Victor Sorelle stood with a small group of socio-political players and raised his glass in silent acknowledgment. He hadn't approached Charles yet; he was strategically waiting for the right moment, knowing patience was essential to his plan.
Power did not pounce. It circled. Assessed. Lured.
Nearby, lower nobles whispered behind elaborate masks:
"Did you see the stormhorses? Fifty of them. That's enough to fund a city gate upgrade."
"And did you see the Ziglar guards? Those weren't mercenaries. That was a military formation."
"He's changed. That's not a sickly heir—he walks like a commander."
Micah leaned in. "They're practically writing you into legend, and we haven't even unveiled the franchising plan."
Charles replied without turning. "Let them. It serves my interests if they think they're betting on prophecy; I need them to see this as destiny to ensure their deep support, not mere speculation."
Baron Allantis of Velmora entered from the western balcony. He was a squat man with thinning hair, a mouth too wide for grace, and a reputation for being easily bought.
"Lord Ziglar," he offered an obsidian card, "if your House expands, my district—near the amphitheater—has space. I can arrange permits discreetly."
Charles took the card and studied it.
"You're the one who tried to sell part of the Royal Garden last year under the guise of 'ornamental efficiency upgrades,' aren't you?"
Allantis blanched. "Creative zoning innovation, my lord."
"I like ambition," Charles said, tucking the card away. "But my support depends on discretion. Next time, don't get caught."
The baron scuttled away, embarrassed but oddly pleased to be noticed. Diana appeared, holding a report scroll half-hidden under her velvet sleeve.
"The final inspection for the new franchise site is complete," she whispered. "Micah has the documents. Our first twenty local hires are shadow-vetted. Rob's team acquired the last batch of mana-inscribed cookware because you insisted on a flawless launch. We launch in forty-eight hours."
Charles nodded. "Good. And the press?"
"Fed to the right channels. Word's spreading. Tonight will amplify it."
Further across the hall, a group of masked heirs debated loudly:
"Didn't you say Ziglar was broke last year?"
"Broke doesn't ride stormhorses."
"That armor alone… gods. My uncle's estate doesn't even have five of those."
"You know who I heard he's working with? Sorelle. And Damaris."
A few others turned pale. That was not a coalition to underestimate.
Lucien returned to Charles, followed by a silver-skinned elf emissary from the Trade Isles.
"This is Larethiel of the Aurelian Convocation," Lucien introduced.
"They've expressed interest in cross-continental food logistics. Our partnership could revolutionize supply chains, though the rarity and considerable cost of transport crystals impose natural limits. Securing such resources for consistent and reliable shipment is a formidable challenge, but they see an opportunity for mutual advantage."
Charles studied the elf. Her mask had a floral design traced in emerald, with touches that suggested wind and light.
"I've heard Aurelian transport only backs operations that survive fire and frost," he said.
She tilted her head. "And you've survived?"
"I make it a point to die on schedule," he replied. "And then return richer."
The elf laughed. "Very well. Maybe we can talk more tomorrow."
Charles said, "Perhaps we may seal the deal tonight," his eyes shining behind Umbra Nocturne.
"We both know time is a currency."
A masked lady in amethyst, the daughter of a marquis, watched Charles as if he were a riddle wrapped in thunder. She said softly to her friend:
"I don't want to marry him. I wanna follow him."
Victor Sorelle finally stepped forward, with two aides and a quiet illusionist who mapped social signals like a battle map.
"You're aiming to disrupt far more than catering, aren't you?"
Charles turned.
"Of course," he said, meeting Victor's gaze evenly. "I intend to unseat comfort. Even the comfortable nobles."
A pause. Then Victor smiled faintly, lifting his glass.
"Then may your banquet taste of fire and starlight."
They clinked.
The Toast, the Speech, and the Vision Beyond Borders
A chime rang through the clear arches of the Elysian Grand Hall. It was soft but strong, like a bell rung by the gods to quiet mortals.
The soft music in the background faded to a whisper, and the seven chandeliers in the hall slowly turned to line up their mirrored prisms. The floating lights cast warm golden light on the central dais, making it look like a divine spotlight.
All eyes turned to Lady Micah Sorelle.
She moved forward with confidence shaped by sleepless nights, determination, and ambition.
Her gown shimmered in layered twilight, woven from shadowlace, velvet mana-thread, and tiny charms that glimmered with every graceful step.
Her mask was a beautiful curve of silver crescent moons and crystal vines that reflected the beauty of the Pavilion.
Tonight, Micah knew, was her chance to cement her place not only as a host but as a visionary leader.
When she lifted her goblet, five hundred nobles followed.
"Honored guests of Velmora," she began, her voice clear, commanding, and with warmth. "Tonight, we gather beneath star-glass and spelllight, not merely to eat or drink, but to witness a turning point."
The silence grew deeper.
"A new venture is born, and I dare say it will reshape noble hospitality and magical commerce. Tonight, I present to you the formal unveiling of the Tre Sorelle Franchising and Catering Division...A business design created to challenge the status quo and expand our reach throughout the realm."
A ripple of surprise spread through the crowd, mixed with muffled exclamations.
"For those unfamiliar," Micah continued, "Tre Sorelle began not as a dynasty, but as an idea. It was the idea that fine cuisine, immersive dining, and arcane enchantment could be experienced not just in palaces, but anywhere."
She gestured subtly to the dishes now gracing their tables: seared starlight carp, emberflame braised truffle-beast, moonleaf salad topped with alchemical snowflakes that danced on the tongue.
"Tonight's banquet is not prepared by the Pavilion," she said, letting her words settle.
"Everything you taste, smell, and drink was created by the culinary magic of Tre Sorelle Velmora's Catering Team. This moment is a live demonstration of what Tre Sorelle can bring to any noble house, alliance summit, or merchant celebration across the kingdom and beyond."
More applause now. Genuine, rising.
"And this is just the beginning," she added, voice growing brighter. Ten Tre Sorelle franchise restaurants will open across the Northern Territory in the next three months. The catering model will roll out to every major city within a season. And in two years?"
She smiled.
"We go continental."
The hall stirred. Dukes leaned in, guildmasters perked up, and foreign emissaries whispered to their aides.
Micah turned, and now the spotlight followed her hand.
"But none of this would exist without one man. I once thought he was just a spoiled noble, a sickly, forgotten son of a cold northern house. But he turned out to be the sharpest merchant mind I've ever met, and he taught me, sometimes painfully, that vision wears many masks. The risks he took convinced me to champion this dream, not just for wealth, but for legacy.
A beat.
"Tonight, I ask you to raise your glasses for our first and greatest franchisee. The architect of our expansion. And the single investor who put down two million gold coins for the first ten Tre Sorelle franchises."
She extended her hand.
"To Lord Charlemagne Ziglar, third son of Duke Alaric, but more importantly, entrepreneur, visionary, and soon the reason your next banquet won't be dull."
Laughter spread through the hall. The clapping got louder. Even the nobles who were too proud to clap nodded for the sake of formality.
Then he stepped into the light.
The Speech of Lord Charlemagne Ziglar
Lord Charlemagne Ziglar moved with a quiet elegance. His cloak flared behind him as if it had a will of its own. The Umbra Nocturne Mask hid his expression, but the glint in his silver-blue eyes, shining through its enchantments, hinted at storms yet to come.
He stood at the dais. Waited.
Then spoke.
"Esteemed nobles of Velmora, Charles began, his voice smooth as glass poured over steel, I know many of you are wondering how a boy from the North, once sickly, cloistered, and presumed useless, ended up here in this temple of politics and power, talking about catering."
A low chuckle spread across the floor. He tilted his head.
"Let me be clear. Tre Sorelle is not just about food. It's not just about candlelit dinners or fancy wine...
It's about connection. It's about redefining hospitality, not as a luxury, but as a language. A language spoken across borders, cultures, and titles."
A hush. There was a palpable shift in the crowd's mood.
"Tonight, you taste flame-seared meat. Tomorrow, you host your rival house at a Tre Sorelle location. And in a few months?"
He paused.
"Your enemies may toast with your allies over a shared love of Emberglass Tartare—and wonder when exactly you became friends."
Laughter again. Nervous. Thinking.
"This is not just a single-city event," Charles said. "This is a movement, a continental one. We are building a borderless brand, a franchising empire, a culinary diplomacy program, and a merchant network with flavor as its flag."
He let that linger.
"Davona is our pilot. The continent is our market. And if I may borrow the boldness of entrepreneurs everywhere, the heavens are our limit."
Now even the emissaries from Arcana, Eskael, and Riventhal were sitting straighter.
He raised his glass.
"I believe in tradition. I honor legacy. But I live for innovation. Tre Sorelle is not just an investment—it's a challenge. To every house, every guild, every noble and merchant in this hall."
He smiled.
"Can you keep up?"
Then there was a loud round of applause. Some clapped out of respect, some because they were afraid of missing the next big thing, and a few because they could feel the fight coming, even though it was hidden behind perfume and dessert.
Micah smiled back at Charles, knowing what he was thinking.
Victor Sorelle's lips moved up.
Marquis Damaris emptied his glass and said softly, "Well played, boy. Good job."
And all over the Celestia Grand Pavilion, unseen alliances changed.
Masked Alliances, Political Feints, and the Echo of a Name Best Left Buried
The applause had barely faded when the mood in the banquet hall began to shift. It wasn't a physical change, but something in the air.
The glittering aristocrats of Velmora moved like currents in a sea of velvet and secrets. Their laughter was rehearsed. Their smiles meant nothing.
Their eyes told stories older than courtship or fashion. They were measuring, gauging, and calculating the tidal wave that had just revealed itself as more than a noble heir—a continental force.
"Did you hear that? Two million gold injected. For catering," murmured a jeweled Baroness with a fox mask. "That's not business. That's a siege."
"And the third son of Duke Alaric, no less…" whispered another, voice low and husky. "The forgotten one. The sickly boy. Look at him now."
"I heard he died," said a third, a silk-robed merchant lord clutching a glass of Feyblush Nectar too tightly. "Or was exiled. Or poisoned."
"He did," someone muttered behind a fan. "That's the dangerous part."
From the illusion-sky above, the enchanted dome flickered once—subtly dimming to simulate twilight. A breeze swept through the Elysian Grand Hall, not from any window, but from the activation of passive enchantments placed discreetly in the Tre Sorelle centerpieces on each banquet table.
Each table's artfully crafted arrangement, crystal lotus bowls filled with glittering bluefire petals, was more than decoration. They were voice-sensitive, terrain-mapped scrying beacons, designed by SIGMA and enchanted by Charles's array team.
Motion-detection. Heat signatures. Vocal filters tuned to catch keywords like Ziglar, treason, franchise, and Alaric. The petals shifted color subtly when they detected high-value intel.
Nearby, the catering staff moved about in spotless uniforms, each wearing a Tre Sorelle staff badge pinned like jewelry. The badges were elegant, inconspicuous, and encoded with SIGMA-tier surveillance enchantments.
Each badge recorded voices, scanned cultivation auras, and transmitted emotional readings through pulse-spectrum resonance.
All data was filtered, cross-referenced, and funneled in real time to a sublayer interface accessible only to Charles and SIGMA.
[Eight flagged conversations. Two containing keywords: House Ziglar, strategic expansion, and 'potential threat.' Cross-checking source origin… ah—interesting.]
Charles blinked once. The interface slid before his eyes like frost over obsidian glass, invisible to others.
"Feed me the targets," he whispered into the rim of his wineglass.
[Booth 17A. A cloaked messenger from the Southern Duchy of Gravemarch, connected to Duke Henry's secret spy network. Secondary trace: Booth 11C, veiled sigil found—House Gayle. Female with a mask. There is no official record of a delegation. Also, she's wearing something that makes death smell bad.]
Charles raised an eyebrow. "How rude of her."
[They tried to maneuver around the badge interception field. Still failed. We have already recorded 300 encrypted pings. Efficiency is 97.3%.
He smiled a little. "SIGMA, we made a banquet that keeps an eye on its guests."
Charles's pulse quickened, a small reminder that even the most controlled places have their own heartbeats.
The edge of his wineglass shook a little against his fingers, and the weight of the stakes ran through him like an electric current.
[Correction: a banquet that puts them in groups. Your investments are paying off. House Ziglar surveillance architecture is now a reality.]
He took a sip of Feyblush Nectar. The drink buzzed through his blood like liquefied sunlight.
Somewhere across the room, a Baroness from the Western Expanse gestured to Charles's mask and whispered to her companion, "He's like a specter of shadow and thunder. We shouldn't trust that."
Her companion responded, "Darling, we don't need to trust it. We just need to buy stock before the rest of the empire does."
Near the wine fountain, Borris adjusted his formal coat, looking like a myth carved out of steel. Wendy, now dazzling in an asymmetrical jade gown with embroidered silver wind sigils, leaned beside him.
"Three more tried to flirt with you," she said dryly. "One even offered dowry rights."
Borris blinked. "I don't even own land yet."
"They don't care. You look like a demigod in court shoes."
Rob, not far from them, swirled his drink with an amused hum. "She's right. I've received five offers myself—three political, two criminal."
Geo, nervously adjusting his enchanted spectacles, muttered, "I can't believe I'm wearing a ten-thousand-gold cufflink and still feel like the janitor."
"Chin up," Rob smirked. "You're standing in a fortress disguised as a banquet."
Meanwhile, above them all, Lady Micah stood near a high arch of sculpted moonlight and surveyed the crowd like a commander watching the frontlines of a war.
Victor Sorelle approached from the Grand Parlor again and whispered, "The shadows are thick tonight."
Micah didn't look away. "Good. They'll spread the story faster."
A few tables down, the veiled envoy of House Gayle stiffened when her badge started to glow. It was an encrypted ping bouncing off her hidden relic.
She said to herself in a low voice, "Someone is watching us."
A voice from her ring communicator said, "You are the watcher."
"No. Something else... "
But it was too late.
SIGMA had already recorded her energy signature.
The envoy from Duke Henry's Gravemarch, with all of his cloaks and whispered lies, had just been found at a mage-house near the southern border.
House Ziglar now had names, faces, and frequencies.
And Charles?
Charles smiled and passed the wine.