The city was sinking into a velvet darkness, strewn with sparks of floating fireflies and clusters of magical lanterns lit along the streets. These lights did not flicker — they burned steadily, restrained, as was fitting for the refined magic of the capital. The streets had been swept clean, the idle driven away by the guards, and one by one, the carriages of the aristocracy rolled up to the grand front steps of the Lavsen Palace — a heavy, majestic structure set apart from the city center in a district created solely for such events. Nothing here was accidental: everything — from the height of the stairs to the angle of the light on the columns — obeyed the aesthetics of power and the illusion of order.
I ascended the wide staircase slowly, my boots muffled against the carpet, striking a rhythm only I could hear. I felt the gaze of every guard, every gargoyle carved above the entrance. This was their domain. Their rules. Their smiles, masks, toasts, conspiracies, and the grinding of knives beneath the tables. And the sweeter the taste of victory — when you play on another's field and still win.
"Welcome, Lord Reinhard," bowed the doorman in a powdered wig. His face was bleached by the magic of youth, but his eyes betrayed his age.
I gave no reply. He knew it wasn't necessary.
The doors opened as if afraid to delay my step, and I entered.
Silence clung to the hall for a single, breathless moment. In the vast chamber, drenched in gold, music, and perfume, even the bows of the dancers paused. The air shimmered with auras, but the moment I crossed the threshold, the very space seemed to constrict slightly, acknowledging my presence.
"Presenting the young master of House Deira — Reinhard von Deira!"
The herald's voice echoed over the crowd, rebounding from the walls, reaching the balconies where the elders sat, and rolled back down into a hush. I continued forward, my pace unwavering. They watched. All of them. Even those pretending not to.
I felt their eyes like touches. Some with interest, others with caution, still others with envy — and a few with cold calculation. Not a single one sincere. And that was right. Sincerity is weakness, and weakness is a luxury I destroyed in myself long ago.
One by one, nobles approached. I knew their faces even if we'd never met. Fathers, uncles, daughters, nephews. The political map of the Empire — alive, trembling with vanity. Polished, trained. They inclined their heads and said the proper things.
"Lord von Deira, an honor to see you…"
"A fine evening, is it not, Lord Reinhard?"
"House Velse offers its highest regards."
I nodded, replying briefly:
"Greetings, gentlemen. Ladies."
"Indeed," — dryly.
"Of course," — emotionless.
"My thanks," — but without warmth.
Their words were the rustling of drapes to me; their glances, shadows cast by candlelight. Insignificant.
I wasn't looking for friends. I was looking for tools.
As my feet guided me through the hall, my mind worked. I knew who was who. House Gosaō — obedient and weak. Their heir drinks more than he breathes. Derichi — fanatics clinging to moldy traditions. Salvini? Tied to the temple, as cautious as snakes and just as slippery.
Then I stopped.
Almost by chance. Almost — because in truth, it had been calculated.
By a distant column near a side archway stood a young man. He clearly didn't belong. His suit — outdated in style, neat but impeccably plain. His hair tied in a lazy knot, eyes downcast. He pretended to study a stained glass window, but I saw the tension in his shoulders — restrained fury. An aristocrat from House Herchi passed him — one of those who controlled the iron markets — and, smirking, whispered something to his companion. She giggled, glancing toward the boy.
Miguel Waltz.
Heir of a family nearly forgotten. Blacksmiths. True artisans, once famed across the Empire. But now — stifled. Humiliated. Pushed to the margins by clever parasites. Samuel and Herchi — merchants, manipulators, sellers of air. They dominated the market, but not the essence of the craft.
I looked at Miguel like a scholar at an ancient artifact — covered in dust, but with a glowing core within. If he hadn't broken yet — he could be useful. Perfect. A master unrecognized — but I would recognize him. And make him mine. His pride — tempered. His strength — directed. His loyalty — forged into chains of obligation.
And right on cue, text flared before my eyes. The system — always timely, always precise.
New Quests Received
[The Ball]
Description: Successfully complete the ball — 0/1
Reward: +1 AP
[Master Blacksmith]
Description: Miguel Waltz is mocked for his heritage. Help and recruit him — 0/1
Reward: +0.1 AP
Title: "The Blacksmith's Trust"
Effect: Miguel Waltz's trust will not drop below 70.
I didn't smile. But inside — something lit, like metal catching flame in a forge.
Opportunity. Potential.
Time to claim a new tool.