Around Charles, the air crackled—not just with spiritual force, but with curiosity and awe. Some approached him warily, hoping for a moment of his attention. A supplier inquired about broadening delivery enchantments; a marketing apprentice offered a slogan in verse. A spatial cook asked if Charles favored flame or frost cuisine.
And then came the bold ones.
A young woman stepped forward. Her red curls fell over her velvet shoulders, and her amethyst pendant shook in her tight fingers. Her scent was a mix of plum blossom and midnight.
"Lord Charlemagne," she said, her voice like harp strings full of desire. She smiled softly. Her eyes sparkled with a dangerous promise.
"This vision you've made... It's addictive. You're intoxicating. Can we talk alone? I play the harp. I can speak four languages, including the language of the Whispering Isles."
Charles regarded her with his signature half-smile, the sort that tempted bards to abandon lyrics for portraits.
His gaze flicked from her pendant to her lips, then settled—politely, resolutely—somewhere unreachable.
"I admire a woman of culture," he said smoothly, voice steeped in dreamfruit wine and intrigue. "Music. Language. Passion. A rare fusion."
She leaned in, eyes hopeful.
"But alas…" He touched his temple. "Another melody haunts me tonight. It's key outplays any harp."
Her smile wilted—just slightly.
"Rest well, Lady…?"
"Velisse," she whispered, cheeks coloring.
"Lady Velisse," he repeated gently. "I'll remember the name. For business, perhaps. Or diplomacy—should the Whispering Isles send a delegation?"
She curtsied, part retreat, part surrender. And yet… she walked away enchanted, not scorned.
Moments later, another approached—this one radiant in sapphire, with posture polished by boarding schools and tea-fueled expectations. She placed a gloved hand modestly over her chest, head tilted with soft pride.
"My lord," she began sweetly, "they say you're brilliant… and unwed. I'm both available and particularly skilled in event coordination. A dinner could be... mutually beneficial."
Charles chuckled—soft, low, dangerous.
"A noblewoman with a calendar and a vision," he mused. "Be still, my overworked heart."
She giggled, visibly encouraged.
"But tonight," he added, swirling his emberwine, "I dine with my ambitions—each one a step toward seizing control of the council. They're jealous and violently allergic to distractions."
She blinked, caught between amusement and admiration.
"May your ambitions choke on dessert," she said, bowing. "But I hope they digest well."
He raised his glass. "Too charming for mediocrity, Lady Planner. Aim higher than me."
Before she'd even fully departed, another contender struck.
No preamble. No curtsy. Just presence.
A young noblewoman slid into the seat beside him—uninvited, sharp, and dressed for influence and power.
"I don't offer talents," she said. "I offer legacy. My family commands the eastern fleet. Tre Sorelle needs sea lanes. I want in—business, maybe more."
Charles turned, meeting her gaze with an intrigued tilt of the head.
"Direct," he said. "But legacy as bait?" He leaned back. "Wrong sea, my lady. I build my own fleets."
She raised a brow. "And harbors?"
"Oh, I may rent a harbor," he added with a wicked smirk. "But I never drop anchor."
There was a beat of silence.
Then she laughed—a low, proud sound like steel flirting with silk.
"Then don't forget my harbor, Lord Ziglar. It's... tide-tested."
"Noted," he said, raising his goblet. "I do enjoy testing tides."
She left with her chin high and her pride intact—but her thoughts already tangled.
Around him, the air shimmered with perfume and ambition.
One by one, they tried.
Flirtations dressed as favors. Affections veiled as alliances. Promises laced in perfume.
But Charles remained an enigma wrapped in velvet and wit—every smile a riddle, every answer a door sealed tight.
He was never cruel.
Never harsh.
But always just... slightly out of reach.
His words struck like compliments and sliced like farewells. A refined no dressed in poetry. A rejection so sweet it felt like a reward.
And as he sipped his wine and watched the final hopeful turn away with a dreamy sigh, he muttered to himself with a grin,
"Charm's a dangerous blade. Good thing I always bring a sheath."
Nimbus, curled nearby, rolled her eyes and blew a violet spark.
"You're the worst," she murmured telepathically.
"I'm the best," Charles replied without missing a beat. "That's the problem."
At the high table draped in sky-silk and lined with dew-bright goblets, Lady Micah Sorelle watched it all unfold.
Her gaze swept the hall: women circling him, cloaked in lace, perfume, confidence, and coyness. She saw hands drift to pendants and eyes linger, smiles just a bit too bright.
And she saw how Charles deflected each one—flawlessly.
Polite. Irresistible. Final.
Every rejection wrapped in flirtation. Every refusal was sweet enough to taste like an invitation. He didn't just dodge affection—he mastered it. Disarmed it. He repackaged it as a charm. Then handed it back like a silk-wrapped souvenir.
Micah tapped her goblet.
There was no jealousy in her heart.
She didn't get jealous.
What she felt was… curiosity. A growing awareness of the game he played and how he played it. Respect for his mastery. Reverence for his strategic deflections and success.
And something else she refused to name.
She studied the angle of his smirk, the rhythm of his cadence, the way he seemed at home and untouchable. He laughed as if he owned the air itself, moved like a dancer weaving strategy from shadow. And the room? It adored him.
He was younger than her. By three years. Yet he commanded attention like a king twice his age.
Micah narrowed her eyes. She had spent the last nine years scaling ladders slick with sabotage. Dining with serpents in silk gloves. Weaving empires together with ledgers, wit, and sleepless nights. And now—here stood a boy who preached franchising as poetry and swore oaths over wine as if scripting holy writ.
What kind of man builds an empire out of ambiance and appetizers?
What kind of boy walks like a ghost prince and turns flirtation into armor?
She sipped her tea, slowly. Deliberate.
He's not just meant for Davona, she thought, the weight of the realization making her spine straighten.
He's meant to swallow it.
And yet… he wasn't unreachable.
Not to her.
He hadn't touched her hand. Hadn't whispered empty lines beneath moonlight. Hadn't tried to impress her with flashy boasts or feigned deference.
No. He brought her spreadsheets.
Blueprints.
A vision.
He treated her like a rival general. Like a partner in conquest—the only woman in the hall who might match his hunger for power and vision.
And that—damn him—that was more seductive than a thousand roses.
Her thoughts tangled, dangerously.
Marriage? she mused briefly.
No. That would chain him. Box him in. The moment anyone tried to claim him, he'd slip the collar and reinvent the war. Marriage would be too... confining. Too archaic. Too sentimental.
But a merger?
An alliance forged in ambition?
That… that he might consider.
And she would never settle for less than his full attention. Not because she craved it.
But because she deserved it.
And if—if—that attention ever did flicker beyond business and into the realm of longing… well.
She'd still weigh the cost-benefit ratio first.
Maybe.
Probably.
Shut up, she told herself, shifting in her chair. You're a merchant. Not a maiden.
The moment passed. Her expression remained unreadable.
But her mind?
Sharper than ever.
The feast raged on.
Nimbus brought his own separate table—low to the ground, and already stacked with giant slabs of Magma Ox ribs, Stormbeast marrow stew, and a Wyrmscale broth that bubbled faintly with golden qi. He munched loudly, blissfully unaware of the stares he was getting, occasionally swiping his tail in approval.
A silk-padded mana-bed was carried in next, lined with enchanted scales and cooled crystals. Nimbus grunted happily and flopped over mid-bite, then dragged the ox rib into bed like a trophy.
Charles glanced at him once and grinned.
"That's the real founder of Tre Sorelle's future right there."
The celebration stretched long into the night, with every soul in the hall whispering of tomorrow, dreaming of their new titles, imagining their rise through ranks not yet invented. Performance bonuses. Equity. Travel. Glory. And most of all… meaning.
The Shadows Within the Flame
Moonlight filtered through velvet drapes—cool, silver, faintly judgmental. The suite shimmered in plum and starlight. Enchanted Everheat logs glowed in the hearth, humming with quiet pride.
On the obsidian table, a half-finished bottle of Dreamfruit Reserve sat beside a platter of untouched figs and nightlark breast. The figs seemed slighted. The bird betrayed.
A faint smile played at his lips. Not a grin. Something subtler. Like he'd just pulled off a grand heist but wasn't in the mood to gloat… yet.
Across the room, Borris looked like a bear in retirement—half-armored, arms sprawled wide, trying to remember what it felt like to breathe without yelling at someone. Wendy sat perched by the window, cradling her cup of qi-tea, the moonlight catching the flicker of awe still lingering in her gaze.
Nimbus, naturally, had claimed the massive silver-gilded magibeast bed like it was forged for her royal dragon highness alone.
She snored softly. One claw rested protectively on a steak bone that had been half-gnawed, as if it were protecting it from thieves who weren't there.
Wendy was the first to speak. She spoke in a whisper, as if she didn't want to wake up the ghosts of what had just happened.
"I still can't believe what I saw down there."
She looked at Charles with a mix of respect and suspicion.
"You were... scary."
Charles raised an eyebrow. "Scary? I was serving dumplings while wearing silk."
She quickly added, "I mean that in the best way possible. That wasn't a sales pitch. It was a fight. You didn't sell them a vision; you changed their minds. You had nobles standing in line like people joining a cult."
Borris grunted in agreement. "I've seen you gut magibeasts that are twice your size. I saw you take down a warlord who was covered in blood while you were bleeding from the face. I thought that was cool. But tonight? That was war through words."
He looked at Charles like he had just found a new kind of animal.
"They weren't just listening. They gave up.
Charles slowly sipped his wine, and the light from the fire danced across his cheekbones.
He said softly, "Business is war. Just better clothes and a list of wines."
Wendy laughed, despite herself. Borris didn't. He looked like he was still catching up.
But then, Charles's tone shifted—just a shade darker. Still calm. Still amused. But now it had steel beneath the silk.
"Now," he said quietly, "do you both see it?"
They blinked.
Charles's gaze sharpened.
"The bigger picture. Where your extended duties tie into Tre Sorelle's expansion."
Wendy hesitated. Borris sat up straight, eyes narrowing.
"What do you—" he started, then stopped. A flicker of realization sparked behind his eyes.
"Surveillance?" he breathed.
Charles smiled.
"Perfect."
He rose and stepped toward the center of the room. With a casual flick of his wrist, the embedded mana array in the floor activated. A glowing projection shimmered into being—the map of Davona Kingdom, cast in midair like a divine war board. Cities glowed. Roads pulsed. Territories shimmered with soft, strategic menace.
"This isn't just food and fame," Charles said, his voice low and gleaming. "This is our foundation. Our net."