and silver a Praetorian crooked two fingers at you to come over.
“Don’t forget the men on the balcony.” His gesture cut upward toward the tables overlooking the main floor.
You climbed the tiled stairs, balancing bottles on the tray, eyes focused on the first table. Three men, quiet and to themselves. Easy. Some other groups mingled about from table to table.
Then you saw him.
A coyote headdress rested on the table before him, its fur catching the warm lamplight. His hair was closely shaven, his skin pale, almost luminous beneath the hanging bulbs, stark against the sunburnt faces surrounding him. He wasn’t drinking, wasn’t eating. His hands lay still on the wood table, fingers relaxed. The only movement was the slow rise and fall of his chest as he was observing everything going on below.
You stopped for half a heartbeat too long, the tray already shifting un-easily in your hands.
“Drink, sir?” The words came thinner than you intended.
A shoulder pressed into yours from behind; accidental or not, you couldn’t tell. Your foot caught the edge of the uneven tile as you tried to correct yourself. Heart pounding in your ears. Breath stuck in your chest.
The tray tipped.
Glass shattered across the balcony floor, a harsh, ringing echo. Your pulse slammed, heat flaring across your face. Embarrassment. Anger at yourself. Fear … real, visceral fear for a moment. You’d seen Legionaries shoot people for far less screw ups; Yet no shot rang out, no machete cleaved your hands off.
The man at the table said nothing. Not a word. His eyes simply lifted to yours; calm, cold, unblinking. They were a blue so clear it felt surgical when he looked at you.
One of the men from another table leapt to his feet, shouting, “Are you some invalid?!”
You dropped to your knees instinctively, hands shaking as you swept up the shards. Your fingers stung from the edges, but you dared not stop. You’d need a rag before the spill became sticky, and every second felt like it stretched longer than the last.
“I-I-I’m so sorry,” you stammered, voice trembling. Someone muttered something in Latin and laughter roared across the balcony. The echo scraped at your ears.
The lone man at the table continued to watch you. Unmoving and unreadable. Every instinct screamed that he noticed everything: the tremor in your hands, the flush on your skin, the way you tried to vanish from sight.
You collected the last shards, murmured another apology, and retreated downstairs, heart hammering like a drum in your chest, ears ringing, palms wet, trying to disappear behind the bar where the crowd could not reach you.
Noah said to you, seeing you obviously flustered, “Just clean yourself up, I’ll send Maria back up there.”
You went to the back, some of the glass stuck to your hands, you picked out carefully and tried to dry the splash of cola on the front of your dress, the fabric sticking to your skin. At least for now no one had shot you on the spot for that, briefly you mused to yourself that this place was truly full of law and order then with the Legion here. Maria finally joined you in the small space of the kitchen.
“Now if you were a slave I think your life would’ve been over there.” She said it more matter of factly than jest. You glanced at her.
She stood comfortably in her borrowed security, skirt clean, hair pinned neatly back. Maria was one of those women who respected Legion laws a little too much for your taste, she definitely was of the mindset that people who got in trouble deserved it. She had been born here and before all this her family once held a mining claim near the caves, or so she liked to remind everyone. Of course what gold they actually had was now stamped down in Legion Aurei. But the harsher parts of life had left her untouched; she was even “married” for a lack of a better word, to a Veteran Decanus. Though Diego Ortiz had told you in hushed confidence that her own father sold her; it was unclear if she knew that or not herself.
“Well,” you said, pressing a rag harder against your dress than necessary, “I still have all ten fingers. And my head. So whoever I nearly baptized in cola clearly wasn’t too important.”
Maria scoffed and you shot her a look. “What? You didn’t recognize that guy?”
“No.” You met her eyes this time. “Why would I?”
Her arms folded beneath her chest, chin lifting. “He’s the one who helped save this town! Delator told me so.” She carried herself with that holier-than-thou air; convinced that every word her husband, Decanus Delator, whispered to her was a revelation. To Maria, it was divine insight, a personal gift from Mars himself any word spared from him to her.
You raised your eyebrows. “Saved…” The word tasted bitter in your mouth.
She looked at you as though you’d failed to applaud.
Noah appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a rag. “Can you get back out there,” he said lightly. “The crowd's getting restless and I don’t want any trouble.”
“Of course they are,” you muttered.
Maria stepped closer, her hands brushing your shoulders as if adjusting you. Her voice then was almost sweet, almost pleading. “Look, maybe take a moment to at least look like you’re enjoying yourself.”
You could have vomited at the idea.
“You’re one of the few in town still without purpose,” she continued, eyes glinting. “Maybe spend time with some of the newer faces. Who knows? Children by spring. I hate seeing you so alone, I know it’s been—”
“Don’t.” You cut her off sharply, shoving her back slightly. Her words felt invasive, like she’d reached inside your life and twisted it. “This is my life and—”
Her expression hardened instantly. “Your life is Caesar’s,” she snapped, voice low and fervent. “Our peace. Our prosperity. And you still act like you’re above it. I’m trying to make things easier for you.”
You froze, unsure how to respond. Maria genuinely believed she was helping. But she was also smug, pushing, angry that you wouldn’t perform; wouldn’t show your worth for the great mission or whatever.
Her mouth curved faintly. “Fine. I’ll help you.” Her words dripped saccharine poison as she slipped out the kitchen and back into the crowd, and a knot of anxiety twisted in your stomach. Moments later you saw her lean into Decanus Delator, whispering close to his ear, one manicured finger angled unmistakably in your direction.
He approached you not long after, clapping a hand to your shoulder as though congratulating you; Thanking you for offering your services.
Services? The word scraped. You could have killed Maria right then and there, unfortunately she knew of your talents you rarely showed these days and had found a way to expose them, enmasse.
Then he turned to the room, voice raised easily above the din. “Tonight, one of our very own local residents will perform a dance for us!”
The crowd erupted; whistles, cheers, catcalls. Your stomach dropped. For a fleeting, treacherous second, you wished the balcony incident had killed you. Maria lingered at the edge of the gathering, arms folded, satisfaction flickering across her face.
You used to love to dance. Before all of this. Before red banners and curfews. You’d even taught a few of the other girls the old Latin folk styles that survived the bombs; full skirts, quick footwork, hands raised in flourish. They were dances never meant for places like Gamorrah on the Strip, never meant to be an invitation.
The jukebox sputtered through its half-broken speakers. You stepped forward.
The eyes on you were a physical thing; pressing, assessing, stripping. Your palms dampened. You stomped once, hard enough to feel it through your soles. Twirled. Let your hands rise above your head, wrists circling, hips moving with practiced precision. The music thudded in your ribs. You fixed your gaze somewhere just above the crowd and let the steps carry you.
For a few heartbeats, it was only rhythm. Breath. Spin. Stomp.
You welcomed how easy it was to fall back into it, closing your eyes and for a moment you were somewhere else. You were at The Well, liquor buzzed through you as you laughed your way through showing Dan Livingston’s wife how to dance. A blur of being back at the lodge tenderly swaying in your lovers arms.
Breath. Spin. Stomp.
A night out on the strip, that once you shirked off your brother you partied freely as you could. Twirling under the haze of the neon glow. Then the memories ceased.
When the song ended, your chest rose and fell sharply and the cheers came louder bringing you back to your current reality.
A Praetorian seized your arm, hauling it upward like a prize.
“Now,” he shouted, “who would like to include her in the auction tonight?”
Noah was at your side immediately. “She can dance, that is it! You have plenty of your own to play with!”
Laughter erupted from the Praetorian. Things were moving faster than expected. Noah tried to argue your case, stressing your work obligations and yet ignoring the fact he didn’t own you. Most of the Legionaries in Dry Wells knew that, but he pleaded in a way he thought they’d understand.
The Praetorian’s grip tightened briefly, then loosened. But a set of icy blue eyes from upstairs never left you. Your arm was dropped. Jeers, whistles, and boos filled the room as you slipped behind the bar again, grabbing another tray of gecko meat skewers as if nothing had happened. You got a glance of Maria with her own tray again, gleaming at you from across the hall.
The night pressed on. At least two fights broke out, spilling some fresh blood across the wooden floors. One recruit nearly destroyed the jukebox before a Decanus stopped him. The younger Legionaries, especially those who had returned with Gaius Magnus’ party, had little patience or manners having just cut their teeth on real battle.
Often Dry Wells was different from the front lines. Many stationed here handled ledgers, supply routes, census records. Ink-stained fingers instead of bloodstained ones. Ambition redirected into paperwork and trade oversight.
You kept your head down and continued to serve, moving through the noise and heat like a shadow cast by someone else’s flame.
Not all sugar bombs and rainbows, obviously. But for once, it was more normal than it could be. Dwelling on that only made you more frustrated as you continued to tend, hiding in plain sight.
~~~~~~~
Soon it was time for the man of the hour to speak. Fists pounded against tabletops, boots striking wood in rough rhythm.
“Gaius! Gaius! Gaius!”
The man rose. His Centurion helm topped with the classic red plume, the crest catching torchlight as he moved. Gold and iron gleamed across his armor, polished recently, though fine scratches webbed the surface. The pauldrons flared outward in sharp ridges, almost like spiked bone. He was tall, broad through the shoulders, beard threaded now with slow streaks of gray. He did not hurry as the room adjusted itself around him and arrogance coated him like a second skin.
He was not a Legate. Not yet.
Next to him, Constantine stood rigid, steely expression in place. Near them, Veteran Decanus Remus lingered. His presence was different, not the swagger of returning soldiers, but the calm weight of someone whose authority came from keeping order, not taking land.
Gaius raised a gauntleted hand. The noise dropped.
Constantine spoke first. His voice carried cleanly, stripped of flourish.
“Tonight we recognize Centurion Gaius Magnus for the successful subjugation and conquest of Caesar’s Eighty-Seventh Tribe … the Burning Suns.”
A murmur passed through the hall. Eighty-seven, another tribe wiped out. The younger Legionaries straightened instinctively and most of the veterans smiled.
“Their warriors resisted,” Constantine continued evenly. “They were crushed. Their lands absorbed. Their resources secured. Their remnants processed.”
Processed. The word lingered.
“I am pleased the campaign was efficient,” he finished, glancing briefly toward Gaius. “Losses minimal. Discipline maintained. The will of Caesar enacted without hesitation.”
A respectful and structured applause followed; Constantine nodded his head to signify he was done.
Gaius then stepped forward. Where Constantine’s authority felt structured, Gaius’ was performance; like a blade drawn for display. He lifted his helm, torchlight glinting on sweat-darkened hair and a shallow scar tracing his temple.
“My brothers,” he began, voice rich, edged with his own satisfaction, “the Burning Suns believed themselves untouchable. Painted in ash and fire, carved suns into their flesh. They believed flame made them eternal.”
A low chuckle rolled through the room.
“They burned bright,” Gaius continued, scanning the Legionaries. “And they burned fast.”
Full laughter this time.
“They will not be remembered as a tribe,” Gaius continued, sweeping his gaze across the hall. “They will only be remembered as proof. Proof that no people stand before the Bull and remain.”
He gestured outward and voices shouting “Ave! True to Caesar!” roared back.
“I commend the men who marched beside me. Relentless. Precise. Cruel, as cruelty was required.” He gestured widely toward the assembled men.
“I commend those who marched beside me. Relentless. Exacting. Unafraid to be what was necessary.” His eyes glittered faintly. “Under Caesar, we do not conquer for spectacle. We conquer for order. For unity. For permanence of his will.”
The hall erupted again.
From behind the bar, you caught Constantine’s expression tighten by the smallest fraction. Remus seemingly did not exactly cheer either, he watched the crowd instead.
“And as reward—” Gaius continued.
The side door opened and a line of girls was ushered inside.
Their garments were pieced together from what remained of tribal clothing; singed hems, ash ground into the seams. Some stared straight ahead. Some trembled. One wept openly, shoulders shaking.
Then there was one- Your breath caught.
Not a girl. A woman grown; but barely upright.
Her wrists were bound loosely before her, though she did not seem capable of using them. One side of her face was mottled dark with bruising; dried blood threaded from her hairline into her collar. She favored her left leg so heavily that each step was a falter. Someone had attempted to clean her, perhaps. Or perhaps they had simply wiped away what made the mess inconvenient.
Her eyes were wide, but dazed. As if the world had struck her too many times in too short a span. The room shifted. Most regular legionaries of the town looked away, avoiding this woman’s gaze in particular. Hard to tell if it was from honest discomfort at the sight, or if the goods were truly too damaged. Some however did not look away.
You saw them. Two officers from Gaius’ table, older, predatory in stillness. Eyes assessing; Calculating value even in damage.
“Tribute,” Gaius announced lightly, extending a hand toward them. “Proof of victory.”
A murmur of approval.
“Tonight,” he added, almost conversationally, “those who marched beside me may claim first spoils.”
The woman swayed and no one stepped forward to steady her.
Your pulse began to pound so hard it blurred the edges of your hearing. Before you fully understood you had decided to, you moved, hand settling against her elbow as she listed sideways. She flinched violently at first contact, then stiffened when she realized you were not going to hurt her.
“Take her out of the lineup.” Your voice carried further than you expected. Silence spread in a widening circle. Then whistles, jeers, murmurs spilling across the ceilinging of the hall. Gaius’ mouth curved faintly. Constantine did not move, though a muscle flickered along his jaw.
“Is that allowed?” someone called from the back.
All eyes turned to Prime Decanus Octavius, in charge of the Slave office. Young, sharp, reading currents. He scanned you, then her; noting the instability, the cost of upkeep, the potential inconvenience, then the crowd. Head inclined once. “Allowed.”
Cheer rose; some relief, some confusion, mainly excitement. As the bruised woman was half-carried from the line. You stepped into her place. The crowd’s attention sharpened, curiosity blooming into something heavier; Appraising.
The bidding began loud and reckless, voices crashing over one another in eager escalation. Numbers climbed without hesitation; your value measured in metal and appetite. The Praetorian overseeing the sale lifted his hand to quiet the chaos, preparing to seal it. The highest bidder was a burly man layered in scars. Ugly in your mind.
You were already bracing yourself when the sound shifted. Voices faltered mid-call. Laughter clipped short.
Eyes began to turn upward.
You followed the movement despite yourself.
On the balcony, the pale man sat exactly as he had before. His posture remained composed, almost relaxed. He had not joined in the laughter. Had not leaned forward in hunger.
When his hand lifted, it was not dramatic. He did not raise his voice, as he did not need to.
The room stilled with a swiftness that felt practiced. Respect moved through the hall in quiet ripples as no one protested. No one attempted to outbid, out of respect.
You did not know his name, but they did.
The Praetorian inclined his head in an approving fashion.
The matter was settled, Vulpes Inculta had won the bid.
The auction swelled back to life around you, louder now, rougher, as if the room needed to prove it had not hesitated. Bids collided, laughter cracked sharp against the rafters, boots thudded against the floorboards in restless approval. And yet it all seemed strangely distant, as though you stood behind a pane of warped glass, watching the frenzy distort and bend without quite touching you.
You did not move.
You had not even seen him descend the stairs when then his hand found yours.
The touch was oddly careful, almost absentminded in its precision; the barest press of partially gloved fingers against your skin. It lasted only a breath, no more than that, but it carried the weight of something irrevocable.
He did not need to announce, boast, or physically dominate in this situation.
The claim had been made long before the bidding ended, little did you know it was even before it had started.