Dorian stared, speechless, as the ships rolled in. The earliest to arrive was a chunky steamer studded with masts of all sizes. It plunked to a stop mid-air, blotting out the sun and drenching the crowd in shadow.

There was a terse silence.

Then a tiny man with a waxed mustache leapt up on the prow. He cleared his throat, then cleared it again for good measure.

“Announcing the arrival of the venerable Fang family!” he cried, rolling the r’s, sticking up his nose up to the high heavens. His voice quivered, as though struggling under the weight of its own pompousness.

The Patriarch wobbled up, a fine-looking old man in fine-looking robes. “Warmest greetings! The Fang family has heard of the birth of a Hero,” he said in a half-whisper, his dewy eyes drifting across the crowd. They came to a rest on Dorian and he smiled, baring startlingly white teeth.

“We have come to pay respects.”

Dorian blinked. Really?

“And to put forth a humble request.” The Fang Patriarch’s eyes drifted over to the Oasis Lord, then to the General, then the Alchemist Head, then the Artificer Head. “I see there are others who would claim the Hero for themselves. We, too, would like to submit our bid for consideration.”

Ah. There it is.

The Lord bristled. Dorian could see his patience fraying in real-time. The madder he got, the more the man’s hairs stood up. He looked like a tumbleweed slowly transforming into a porcupine.

“Patriarch Fang, I regret to inform you that this is not an auction, nor a market, nor a wishing-well,” he said, his voice tight. “You cannot simply—“

“Announcing the arrival of the venerable Cai family!” shrieked a voice, drowning him out. It was so shrill and loud Dorian swore he heard a few windows shattering in the distance.

Another airship had come. Another herald stood at its prow, looking quite pleased with himself. Then another old man stepped up and stared down at them. The Cai Patriarch. This one was very old. Half his teeth were gone, the other half set at odd angles, ridged with black mold. His eyes were dim, dull pools which seemed unable to focus on anything.

“What was that, sire Zhang?” croaked Patriarch Cai, waggling a spindly cane. “I regret I am a smidge hard of hearing—you’ll need to speak up! There’s a market here, is there? Well, we Cai’s have been loyal subjects of the Oasis for generations! None more loyal! None! Whatever there is for sale, we shall have it!”

The Lord groaned. “Sir Cai,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even. He tried on another warm smile but this time it wore oddly on his face, like an ill-fitting mask. “This is a matter of the state. It would be best for you, and the rest of the nobles, to leave us to—“

“Announcing the arrival of the honorable Shun family!” cried a voice to their side. A squat old lady in wolf’s furs leapt up on the prow of yet another ship. “That old coot Cai dares speak of loyalty, in the presence of the Shun?” she roared. “We Shun are the most loyal of all! It is we who built the roads. It is we who lifted the aqueducts! We, the industrious Shun, deserve to get the Hero!”

The Lord threw up his hands, desperate. “Please, friends! This is all a great misunderstanding!” he cried. “The Hero is not for sale. The Hero will not go to any one family. Let us all calm ourselves—“

“Then who will he go to?” snapped the Shun Matriarch.

The Lord opened his mouth, but General Heilong beat him to the punch.

“The Oasis Lord means to keep him all to himself,” sneered Bin. A nasty grin was creeping up his face. “He means to cut the rest of us out of the deal!”

“Surely not,” whispered Patriarch Fang, eyes narrowing.

“Outrageous!” cried Matriarch Shun.

“Partridges?” spluttered Patriarch Cai, eyes wide. “Where?”

“Enough!” roared the Oasis Lord, eyes flaring. “In times like these, it is imperative that we keep our heads. We must not quarrel over—“

“Announcing the arrival of the honorable Ouyang family!”

The Lord whirled around. “Heavens! What now?”

An enormously fat man waddled to the prow of a tiny, pretty all-gold ship which rocked under each of his thumping steps. His hair was drenched in sweat, his breathing heavy. Only his embroidered silk robes gave him away as the Ouyang Patriarch.

“Stop!” He cried, brandishing a sausage finger. “Cease at once, you villains! We Ouyangs claim the Hero! None of you’ve got a right to him! He licked my son’s feet! That’s a sign from the Heavens if I’ve ever seen one! He’s ours—ours, I say!”

Four Patriarchs and two Guild Heads screamed “Objection!” all at once. They all looked at one another, furious.

And all hells broke loose. A storm of bickering and screeching and insulting and general tomfoolery swept the scene, upending any good intentions, tearing up compromise by its roots. The Lord screamed something, waving his hands—a plea for order, perhaps—but it was lost in the cacophony.

Dorian shrugged. He tapped his Interspatial Ring, brought out a beach chair and a fruit drink, sat down, and started to sip. They would be here for a while, he could tell. The shouting only got louder, more blustery, more confused. Lots of hot air blowing in all directions, and it wasn’t from the desert winds! One of the Patriarchs chucked a wine glass at another. A herald was running around screaming, his hair inexplicably on fire. Blind old Patriarch Cai challenged fat old Patriarch Ouyang to a gentleman’s fisticuffs, a duel he promptly lost when Patriarch Ouyang simply opted to sit on him. The old man vanished, shrieking, under enough rolls of fat to sustain a small village. Dorian snorted. This farce was made only slightly less amusing by the fact that they were arguing over who would decide his Fate.

But by now he’d mostly resigned himself to the fact. He wasn’t getting out of this one without someone laying claim to him. It was simply a matter of who.

He took another sip of his drink, settled into his seat, and let out an ahh. He smiled.

Maybe no-one will claim me. Maybe they’ll keep arguing forever. He brightened at the thought.

Then, as always seemed to happen when he was pleased by a twist of Fate, Fate promptly twisted the other way.

Somewhere in the chaos there was a turgid thrum of qi, and Dorian sat up, frowning. A great suction roared to life, clawing at the qi in the air, dragging it inward. The hairs on Dorian’s skin stood up. He felt in that moment a sharp stab of vertigo. It was as though he were standing at the edge of a cliff he knew was there, but could not see. There was a pop—it was soft, softer than a bubble’s popping, but somehow it made itself heard over the clattering din.

Then a streak of blinding silver carved through the air, punching a hole through a sagging cloud. The cloud was blasted to scattered tufts. There was a terrible wooshing, smothering the cries of the crowd, popping Dorian’s ears. Then a surge of mist blasted him clean in the face. He choked, his eyes plastered with mist, and was tossed out of his chair head-over-heels. He barely managed to land, wide-eyed and gagging, on unsteady feet.

The bewildered masses picked themselves up, blinking, and looked up.

The Oasis Lord stood at the center of the mess, a simple wooden staff in hand. It looked like it could’ve been carved by an amateur out of any common tree, but its aura said otherwise. It was strikingly dense, denser than nearly any weapon Dorian had seen in this realm. Second only to the Heilong Javelin.

Bin Heilong leapt to his feet, spitting a cough. His face burned with rage. “What is the meaning of this?! You dare draw your weapon on us, Zhang? Here? You go too far!”

Cries of agreement rippled through the crowd. A dozen angry stares descended on the Oasis Lord.

“I’m sorry. I had no other way to draw your attention,” sighed the Lord. “And it is clear this was going nowhere.” He sighed again, like a disappointed father. “Look at us! Squabbling like children! We must remember that we are one Oasis, united. Only together can we resist the beasts of the Desert. Only together can we vanquish the Ugoc threat.”

He got a few nods from that. Most still looked at him side-eyed—especially the Patriarchs and Matriarchs.

“There must be some objective way to decide who gets the Hero. We must come up with a solution that satisfies us all,” said the Lord. His smile was tired but warm.

“A nice speech,” sneered Bin. “And yet why do I have the feeling that any solution you suggest will only satisfy you?”

The Lord frowned. “Very well. Then I shall petition all of you. Any suggestions?”

The old folk looked to one another, frowning. For a few breaths, no-on spoke.

“If I may,” said the Finance Minister, a glint in his shrewd eyes. “Why not let the market decide? Whoever values the Hero the highest, in lira, obtains him.”

“And who does that favor, I wonder?” snarled Bin.

“Bin’s right,” sighed the Lord. “That criterion is biased toward the bank. The terms must be objective.”

“I, for one, think the Hero should go wherever he can save the most lives,” said the Alchemist Head primly.

The Finance Minister hissed a laugh, his face a hard mask. The man was still smarting over being denied. “And I suppose you’ll say he can save the most lives with elixirs. Your chosen specialty. How curious.”

The Alchemist Head shrugged. “A happy coincidence.”

The Oasis Lord groaned.

“Bah! This is all nonsense! Nonsense of the most heinous order!” cried Bin. “We should’ve gotten him from the start! But if we insist on playing this game—he should go to whichever faction is most valuable to the Oasis. Obviously, that is the military!”

“Oh? Truly?” said the Alchemist Head, eyes narrowed.

“That don’t sound right at all,” said Artificer Head Wang darkly.

“I reject your terms,” said the Minister coolly. “Though even if I accepted them, the military is far from the Oasis’ best asset. That would be its businesses.”

“And who owns those businesses?” piped up Matriarch Shun. “The nobles! That’s who!”

“Alright, alright, that’s enough. We are not doing this again.” The Oasis Lord’s gaze was flat and cold as a sheared glacier. He looked totally, utterly, immensely done with this shit.

“It appears,” he said, kneading his brows. “We are at an impasse.”

The old men and women glared at each other, unyielding.

There was a terse silence.

And then Dorian had a thought. A dangerous, stupid thought. But it was also a very happy thought, a thought that had him licking his lips. Maybe—just maybe—there was a way for him to turn this mess on its head. A plan popped to mind.

“Ahem.”

The Oasis Lord blinked. The old men and women blinked. And slowly, with immense incredulity, their gazes all came to a rest on Dorian.

He stood, wiping the wet off his sleeves, and smiled. “You all want me to yourselves, right?” he said. “But you’re deadlocked! Well, I have a fair way to decide who gets me. A way that isn’t biased toward any of you.”

A silence stretched between them. A long, befuddled silence.

Then—“What, pray tell, do you have in mind?” said the Lord softly, eyes narrowed.

“Simple!” Dorian stood, rubbing his hands. “I will go to whoever makes me the best offer.”

They stared at him like he was a wyrm that had somehow learned to talk like a human. Quite a few gaped openly, like they couldn’t believe he had the audacity to suggest such a thing.

The Lord frowned. But before he or anyone else could object, the Finance Minister butted in.

“Very good! I agree to your terms.” said the Finance Minister with an oily grin. “My offer to you is one million lira.”

“No, no, no.” Dorian wagged a finger. “Not merely money. You misunderstand me. I want things I deem of value to me.”

Now, for the really dangerous part. Saints, this plan had better work!

If not, it was impossible to understate how badly he was screwed.

Dorian cleared his throat, and named the single most valuable thing in this Oasis.

“My starting price is one Bloodline Scale of the Evernight Basilisk.”

Thereafter followed the deadest silence Dorian had heard in this lifetime.

“Let the bidding begin!” he said with a smile.

As Dorian surveyed the Oasis’s most powerful men and women, he saw one thought written across all their lined faces.

Who the hells does he think he is?!