Charles sipped his wine and leaned back, the firelight sketching his silhouette in lazy shadows.
"Fear isn't always forged in steel. Sometimes it wears silk and serves amuse-bouche."
Then, without warning, he stood and strode toward the center of the suite, where the embedded mana array waited like an altar.
He snapped his fingers.
A soft hum rippled through the room. The floor glowed.
A shimmering projection burst into life—a floating, radiant map of Davona Kingdom. Red and gold nodes pulsed like a heartbeat echoing across enemy lines.
Charles gestured toward it with the calm grace of a deity assigning dominions. His shadow stretched across the map like judgment.
"Every Tre Sorelle branch," he began, voice low and smooth, "is more than a restaurant. It's a listening post. A probe. Think of it as a beautiful, perfumed Trojan horse—appearing harmless as it's wrapped in warm bread and dipped in starlight sauce, but secretly delivering something much more potent within."
Wendy blinked and stiffened, her hand tightening around her teacup. "You're turning the hospitality industry into an intelligence network."
Charles offered a slight nod, as if she'd finally arrived at the correct equation.
"Who gets invited into noble estates? Sect banquets? Strategy councils? Funerals, coronations, royal weddings?"
He didn't wait for the answer.
"Caterers," Wendy whispered.
"Exactly," Charles said, the word snapping like a silk whip.
He started to move around the projection like a general surveying a battlefield. With each step, the capital flared, golden script trailed after it, detailing expansion dates, staff numbers, profit margins, and levels of mana interference—each statistic like a new sword drawn for war.
"Our chefs have the credentials. Our servers love it. Our name? Welcoming. They think they're enjoying culture. They're taking in power."
Borris whistled a long, low note. "That's crazy."
Charles turned to them and said, "No." The firelight sharpened his sapphire eyes, making them look completely inhuman. "That's smart."
He zoomed in on the Southern Duchy, which still pretended to be loyal to the Arcana Empire but was uneasy about Ziglar's rise. The node glowed a threatening amber, like a warning light rather than just a color.
"Flags won't work there. Gold won't work. Threats? Too clear."
He moved closer.
"So we send recipes. No flags. No orders. Just a hint of flavor. Slow-cooked curiosity."
Wendy crossed her arms defensively, scoffing. "So what? You want to take down a duchy with curry?"
Charles met her gaze. "Don't insult the curry. It's more convincing than most aristocrats."
With a quick flick of his wrist, the projection came to life. Waiters carried trays of charm-infused food into palaces. Delivery mages floated across rooftops. Bartenders subtly channeled memory charms with every drink.
"Every server reads micro-expressions. Every wine pourer senses mana changes. Every dish—enchanted to record tone, cadence, and names nobles whisper when drunk."
Borris stared, shocked. "You're turning dumplings into spies."
Charles really looked hurt. "Not spies. Patriots in aprons."
Wendy rolled her eyes, draining her tea in a sharp gulp. "What's next? Noodles that are bad for you?"
Charles waved it away. "Only for rude dignitaries. Even then, just gluten-free."
He looked at the map again. The Southern Duchy flickered in a scary way.
"They won't know. Not until nobles quote our wine philosophy and give away defense routes between courses."
He raised his glass, his smirk sharpening like a knife in silk.
"To the perfect meal," he said.
Borris raised his eyebrows. "And what is that?"
Charles swirled his emberwine. It shone red, like lightning caught in a bottle.
One that tastes so good, they don't know how much it costs them until dessert is gone and the empire has changed hands.
Wendy let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Her shoulders dropped, her gaze flicking to Charles's face, pale with realization. The room's air felt different now. Less thick. More sharp. Like they had just seen history change.
Even Nimbus, snoring softly in her silver-gilded pet bed, twitched a claw like she could feel the world realigning.
Borris ran a hand through his hair, voice rough with awe. "You're not a merchant," he muttered. "You're a warlord in a silk robe."
"Flattery," Charles said, "gets you a bonus. Flattery with analysis?" He flashed a grin. "Gets you promoted."
The projection faded into a soft light.
"But remember," he said in that calm voice that made you feel like you were going to die, "every table we serve is a front line. Every customer is a gatekeeper. We don't win with fireballs; we win with taste. Not towers of siege, but soufflés."
Wendy laughed, shocked, and honest. "Gods help the world if your dessert menu grows."
"Oh," Charles said, leaning back on his divan, his eyes gleaming with dangerous satisfaction. "It will."
He raised his glass one final time—not to conquest. Not to war.
But to the most insidious, delectable weapon no kingdom ever saw coming: Dinner.
Dinner.
Charles turned slowly. The flickering fire cast one half of his face in warm gold—refined, almost divine. The other half vanished in a deep shadow, concealing secrets the world was never meant to see—like an altar where old gods hid their truths.
"Espionage," he said, voice low and precise. "Reconnaissance. And, when absolutely necessary—targeted elimination."
The words landed like daggers on velvet. Neither Borris nor Wendy spoke.
We embed enchanted surveillance arrays in banquet halls. Scroll mirrors hide behind wine cabinets. Whisper-charms are laced beneath pastry counters. Spells absorb echoes from silverware vibrations.
He paused and turned to face them fully.
"You two will lead the formation of our twin shadow divisions—one for covert intel gathering… and one for silent eradication."
Wendy's lips parted, eyes wide, her tea forgotten in her hand. "Like a Shadow Inquisition," she murmured, "but... embedded in the aroma of roast lamb and saffron glaze."
Charles's smile was razor-sharp and approving. "Precisely. And understand this—Victor Sorelle will not know. Not Micah. Not the upper staff. Not even our logistics captains."
Wendy raised a brow. "Isn't that... risky?"
This isn't about distrust," Charles said. "This is about autonomy. Our sovereignty must be protected. If Tre Sorelle is our network's face, then this—" he gestured to the glowing map, "—is its backbone.
Borris crossed his arms, jaw tensing. His eyes narrowed, voice steely. "So we operate inside the inside."
Exactly. We form our own hierarchy. Our own oath-bound chain of command—untouchable and undetected. Double agents with only one true allegiance.
With a quick flick of his finger, he zoomed in on the map. The northern territories throbbed softly, already marked and seeded. But the southern duchy? It shone a bright red.
Charles said, "That's the powder keg. A duchy that is loyal to the Arcana Empire. Not sure. Paranoid. Broken. Perfect."
He looked at them with bright eyes.
We get in. We map out noble lands while pretending to be expanding our culinary skills. We put servers in places where they can remember everything. Mages smile while their trays soak up strategic discussion.
He leaned forward.
"When civil war begins—we don't just survive it."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"We light the fuse."
A heavy silence fell.
Wendy shook herself, drawing a breath. "What about training? Recruitment? We can't run a network like this alone."
Charles offered a faint, knowing grin. "You won't."
He strode toward the bar—smooth as shadow—and poured himself a crystal measure of Spiritleaf tonic, the liquid glowing faintly with energy-restoring essence. He didn't drink it right away.
You'll coordinate with Elmer. He already has candidates in mind—former scouts, dismissed knights, forgotten orphans, even a few thieves too skilled for prison. Some will come from our kitchen crews, delivery ranks, and banquet halls.
He turned, eyes glinting. "We poach the sharpest. Quietly. Carefully. Every recruit will be vetted, bound by oath, and trained in our image."
Wendy frowned slightly. "What kind of training?"
Charles took a sip. The fire roared quietly behind him, throwing sparks like rising ambitions.
"Shadow discipline," he said.
Detection evasion. Signal charm encryption. Subtle cultivation techniques tailored for infiltration. Pressure-point combat. Mind-warding. Disguise arts. Enchanted ink scripts and message-dissolution protocols. Every tool required to breach a warded estate, steal state secrets, and vanish like a myth.
Borris let out a low grunt. "And if they're caught?"
Charles didn't blink. "They won't be."
He walked over to the map again and tapped a node near the southern border.
But in the rare case one is, each operative will carry a Soulburn seal. One whisper of the activation phrase, and they will burn clean. No trail. No memory trace. Not even the best Arcana diviners will find what was lost.
Wendy stiffened. "That's brutal."
"That's mercy," Charles corrected, his voice a thread of ice. "And loyalty."
He downed the tonic in a single fluid motion and set the glass down with a quiet click.
"Each operative will be compensated generously—high-grade cultivation resources, unique gear, and early access to alchemical boosters. We don't want spies."
He stepped closer, his tone darkening like an incoming storm.
We want loyal phantoms. Assassins who can walk through imperial wards and kill a duke in his bath—then be back in time to plate dessert.
Borris whistled softly, a grin blooming. "You mad bastard… you're building a spy network out of a franchise."
Charles smiled faintly. "Correction—I'm building an empire that no one will see coming."
He turned back to the projection, which now displayed a simulation of a royal banquet. Waiters moved like shadows, dishes floated through enchanted service arrays, whispers echoed and were absorbed into dormant runes behind painting frames.
"You serve food, they let their guard down."
He waved a hand.
"And when they drop it far enough, we serve something else entirely."
Wendy shook her head. "You're terrifying, you know that?"
Charles didn't look back.
"I've been called worse," he murmured. "But terrifying? That one's a compliment."
And somewhere deep within the Vermillion Grace Hotel, the flames crackled louder—perhaps in approval.
"And gold?" Borris asked.
Charles chuckled. "You've seen our vaults. Gold isn't the problem. Loyalty is."
Then his voice dropped, the quiet weight of authority settling like a blade against the skin.
"But make no mistake—this isn't just a task. This is your legacy. The Shadow Divisions will shape the future of this kingdom. They will determine who lives, who rules, and who is remembered. You'll train them. Command them. Mold them. This is your army, if you're worthy."
Borris looked at his hands, the calloused tools of a former brute, and nodded slowly. "We'll make you proud, Lord Charlemagne."
Charles poured another glass and handed it to Wendy. "I know you will. You're the sword and the wind. Now, sharpen the edges."
Then he turned to Borris with a glint in his eye. "Speaking of sharpening—once your therapeutic herbal bath is done, return here. Tonight, we begin your first qi manipulation session."
Borris grunted. "You're serious?"
"In the reinforced training chamber below this suite," Charles replied. "We start with core regulation. Wendy will assist. Be sure to survive it."
Wendy nearly choked on her tonic. "That's… not how you normally encourage someone!"
"I'm not normal," Charles said dryly. "Neither are our enemies. Or our goals."
He poured her another glass.
"And Wendy—I need you to break into Core Realm Rank 5 by the end of the week."
Her brows arched. "That soon?"
"You've plateaued. It's time we shatter the ceiling. You're getting your own operatives soon. You'll need to be two steps ahead."
She exhaled, then nodded. "Fine. But you're leading the breakthrough ritual."
Charles's grin turned razor sharp.
"Gladly."
Nimbus snorted from the corner, half-asleep, gnawing on a bone bigger than his head.
Charles glanced at the little beast and smirked. "Even Nimbus will outrank you soon if you keep dragging your feet."
Wendy rolled her eyes. "She's a dragon."
"And you're an assassin," Charles countered. "Keep up."
Borris laughed low, gravelly, sincere.
And so the fire burned long into the night. Plans spun from silk and shadow. In a world soon to fracture, this was the spark of a new power not born in battlefields or courts but in kitchens, banquet halls, and dining tables.
Tre Sorelle was no longer just a restaurant.
It was becoming the sharpest dagger in the empire.