Morning sunlight poured into the second floor of the Hollow Cadenza, which the group had officially renamed The Phantom's Roost after last night's drunken vote. Even after the party, their plans for glory couldn't wait.
Charles sat alone on the balcony, steam rising from a carved obsidian teacup filled with black lotus chai. Below, the tavern buzzed as his newly named orchestra slowly woke up, most of them grumbling and hungover.
Footsteps broke the quiet. Luther showed up looking messy, his hair wild and his eyes bright with caffeine and new ideas, eager to prove his worth in this ambitious new era for the group.
"You slept here?" Charles asked, sipping his tea.
"Technically. I passed out on a blueprint. Might've forged a permit with my cheek."
Charles smirked.
"The new Phantom Concerto will debut with me at my coming-of-age ceremony in three weeks. You have two weeks to rehearse here, then you'll move to East Wing Manor for the final week before the ceremony."
The room froze.
Charles's eyes lit up. "You'll perform the four legendary pieces, complete with full military choreography on the ground."
Geo whispered, "With... the army?"
Charles nodded. "My new Legion of Shadows will appear at the final part of the ceremony. You'll be the one to announce their arrival."
Luther nearly dropped his ink quill.
Charles looked around the room with determination. "We'll make sure the performance is clear and powerful."
He turned to a quiet young woman sitting at the far end. She had dark hair in a loose braid, a golden voice, and the calm confidence of someone who had faced storms and come through them.
"Soraya," Charles said firmly. "You will be the lead female vocalist. I need your voice to slice through the silence like truth through a lie."
Soraya blinked. Her eyes widened, mouth parting as if to object, but no words came.
He held her gaze.
"You've felt the pain in that piece," he said softly. "Let them feel it too."
The group fell silent. Even Luther bowed his head in respect.
He looked at each of them, expression unshakable.
"This isn't just music. It's memory, war, and coming home. It's the song death would sing if it had ever loved."
Soraya's lips trembled.
"And after that?" Wendy asked, voice calm but vibrating with thrill.
Charles stepped to the center of the room.
"In three and a half months, the Grand Shadow Aria will open. On that stage, the Phantom Concerto will perform the first full opera this kingdom has seen in a hundred years."
A long silence followed—broken only when Danica muttered, "I have chills. And I'm not even musical."
Everyone laughed for real, but there was also a sense of awe in the room.
Charles turned serious again.
"Now, recruitment."
He tapped the tavern's warded wall.
A glowing magical parchment appeared, bigger than anything they'd seen before.
THE PHANTOM CONCERTO – OPEN AUDITIONS
"Hear the Call. Join the Storm."
Audition Location: House Ziglar - West Hill Manor, Velmora
Gates sealed with a resonance lock. Only those who play the right melody may enter.
Charles grinned. "If they can't tune their soul, they won't even be able to walk through the gate."
Anton blinked. "You're turning the entrance into a test?"
"No," Charles replied. "I'm making it a filter."
Diana raised her glass. "What happens if you find too many talents?"
"I never find too many. I find worthy ones."
Luther laughed for the first time in hours. "This is really happening."
Charles leaned on the polished mahogany banister.
"This is only the overture," he said.
Strings of Business, Shadows of the Past
Across town, the glass walls of the Vermillion Grace Hotel lounge showed off Velmora's sparkling skyline. Inside, under soft gold lamps and deep shadows, time seemed to stand still.
Charles sat across from Micah in the private executive lounge, the lingering scent of roasted blue-lotus beans rising from their coffee cups. They had just finalized the orchestral and real estate plans for the Grand Shadow Aria Hall and the upcoming ten Tre Sorelle branches.
Now, the only sound was the soft ticking of the antique wall clock.
Charles leaned back in a velvet chair, holding his coffee and half-smiling as he looked at Lady Micah across the crystal table.
"Micah," he began, swirling the brew lazily, "you already have a lot on your plate with the Tre Sorelle expansion alone. Are you sure you want to get involved in my other business ventures, like this new orchestra group?"
Micah scoffed, radiant in her blazer. "You doubt I can multitask?"
"I think you're one missed meal from collapse."
She leaned forward with a grin. "Working with you feels like better training than any apprenticeship with the old Master Merchants."
"Ah, Marquis Damaris—your formal trainer?"
"Yes," Micah said as she drank her coffee. "Now it's just on paper. I know my father gets it. He told me that I would learn more from you in a week than from the old dogs in a year.
Charles laughed so hard that he snorted. "So, you want to be my student now?"
Micah thought for a moment. "That... didn't sound right."
Charles leaned in, his eyes shining. "Did it?"
"Prove you're worth it. Conquer the entire Davona Kingdom market within two years, and I'll consider taking you on as my disciple."
"Deal." Her eyes shone with excitement.
"Only if you win," Charles said, gesturing to The Herald's Mirror.
Its front page bearing his own image, draped in that midnight-and-platinum outfit, headline reading: "Casanova on the Floor: Ziglar's Unstoppable Charms Dazzle Velmora's Nobility"
Micah choked. "You read that?"
"I framed it," Charles said proudly. "They say I designed the outfit myself."
"You did."
"I did." He smirked. "That gives me an idea…"
"No."
"Too late," he said, ignoring her.
"Our next project is business couture. Revolutionary fashion that blends modern, future, and classic styles. Quality, function, and looks. Clothes for cultivators, artisans, nobles, commoners—anyone with taste and ambition."
Micah's jaw unhinged. "You're serious?"
Charles sipped his coffee with a sly look. "Deadly."
"I swear, you're like a black hole of talent. Is there anything you can't do?"
Charles thought for a moment. "Oh, I also paint, sculpt, and practice medicine. And speaking of Tre Sorelle, I'm a great chef."
Micah leaned back. "No. Freaking. Way."
"One day, we'll open the SIGMA Psy Art Gallery," he said.
Micah put her hands to her head. "This should be illegal. There has to be a limit to what one person can do." man can do."
He leaned in with a grin. "Would you believe I've been holding back?"
Micah gave him a look of despair. "Do you ever rest?"
Charles let out a breath, his eyes growing distant.
"I used to," he said. "When I had someone to come home to."
Micah blinked. The temperature dropped in the room. The shadows in the corners of the lounge seemed to deepen.
Then Micah leaned in, twirling her spoon absently. "You cook…?"
Charles raised a brow, amused. "Why do you sound so surprised?"
"I don't know, maybe because you're already a cultivation prodigy, a fashion designer, a musician, a businessman, an architect, and now apparently a real estate tycoon. You being a great chef just feels like… celestial unfairness."
Charles chuckled. "That's rich coming from you, Tre Sorelle's goddess of expansion."
"No deflection," she insisted with a teasing glint. "You really cook? Like seriously?"
Then, the humor slowly faded from his face.
Charles didn't immediately answer.
His smile faded slightly, almost too subtle to notice. He tapped his spoon gently against his coffee cup.
"I used to," he said after a moment, voice quiet but edged in memory. "But I don't… anymore."
Micah blinked. "What do you mean? Why not?"
He gave a faint shrug, as if waving off a ghost. "It's complicated."
A name lingered in his mind, but he didn't say it out loud.
Elena.
She used to hum while cleaning the dishes. Laugh mid-argument. Breathe life into his tired, ruthless world.
Fifteen years. Married young. She had seen through every mask he wore—back when he was just a furious, ambitious man with scars too fresh to hide.
Back when Charles Alden Vale was still human.
She had been everything.
He remembered her sneaking into his office with herbal tea and cold hands. She made him sleep, made him smile, and helped him believe the world could still be beautiful, even if he was in charge.
She never asked for palaces. She asked for honesty.
And when he gave her everything he had, the world took her anyway.
Micah tried to break the awkward silence.
She tilted her head, studying him. "Well, if you ever change your mind… I'd love to taste your best dishes. Someday, cook for me?"
At that moment, the mood in the room changed.
His gaze dropped to the coffee, then back to her—eyes not cold, but distant.
"There was only one woman I ever cooked for," he said, his words slow and heavy with sadness.
Micah's heart skipped. She already knew this wasn't just nostalgia.
The silence grew heavier. Charles didn't look at Micah. His eyes seemed fixed on a table from long ago.
"I even made her lunch that day," he murmured aloud, eyes distant. "Something simple. Her favorite."
Micah leaned in. "Charles…?"
Charles's voice dropped to a hush.
"A war waiting for me in the boardroom that day," he continued, voice as fragile as frost, "but I still planned dinner."
His next words shattered the moment.
"But she never made it to dinner alive."
The words cut deeper than any dagger. More final than any funeral bell. The weight of them hovered in the room like ash.
Micah's throat tightened. She didn't know who this woman was, but something in Charles's voice made her feel as if she'd known her, too.
He whispered. "Even when the world tried to pull us apart, we had the music."
He blinked slowly, then shut his eyes.
"And then the people I trusted most… took her. And everything that ever made sense."
He said nothing for a long moment.
Charles blinked slowly, then gave her a careful, practiced smile.
"So no, Micah. I don't cook for anyone anymore."
She tried to recover. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"I know," he said softly. "But that part of me died with her."
Micah finally reached across the table, fingers brushing his sleeve.
"You don't have to carry all that alone, Charles. You're not alone now. We're here for you. And… you still have Amelia—"
It happened fast.
A flash of anger filled the room, so strong it seemed to change the air.
The cup cracked.
The porcelain shattered beneath his fingers with a sound too loud for so small a thing.
He slowly looked up to meet her eyes. The light in his eyes had changed, now dark and stormy.
"Don't," Charles said, barely above a whisper, but his voice dropped like a guillotine.
Micah froze.
"Don't ever mention that filthy traitor in the same breath as her memory."
The shadows in the room seemed to pull back. Even the lights grew dimmer.
"Not with my music. Not with my soul," he snarled, and now the temperature had dropped with him.
Micah was trembling, unsure if it was fear or sorrow in her chest. Her heart screamed to reach him, but every instinct warned her to tread carefully.
"That bitch used my love as a tool. Poisoned everything sacred with lies. Betrayed not just my heart—but our future."
Charles inhaled slowly, mastering the storm. When he opened his eyes again, they were cold—but controlled.
He exhaled and shook his head.
"I carry my grief just fine, Micah. I've made a kingdom of it."
Charles let out a long breath, and the shadows seemed to retreat to the corners of the room.
Then Charles smiled, but it wasn't the warm, charming smile from before. It was sharp and guarded.
"You have a habit of prying," he said, meeting her eyes. "I don't know how you do it."
"I like you, Micah," he said softly. "A lot, actually. As a business partner. You've shown integrity, ambition, and something very few people in this world can hold onto—loyalty."
He met her gaze again, gentler this time, though the storm still lingered in the depths.
"Let's keep it that way."
"I—of course!" she said quickly, trying to regain her composure. "Strictly business. Absolutely."
"And Micah?" Charles brushed the porcelain shards off his sleeve like nothing had happened.
She swallowed. "Yes?"
Then, gentler, "Let me make something clear… don't fall in love with me."
That was it. The blade beneath the smile.
It was not a boast. Not a tease. It was a promise and a scar wrapped in one.
Micah blinked. "Wh—what?"
"We'll keep things clean when we reach that line," he said, as if discussing contracts, not hearts. "Our empire must be built on trust, not tangled feelings."
Micah stared at him, frozen. Trying to calculate whether he'd just threatened her, warned her, or tried to save her.
He rose to his feet, pushing the chair away.
"No strings. No emotional expectations. Just brilliance."
Then he turned and walked away, leaving many things unspoken.
Micah sat stunned.
And then…
She clenched her jaw. Her eyes burned.
"Fall in love with you?" she hissed under her breath, voice dripping with indignation. "Who does he think he is?"
But even she didn't believe her own words.
As Charles walked toward the elevator, the Herald's Mirror lay open beside her again, his photo gleaming in the candlelight. The man who wore pain like armor and charm like a weapon.
Micah stared at it, whispering under her breath.
"I don't care if you're Apollo reborn. You're not the only one with talent and dreams. I'll match your empire with mine."
Then she clenched her fists, eyes sparking.
"Charlemagne Ziglar, huh? Just you wait. I'll become so successful that you'll beg to take me as a disciple. Or cry losing me as a rival."
From somewhere in the shadows, Charles's soft, amused chuckle reached her ears, lingering like the last note of a song.