Noel moved through the crowd with calm precision, his green suit brushing against velvet chairs and trailing coattails. Balthor followed closely, keeping pace but glancing around with visible discomfort.
As they neared the center of the room—where the richest laughter and densest crowd gathered—Noel subtly tilted his head toward him.
"Don't call him your brother," he said quietly. "Just follow my lead. Whatever he was back then… he's not that anymore."
Balthor hesitated, but nodded once. "Alright kid."
The man at the center was impossible to miss. Surrounded by masked merchants, investors, and dwarven nobles, he stood with perfect ease—a drink in one hand, the other gesturing lightly as deals and rumors flowed around him. His mask was black and bronze, intricately carved, and his presence pulled attention like gravity.
Noel's eyes narrowed.
'That has to be him.'
