Fabricating History from Behind the Scene

The descent into London was smooth. Seated in the pilot's chair, Alpha wore a crisp captain's uniform tailored perfectly to her frame—double-breasted navy jacket, gold-trimmed epaulets, and a matching hat perched neatly atop her silvery hair.

Dante Carter sat reclined in the cabin, a book open in one hand, though his eyes hadn't moved across the page in several minutes. He wore a dark overcoat layered over his usual black three-piece ensemble.

The city was different this time. The auction had been moved from its usual site in New York to London. Officially, it was due to "logistical convenience." Unofficially, it was spite. The UK and France had always been natural enemy, and with the host being a proud British citizen, the decision followed as naturally as a smirk after a stolen victory.

Dante didn't mind. The United Kingdom's history was ripe for exploitation.

By the time they reached his London estate night had fully draped the sky. The mansion's tall windows reflected the muted glow of streetlamps. Inside, the halls were dark wood, framed portraits, heavy drapes. Everything breathed age and wealth.

Alpha vanished into the upper floors to handle the luggage.

Dante remained in his study, a fire crackling in the hearth, staring at the far wall where he'd pinned a fresh set of diagrams and names.

This would be the beginning.

A fabricated conflict being supernatural forces.

Three factions, each crafted like a character in a play.

The Order of the Ashen Saint: Paladins in everything but name. A secret order said to have been founded by a splinter sect of the Templars. Their goal? Protecting divine relics, and erasing those who would misuse them. Leather-bound documents, wax-sealed letters, ancient medallions—he would manufacture it all. Their agents would arrive in full ceremonial garb, swords sheathed, eyes cold with purpose. Belief would do the rest.

The Veiled Circle: A supposed international cabal of magi, descended from old alchemists, druidic lines, and Renaissance sorcerers. Hushed scholars with glyph-carved rings and suits stitched with protective threads. They'd speak in Latin half the time, cite magical theory, mention forbidden books. All nonsense—but dressed well. Enough to make the internet lose itself in speculation.

The Department of Security: The most modern of the three. Unmarked suits, sunglasses, and earpieces. No one ever said which government they worked for—but the implication would be clear. They'd represent the unspoken fear that someone already knew magic was real and had been hiding it.

None of these factions existed today.

But by the end of the auction, they would.

Suddenly, the door swung open with the familiarity of someone who didn't bother to knock.

Laurance Everhart stood in the entryway, his grin arriving well before his words. "You didn't even tell me you were back," he said, arms spread wide like a stage actor catching the spotlight. "Honestly, Dante. I thought we were closer than that."

"I see nothing's changed," he added, glancing around. "Still prefer your mansions cold and theatrical."

Dante offered a small smile, motioning to one of the chairs.

"I was going to message you once I settled in," he said.

"Liar," Laurance teased, flopping into the chair with practiced ease. "You just like appearing mysterious. Admit it."

As Alpha approached with the tea, Laurance turned and offered her a warm, exaggerated nod.

"Alpha," he greeted with mock gallantry. "Still as cold as a marble statue. You've got to teach her how to banter someday, Dante."

She didn't reply. Only poured.

Laurance chuckled under his breath. "She still gives me the chills."

Dante didn't comment. He simply sipped his tea.

Laurance made himself comfortable, hands wrapped around the teacup's warmth. "So," he said, stretching the word. "The big auction. Quite the list this year. A meteorite that supposedly reverses entropy. A fragment of the Tower of Babel—yeah, right. And don't get me started on the mummified mermaid. Who keeps bringing those?"

"I skimmed it," Dante said. "The usual blend of spectacle and fraud."

Laurance leaned forward with a gleam in his eye. "And Durandal! Can you believe that? The actual Durandal—France still swears the real one's locked in their museum vault. But if this is it…" He whistled low. "Can you imagine?"

Dante's gaze didn't waver. "Yes. That one caught my eye."

"I came across mentions of Durandal before," Dante said, setting his teacup down with a soft clink. "In an obscure folio buried deep in a monastery's archive in the Pyrenees—nothing official, mind you. Just fragmented notes written in the margins of old pilgrimage records."

Laurance perked up. "Go on."

"Something about angels," Dante continued, his voice thoughtful. "And a seal—not one to lock something in, but to keep something else aligned. Durandal wasn't just a sword. The text implied it was... a key."

"A key to what?" Laurance asked, eyes gleaming.

Dante offered a slight shrug, though the gleam in his own eyes was far more deliberate. "That part was missing. Torn out, defaced, or never there to begin with. The remaining script only said: 'When the blade sings again, the veil will thin.'"

Laurance let out a low whistle. "Poetic. Sounds like your kind of nonsense."

"I suppose it is," Dante said with a small smile, though his mind was already elsewhere.

Laurance paused, then laughed to himself.

"Half the time I wonder if any of it's real. Maybe it doesn't matter?"

Dante didn't answer.

Laurance leaned back with a sigh, waving a hand loosely. "Anyway, I'm just glad you're here. This year's auction might be boring without your usual deadpan commentary. Tell me you're bidding on something flashy, please?"

Dante's eyes remained fixed on his cup, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Perhaps."