The "Magicless" Blood Bag Is The Supreme Mage

Eloise POV:

The coin felt like an ember against my thigh, its dormant solar pulse thrumming against my pocket with every step I took.

Taking this to Gold Dome Bank was out of the question. The stone goblins would recognize the Dynasty mark within three seconds, impound it under historical salvage bylaws, and pay me a pitiful statutory finder's fee of fifty silver sickles.

I needed an independent collector who possessed deep pockets, an obsession with antiquities, and enough political weight to tell the Ministry inspectors to choke.

Alastair Sinclair III.

In my previous life, the patriarch of the Sinclair family was famous for his private vault of unclassified relics. I had once overheard a fleeting rumor that old Alastair spent his Tuesday afternoons in the back room of Tomes and Parchment at the north end of Star-lantern Alley. I had no absolute guarantee he would actually be there today, but with only two Knuts left to my name, I had to take the gamble.

I pulled my hood low, pushed open the shop's heavy oak door, and stepped inside.

The bell announced my arrival with a muffled thud. The smell of cedar, dried elderberry ink, and century-old parchment wrapped around me instantly.

Near the tall, stained-glass bay window sat Alastair Sinclair III. He wore a heavy traveling cloak of dark charcoal wool lined with manticore fur. A single gold-rimmed monocle was pinched into his left eye socket as he scrutinized a brittle astral chart spread across a mahogany table.

Beside him stood Arthur Sterling, his chief appraiser—a stiff, narrow-faced man in formal gray robes holding a silver magnifying lens.

I approached without hesitation, my boots making no sound on the thick runners.

Sterling noticed me first. His eyes dropped to my frayed cuffs, his brow knotting in immediate condescension. "The junior textbooks are in the bargain bin by the door, young lady. Please keep your distance while Lord Sinclair is reviewing acquisitions."

Alastair kept his focus entirely on his chart.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out the heavy, verdigris-covered disk, and placed it directly onto the polished mahogany, an inch from the edge of his parchment.

"I believe your chart of the First Dynasty constellations is missing its central focal anchor, Lord Sinclair," I said cleanly.

Sterling sneered, raising his hand to snatch the metal away. "Impudent child! Bringing street scrap onto a—"

"Arthur, stop," Alastair's voice rasped.

The old man had frozen. His monocle fell from his eye, dangling by its silk cord against his vest. Slowly, he leaned over the table, his breath catching in his throat as his weathered fingers hovered over the coin.

Leaving the metal untouched, he pulled a small vial of clear testing fluid from his vest, uncorked it, and let a single drop fall onto the center of the green corrosion.

Hiss.

A tiny curl of gold-tinged steam rose into the air, carrying the faint, unmistakable scent of desert ozone and crushed frankincense.

Sterling's eyes bugged out. He dropped his magnifying lens onto the felt pad with a loud clatter. "The... the Sun-Drowned Seal? The lost royal mint of the First Dynasty?"

"Where did you get this?" Alastair demanded, his head snapping up. His gaze was sharp, piercing through my hood, assessing every line of my face.

"In a place where its owner thought it was scrap," I answered evenly. "Its provenance is clean of blood wards. Are you buying, Lord Sinclair?"

Alastair's hands trembled slightly as he picked up the heavy disk, his thumb tracing the faint, worn outline of the solar barque stamped into the metal. "Name your price. If it passes verification, I will give you three hundred Glowgolds right now."

"Five thousand," I said.

Sterling choked on his own spit. Several patrons browsing the adjacent aisles turned their heads sharply, whispers instantly breaking out among the shelves.

"Five thousand Glowgolds?" Sterling barked, his face flushing crimson. "Are you out of your mind? That is enough to purchase an entire townhouse in the upper district! For an unverified, heavily degraded Dynasty coin? At best, it's worth eight hundred as a curio!"

"It isn't a curio, Master Sterling," I said, my voice dropping an octave, carrying the cold authority of someone who had dissected Dynasty artifacts for decades. "The corrosion isn't age. It's a dormant stasis seal binding the condensed sunlight of the First Temple. Break the binding correctly, and you have enough raw solar energy to permanently stabilize a rotting magical core."

Sterling froze, his mouth hanging half-open, utterly unable to refute the technical accuracy of my words.

Alastair stared at me, a profound gleam of shock replacing his aristocratic reserve. He let out a sudden, roaring laugh that shook the glass panes of the bookcase.

"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!" Alastair slammed his fist onto the table, his eyes bright with excitement. "A child who understands Third-Era binding mechanics! Arthur, draw up the draft from Gold Dome immediately! Five thousand Glowgolds!"

"Hold your hands right there!"

A violent crash echoed from the front entrance of the shop.

Tobias Grime, the vendor from Knockturn Wynd, stood in the doorway, panting heavily, clutching a jagged brass knuckle in his left hand. Behind him flanked two hulking brutes in grease-stained leather tunics, their wands already drawn and pointed straight at the back room.

"That coin was swindled from my stall!" Grime roared, his yellow teeth bared in fury. "She paid me three coppers for a national treasure! The trade is void! Whatever you're paying her, Lord Sinclair, that gold belongs to me!"