The Missing Star of the Show
The square shimmered.
Not from magic, though there was plenty. Instead, anticipation shimmered. Velmora's most opulent street, usually bustling with merchants hawking goods or noble ladies surveying storefronts, hushed before a new attraction: Tre Sorelle Velmora.
Glass domes gleamed with arcane light. Gold-framed windows arched in elegant symmetry. The scents of infused oils and roasted frost-squash drifted through the air like open promises.
It was a palace of appetite, vision, and audacity.
And today is the grand opening of the first franchise.
By 0900 hours, velvet carriages had already begun to line the streets. The cobblestones shimmered with illusion-ward sigils, ready to filter dust and amplify the grandeur of incoming guests. Nobles stepped out, wrapped in silks and enchanted brocade, curious eyes scanning the restaurant's sleek black-and-gold facade.
Inside, Lady Micah Sorelle stood near the ribboned entrance. She stood with her posture straight, hands loosely clasped in front of her. She radiated an almost tangible control—every inch a queen without a crown.
She wore a deep blue formal dress—not for a gala, but to wield power. Her long coat hinted at a military past. Commander-level embroidery graced her cuffs. Her high-heeled boots struck with purpose. Her braid, styled in Sorelle merchant princess fashion, declared: I own this room. I am not here for your approval.
Everything had been checked.
Every dish was plated. Every crystal lamp is aligned. Spell-seals tuned. The Phantom Concerto ensemble, assembled and in sequence.
Everything was perfect.
Except for one thing.
"Where the hell is Charles?"
Micah spun toward Borris, who stood near the staff line like a steel golem with crossed arms and the patience of a siege.
"He's late," she hissed. "And not nobles-late. Actually late."
Borris offered a half-shrug. "Still in the training chamber. Hasn't come out. Two days straight."
Micah blinked. "Two days?"
"Tried to check this morning. Nimbus wouldn't let anyone near. The doors are locked down. The message was clear: No one disturbs the young lord."
Micah's jaw clenched. Her breath steamed, nostrils flaring with suppressed rage.
"Oh, lovely. So, I get banished to handle high-stakes nobles, startup partners, and a literal grand opening without the face of the empire?"
She ran both hands down her coat, pressing her fingers methodically along the seams to check for smoothness, then straightened with a sharp, steady breath.
"No. Not again."
The team stayed silent. Rob looked away, quietly whistling an off-key battle hymn. Wendy fiddled with a poisoned hairpin, adjusting it though it likely didn't need fixing.
Micah pressed her lips together to stifle a curse. She turned away from the staff, her face tightening with frustration before shifting into a mask of polite indifference.
"Fine."
She squared her shoulders.
"You want to test me, Charles?" she thought. "Want to see if I'll crack? If Tre Sorelle is just some hobby to you while you vanish into smoke and swordplay?"
A beat.
"Then watch me steal the fucking show."
The crowd surged closer.
The Phantom Concerto stirred.
Luther, always the showy maestro, stepped forward onto the second-level arcane veranda. His robes billowed with magical style, and his baton shone like a dragon fang made of lightning.
He tapped once.
Then again.
Silence swept across the courtyard like a held breath.
Then, motion. Twenty-nine elite musicians straightened as one. Their movements were practiced to the smallest detail. Instruments shone with both skill and wealth: violins with whispersteel strings; flutes carved from qi-honed motherstone; horns marked with resonance glyphs that caught sunlight and glimmered. Each robe, decorated with the colorful sigils of House Ziglar, rippled as if alive.
They had prepared three pieces. Charles's selections. Pulled from the Tome of One Hundred Echoes, his personal compendium.
Suite No. 1: Morning Mood
A breath.
Then the flutes began, light and pure, shimmering with qi-born clarity.
The sound flowed over the garden like silk, making a melody that didn't just dance. It blossomed. Golden qi pulses flowed from the enchanted instruments, twisting and turning through the air like ribbons in the sun.
Guests felt their stress dissolve. Lungs expanded. Hearts steadied.
One grumpy old noble blinked, touched her chest, and said softly, "I think my back just uncracked..."
The violins joined, soft yet strong, evoking a dawn meadow lit with ghostly light. Wind-qi illusions created shiny butterflies that sparkled as they vanished, making the children laugh.
It was soft. Beautiful. Hopeful.
Like waking up after a century of war… and hearing birdsong.
Festive Overture
The peace was shattered.
BOOM.
The brass section burst out, like the gates of heaven opening for a parade of stars. Trumpets sent qi-blasts into the sky, with bursts of crimson, gold, silver, and blue spinning in the air before fading into showers of glitter.
A ripple of delight passed through the crowd. Feet began tapping. Shoulders swayed. A few younger nobles actually danced in place, laughing with wine in hand.
Even the famously stone-faced High Guildsman of Eldmere grunted and raised an eyebrow. "Festive indeed," he muttered. His assistant nearly fainted.
Magical drums pulsed from under the stage, syncing with heartbeats. It was rhythm as revolution, melody as momentum.
A drunk merchant at the middle table screamed, "I'll sponsor three more locations!"
Luther grinned.
Charles had picked this piece for one reason. Joy shouldn't whisper. It should roar.
Pomp and Circumstance March No. 1
And roar it did.
As the strings played the first bold notes, illusory banners appeared in the air above. They showed the shifting standards of House Ziglar and Tre Sorelle, flapping in an invisible wind that still made hearts stir.
The air thickened. Not with smoke or fog, but with dignity. There was grandeur in every note, majesty in every chord. This wasn't a song. It was a procession through time. A memory that hadn't happened yet, but already felt eternal.
Qi-harmonics resonated through the marble plaza, making bones vibrate with pride. Nobles straightened. Guildmasters squared their shoulders. Merchant children bowed, instinctively.
Micah stood on the garden dais, shining like the dawn. Under the banners, her sapphire dress sparkled. A commander dressed in style. A rich person with a warm heart. The person who makes dreams come true.
She hadn't chosen the pieces. But Charles had.
And as every beat came out like a drumline to fate, she didn't need him to be there with her to feel him.
He was in the cadence. In the fire beneath the sound. He was everywhere.
Even when he's not physically present... Charles's choices command the venue.
Micah stepped forward to the podium as the final notes faded.
"Honored guests," she began, voice calm and smooth like a melody on silk, "welcome to the grand opening of Tre Sorelle Velmora."
A roar of applause greeted her.
She smiled, truly smiled now, and continued.
"What began as a single establishment became a vision of borderless taste, shared dreams, and the belief that even something as simple as food can reshape how people see one another."
Her eyes swept across the crowd.
"We are merchants. Artists. Soldiers. Nobles. Commoners. But here at Tre Sorelle, we are all dreamers. And dreamers deserve a table that matches their hunger and their hope."
More applause, now thunderous.
"On behalf of Lord Charlemagne Ziglar, wherever the rascal is right now, and the entire Phantom Concerto, our chefs, waitstaff, and partners, we invite you not only to eat but to remember. Remember that excellence isn't born. It's cooked—over flame, over pain, over passion."
Someone in the audience actually shouted, "To Tre Sorelle!"
Laughter rang out.
The ribbon floated mid-air, wrapped in glowing threads of ceremonial qi.
With a graceful slice of a flameblade ceremonial knife, Micah cut the ribbon.
Confetti explosion.
The music rose in crescendo. As the waiters brought out the first tier of tasting menus, the guests stood up and clapped again. Signature dishes from Charles's private creations, adapted into mainstream culinary masterpieces.
Time went smoothly. Micah greeted tables, charmed politicians, and made small royalty laugh. Before lunch, she got three new inquiries for merchant franchises.
Charles is still not here.
She kept her charming face perfect.
Inside, she simmered. Her pulse hammered. Every smile now drained her.
So, this is how you play now, Charles? Am I just another pawn in your chessboard of flame and secrets? Is Tre Sorelle too small for your grand ambitions now?
She didn't say it out loud. She didn't have to.
But the smile on her face got a little sharper. The light in her eye changed. Her pride simmered with the promise of battle, not just hospitality.
Lurking in the Shadow
Among the well-dressed guests and dignitaries enjoying wine and magical hors d'oeuvres, a silent presence moved unnoticed: men who did not belong.
They had arrived the night before, moving quietly and slipping through Velmora's outer wards with forged sigils and a cold trail. Eleven elite assassins, hired by Malfor Hayde, each trained in the Black Spiral Doctrine of the capital's underworld, were experts in coordinated executions, mind barrier bypass, and qi-pulse erasure.
Their target: Charlemagne Ziglar.
Their original plan had been simple and brutal. They had traveled directly from the royal capital to the Timbermaw Thickets, expecting to intercept him mid-hunt, isolated, distracted, surrounded by beasts.
But when they arrived, their prey was already gone.
Gone for four days, according to local records. The bounty logs confirmed it—missions completed, signatures sealed, corpses verified. Ziglar's last known direction? Obfuscated. The bastard hadn't claimed his rewards in person. Payment was redirected through Stellar Bank.
Still, they adapted quickly. With bribed adventurer guild runners watching mana-registered carriages under House Ziglar's banner, they traced his trajectory here.
To Velmora.
To Tre Sorelle Velmora's grand opening.
A perfect crowd. Elite nobles. Music. Noise. Chaos.
A perfect kill zone.
They moved into the city in waves, splitting into subcells of two and three, planting escape arrays in alley drain tunnels, memorizing rooftop routes, and using artifact-augmented illusions to blend into the festival's many performers, servants, and disguised merchants.
Their formation today was flawless.
Two are at the gate to the north plaza. One was part of the orchestral freight team. Two people are on the waitstaff list. One was hidden atop a rooftop arch facing the stage. There were two more scattered among the guests who were sitting at the far left banquet lane.
They had practiced their strike plan down to the last detail: the formation splits on command, convergence in four seconds, kills all known bodyguards first, stabs the target with relics that bleed souls, and then disappears into the crowd.
But...the target never showed up.
By noon, they were using magical throat glyphs to whisper code words to each other.
At 1400 hours, their team leader gave a silent fallback order.
Retreat formation initiated. Ten disengaged from the formation. Only one remained.
Baylen. Quiet. Observing. Waiting.
Because if Charlemagne Ziglar showed up, even five seconds late, Baylen's blade would be the one to taste his heart.
The bastard was missing.
Why? Where the hell did you go?
Watching from under the hood of a worn-out courier disguise, sitting three tables away from the decorative koi fountain, and sipping his wine.
Now, he looked like a lover ditched by his date on his table. His composure cracked.
He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. He dug into his steak with a glare as if the dish owed him a life. At least he got his fill of today's chef's choice, unaware that this new signature dish is curated by Charles himself.
His impatience dissipated as he lost himself in the gastronomic experience. This is the best magibeast steak I have ever tasted. And the royal wine is divine.
Baylen and his team did not know they had already triggered a network of hidden surveillance arrays. Stealth-etched runes were embedded in the crystal chandeliers, centerpiece ornaments, and even the enchanted badges worn by waitstaff.
Each rune was calibrated with intent-sensing sigils, capable of reading qi fluctuations tied to hostility, concealed weapon resonance, and bloodlust signatures.
Every breath they took.
Every glance. Every unsheathed thought.
It was all being streamed in real time, directly back to SIGMA.
The system knew their faces. Their formation. Their murderous intent.
Still, their intended target did not move.
Charlemagne Ziglar still lay collapsed on the training chamber floor of the Lotus Isles suite, his body soaked in dried blood, his qi threads frayed from hours of violent trial simulation. Unconscious. Unreachable.
The dragon Nimbus remained outside the chamber, unmoving, guarding his master with divine stillness.
And in the silence between heartbeats, the trap watched the hunters.
By evening, Tre Sorelle Velmora had become the most talked-about new venue in all of Velmora—and beyond.
The food? Divine.
The performance? Unmatched.
Lady Micah Sorelle? A goddess of charm, wit, and steel-veined diplomacy.
Even Jasper the journalist, notorious for skepticism, was scribbling with childlike joy.
"I'll need three columns for this alone," he muttered to himself. "And that wasn't even with the main lord present. God help us when he does show up."
Micah finally sat down on the upper balcony after the last toast.
Alone. Exhausted. But triumphant.
She stared at the velvet sky and whispered, "You missed the show, Charles…"
Then she smirked.
"But I made sure the spotlight didn't."