The sound was the first offense. An orchestra played a grandiose waltz, but its notes were lost in a cacophony of thunderous laughter, the clinking of crystal glasses, and the arrogant murmur of hundreds of side conversations. The air, heavy and dense, smelled of expensive perfume, exotic wines, and a staggering variety of canapés—a mixture so rich it bordered on sickening.
All of it would have been expected of a gala, were it not for one dissonant detail: outside, through the floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows, the morning sun shone brightly, painting the Chisanatora sky a limpid blue. The natural light invaded the ballroom, fighting a losing battle against the golden glow of the crystal chandeliers, creating an atmosphere of misplaced excess and decadence, as if the hosts had decided to ignore the very passage of time.
This was the City's Apex, an Olympus of polished steel and ambition floating above the clouds of rust, and gathered here was the cream of the crop. Human barons with oily smiles and calculating eyes gestured to Dukes from distant kingdoms, their clothes adorned with more jewels than a royal treasury.
But the nobility was not limited to humans.
Near a fountain that spouted sparkling wine, a group of Orcish Tribal Chiefs guffawed, the guttural, explosive sound making the glasses vibrate. They were mountains of green muscle squeezed into formal wear that looked ready to tear, their broad shoulders and tusks adorned with solid gold rings. The pride of their warrior heritage was evident in every exaggerated gesture, in every scandalous toast.
Hidden in the shadows of the marble columns, small Goblin Kings, with their green skin and smiles full of sharp teeth, whispered amongst themselves. Their tuxedos, though expensive, looked like ill-fitting costumes on their wiry bodies. Their small, cunning eyes darted around the hall, assessing, conspiring, with the unmistakable expression of scoundrels looking for the next big opportunity.
In a more secluded corner, Dwarven Aristocrats, with beards braided with threads of silver and mithril, watched everyone with a perpetual scowl. Ill-tempered and petty, they clutched their mugs tightly, their greedy gazes weighing the value of every jewel, every piece of silverware, every guest. The air around them was cold, charged with a millennia-old suspicion.
Moving with lethal grace among the guests, the Phantherians stood out. Humanoid felines, with pelts that mimicked those of lions, tigers, and panthers, they exuded a predatory elegance. Their muscular, flexible bodies were adorned with fine silks and leathers, and their feline eyes observed everything with a dangerous calm. Occasionally, one of them would stretch, and sharp claws would escape for an instant from their gloves, a subtle reminder of the beast beneath the noble attire.
And, as if they were living sculptures, isolated from the vulgarity of the party, were the High Elves. With their ethereal features and hair that seemed woven from starlight, they maintained a polite distance. Their robes flowed with a simplicity that humbled the surrounding ostentation, and in their ancient eyes was a deep boredom, a silent disdain for this mortal celebration.
Mingling with this fauna of power and privilege was Gunder.
His usual purple overcoat was gone, replaced by an impeccable gala suit, of a black so deep it seemed to absorb the light. The outfit, a product of his own magic, fit him perfectly, but Gunder wore it with the discomfort of one wearing a lie. He held a glass of champagne he had no intention of drinking, a mere accessory to complete his disguise.
While Tom had been sent into the filthy bowels of the ducts, Gunder had ascended to the pinnacle of power. He believed, correctly, that his ability to sense the invisible currents of the soul would be more useful here, in the nest of vipers.
The feeling he got from these people crawled through his body, going beyond disgust, anguish, and any revulsion to mere depravity. This scene was draining…
It wasn't something visible. It was a resonance, a fetid vibration that emanated from almost everyone in the hall. The Dwarves' greed was a cold, heavy pressure in his mind. The Orcs' arrogance, a harsh, irritating noise. The Goblins' covetousness, an uncomfortable itch under his skin. And from the humans, the worst of all: an empty ambition, a hunger for power so insatiable it created a spiritual vacuum around them.
His feline eyes swept the hall one last time, seeing beyond the smiles, the bows, and the toasts. He saw wolves in sheep's clothing, demons disguised as gods.
"These people…" he murmured to himself, his voice a breath lost in the loud music, "are the rot of their races…"
The disgust was a physical sensation, a bitter taste in Gunder's soul. He moved through the party like a ghost, his presence ignored by the cacophony of inflated egos. Every handshake he witnessed, every false toast, every forced laugh, was an insult to existence itself. They were frauds, all of them, puppets dancing to the tune of their most pitiful vices, and Gunder's sharp perception forced him to see every string.
Still, it's not like they're going to give me the answers I'm looking for, he thought, his feline eyes scanning the crowd with veiled contempt. He could feel the surfaces of their souls—the greed, the lust, the arrogance—but they were shallow, murky waters. There was no depth there, no secrets, just a void that echoed their own superficialities.
Walking to a long table covered in a silk cloth and adorned with a mountain of canapés, his hand moved to return the untouched champagne glass. I'm not going to get anything from here… They're so empty you don't even need to talk to them to read them completely.
The instant the crystal base of the glass touched the polished wood, he felt it.
It wasn't a simple shiver. It was a spear of ice that shot up his spine, a coldness so absolute and threatening that his muscles contracted instinctively. It wasn't the warm, passive emptiness of the other guests; it was an active vacuum, a black hole of avarice that seemed to suck the heat and life out of everything around it.
Surprised by the intensity of the sensation, Gunder turned his head abruptly. Standing beside him, observing him, was a man whose appearance was the personification of indulgence. Fat, with a flushed, sweaty face that his receding hairline made seem even larger, he wore a brocade vest so tight it looked about to give way.
The man blinked a few times, his small, piggy eyes momentarily confused by the sudden encounter. But then, a slow, venomous smile spread across his moist lips, a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"I believe… you're new to Chisanatora."The voice was soft, almost syrupy, but it carried an unmistakable weight.
Gunder composed himself instantly, surprise giving way to a mask of politeness. He placed the glass firmly on the table and turned to the man, straightening his posture. An equally false, yet charming, smile appeared on his face. "I arrived just yesterday. I'm merely getting to know the famous City of Commerce."
"Ah, of course!" The portly man smiled, this time with his teeth and eyes, a gesture of false cordiality. "A pleasure! My name is Vicent! I am the host of this little celebration!"
"Lamont," Gunder replied, the fake name sliding from his lips with ease. "The pleasure is all mine."
They shook hands. Vicent's hand was soft and damp, but the grip was surprisingly strong, and Gunder felt that soulless cold intensify with the contact. Vicent, then, with the grandiosity of an emperor displaying his domain, invited "Lamont" for a tour.
They ascended to the upper floors of the hall, walking along suspended glass catwalks that offered a dizzying view of the party below—a whirlwind of colors and vanities—and of the vast desert outside, an indifferent ocean of sand stretching to the horizon.
"I own most of the commerce that takes place in the Upper City," Vicent boasted, gesturing dismissively at the golden metropolis. "It took years! Years of hard work and… astute negotiations. But I finally managed to monopolize the market. Today, I am the greatest merchant in Chisanatora!"
"And what about the metal trade?" Gunder asked, his voice calm, walking beside him. Inside, however, a cold fury was beginning to form.
"The metal?" Vicent let out a short, disdainful laugh. "Ah, the metal keeps the lights on, so to speak. It's the foundation, the old backbone. But the real wealth, my dear Lamont, the soul of this city… are my businesses." He turned to Gunder, his eyes gleaming. "Chisanatora was born a mining city, it's true. A dirty, forgotten colony. Today, it is a beacon of prosperity, the City of Misfortune, where fortunes are made and lost in the blink of an eye. And that is thanks to the barons. It is thanks to me."
"A remarkable achievement," Gunder commented, his voice perfectly neutral.
"You may not understand the true power of money," Vicent continued, patronizing. "This forgotten city would never have the relevance it has today if it were only for the steel. Look down," he ordered, pointing to the party. "When would you see so many peoples gathered in celebration? Orcs, Dwarves, even the damned Elves!"
Gunder followed his gaze. "Indeed. Outside, the world is largely human."
"Exactly! Elves love their damp forests, Dwarves wither without the cold of their mountains, and Orcs detest the dry air. Even the Phantherians, who come from the steppes, hate this desert. But they are all here. Why?" Vicent turned, his greedy smile wide open. "For the money, of course! Gold is the only universal climate."
He didn't give Gunder time to respond. "And you, Lamont? From where have the winds brought you?"
"From Faraam," Gunder answered, observing the man's reaction.
Vicent's eyes lit up with a predatory gleam. "Faraam! One of the last duchies to unify with the Kingdom. Fascinating. I have not yet had the opportunity to extend my… interests there. It seems fate is truly on my side." He gave Gunder a friendly pat on the shoulder. "The winds of fortune have brought you directly to me. We can begin discussing business in Faraam."
Gunder maintained his polished smile, the fury within him now contained beneath a layer of ice. "I look forward to discussing it."