The carriage jolted forward, the kind of slow, steady movement that told me we'd be here a while.
Inside, I sat across from Everard, who looked as composed as ever, with Sebastian beside him like some kind of living statue — except this statue was busy reading a piece of paper that probably detailed where we'd be meeting Everard's mysterious "witch" friend.
I, meanwhile, was still trying to process what had just happened at the breakfast table. Becoming Duke? Sure, that was always supposed to happen in the original story, that was two or three years away, when I turned twenty.
It was like the universe had decided, "Yep, let's stick to the script exactly where it hurts most." Which was… concerning.
I could guess the reason, though. By making me Duke, Everard was basically removing the entire reason for the future assassination attempt — the whole "kill the current heir to create a vacancy" plotline wouldn't work if the vacancy no longer existed.
Of course, he still needed those two years. Got to make it look like I was ready for the job — public appearances, staged victories, carefully crafted achievements.
Basically, a two-year PR campaign where I was the star attraction. Lucky me.
"Of course, that happens only if you provide the results with your little trade plan," Everard said at the dining table.
I thought, Right, so if I manage to fake the statistics—
"Of course, I won't allow any faking in the metrics," Everard cut into my thoughts.
Tsk… fine, then I'll just mess this deal up—
"Of course, intentional sabotage is not allowed either."
This man reads minds.
I replied with my most innocent tone, "Father, of course I'll do my best. Who wouldn't like becoming Duke…"
Everard locked eyes with me. "Someone like you?"
Tsk… his instinct to read people is practically on par with my Inspect.
Orion and Sylvia were sitting there like stunned statues, probably processing the fact that a Duke just casually announced his retirement and transfer of title over breakfast.
Anywhere else, this would have sparked mini cold wars and faction scheming, with the old Duke clinging to his title until his last breath. But here? Nope. Just a casual breakfast announcement.
They were too shocked to even congratulate me.
So much for my grand plan to change the plot.
Now back in the carriage, I stared out the window, taking in the surroundings.
Elves were so close to nature that even their houses looked like remodeled trees. It gave me this oddly… naturistic vibe. The air was clean, the kind of clean that would make Earth's environmentalists cry tears of joy.
No usual city traffic here, just the rustling of leaves and the sound of wind.
The sunlight filtered through the branches in soft cascades, the breeze was cool even in broad daylight, and the fruits… oh, the fruits. Stuff that was considered pricey back in Valthryon was just lying around here like candy.
Buy enough goods from a merchant and they'd even toss in free fruits. According to Inspect, the random roadside trees here were older than the oldest trees back on Earth.
After five hours of this picturesque road trip, the carriage finally rolled to a stop in the capital's market — Aeloria.
And instantly, I understood why no carriages were allowed inside without a special permit. The place was packed. The market crowd was twice as dense as Lioraeth's, and twice as aggressive too.
Sebastian frowned. "Is this the only way to get to the Magic Guild?"
The driver shook his head. "People don't usually head to the Magic Guild through the market. But since you said you wanted this route, I assumed you had business here."
Sebastian glanced at Everard, who took the folded paper, tore it into pieces, and said, "That old witch tricked us. Driver, let's take the easier path."
The driver hesitated. "But sir, the alternate route starts at the capital's entrance. We'd have to go all the way back and cover the same distance again. The market district's entrance is isolated so the crowd doesn't spill into the other districts."
And just like that, we were officially tossed into an ocean of people.
If I had to sum it up in one sentence: smells, sounds, and coin jingles were in a three-way battle for dominance. And if I had to sum it up in another — this place was a goldmine.
Merchants had stalls spilling into the walking space, selling everything from glimmering jewelry that screamed "overpriced tourist bait" to sacks of grain that somehow looked fresher than what I'd seen back home.
On one side, a dark-wood cart was stacked with small glass jars filled with a silvery powder — labeled Moon Salt.
I knew for a fact moon salt wasn't from the moon and was just a mineral-rich salt extracted from Elvia's lakes. The merchant was charging triple the rate inspect mentioned though, and judging by the line, no one seemed to mind.
Across from that, a woman in a green shawl sold bundles of herbs tied with red string. Elvian sunleaf, she called them. Claimed it helped with everything from headaches to heartbreak.
I didn't buy it, literally or figuratively, but the queue forming behind her meant someone was swallowing that pitch whole.
"Good turnover," I muttered, half to myself.
Everard gave me a sidelong glance. "What are you mumbling about?"
"Just admiring Elvia's… economic vibrancy," I replied, keeping it formal.
A pair of men walked past, chatting in hushed but hurried tones.
"Did you hear? Last batch of crystal vine wine went for eight silver bottles at the auction!"
"Eight silver? That's robbery!"
"Robbery? That's opportunity, friend."
Opportunity indeed.
We passed a jeweler polishing a pendant shaped like a crescent moon, the gemstone in the center catching the sunlight like it was trying to seduce customers.
Two noble ladies hovered near the display.
"This is authentic Elvian moonstone," the jeweler said, puffing his chest. "Worn by the princess herself during the midsummer ball."
One of the ladies gasped. "Really?"
I mentally translated: This is a rock I bought for two copper and am selling to you for twenty silver.
"Do you want to buy Elvian jewelry?" Everard asked suddenly.
"Not unless it can be resold for double," I said before thinking.
Everard's lips twitched, like he was suppressing a smile. "Practical."
Sebastian, still watching the crowd, added, "Greedy."
"Efficient," I corrected.
And so we kept walking — them scanning for threats, me scanning for profits.
After 40 minutes through "people everywhere," we finally reached the magic guild.
As crowded as it was, the trip through it turned out to be weirdly educational.
In under forty minutes, I'd picked up a decent idea of how the Elvian market ticked—key suppliers pulling strings, associations bossing around retailers, how fast goods moved from hand to hand, and who probably controlled the flow of coin in the whole place. Good to know who not to mess with.
Everard just walked straight up to the reception desk like he owned the place and asked,
"Is Celeindra Rainspire still the head of the guild?"
The elf at the counter, a young woman with that practiced, polite smile, looked mildly offended.
"Yes, she is… may I know your business?"
"We would like to meet her," Everard said.
Her expression stiffened so fast it was almost impressive.
"Excuse me, sir, but not just anyone can simply go meet our president. Besides, no one uses her given name. We would like you to show her some respect."
Everard smirked, and I could practically hear the subtle snap as her professional armor started to crack.
"My apologies," he said smoothly. "I was irritated about what she did, but it's not my intention to anger you. Could you tell her that a disciple of hers is wanting to meet her?"
The sudden shift — tone soft, eyes warm — caught her completely off guard.
This guy's a natural rizzler. No wonder he pullled Serena.
"A… disciple?" she repeated. Then, after a moment's hesitation, she nodded.
"Please wait here. I will send word."
She scurried off toward a set of steps leading to the higher floors. When she returned, she was practically bowing.
"The president has asked you to join her. I'm sorry for misunderstanding earlier."
"No worries," Everard replied, smiling like nothing had happened.
And just like that, we were being led deeper into the guild.
Our guide took us through a dim corridor in the mage tower, all long shadows and faint candlelight, until we reached a door at the far end.
It swung open without so much as a knock, and we were ushered inside.
An elderly elf woman sat cross-legged on the floor with a low table before her. And when I say "elderly" in Elvian terms, I mean 208 years old.
She wore it well — like fine wine that had decided it was still young enough to pick fights.
"I hope your journey here was comfortable," she said, smiling in a way that told me she knew exactly what she had done.
Everard mirrored that smile.
"Of course. It was wonderful, you damn witch."
His knuckles cracked all on their own, which, coming from him, was "veiled threat."
She gestured for us to sit, all warmth and grandmotherly poise. Purple cushions were laid out across from her, so we took our places.
Sebastian drifted slightly off to the side, close enough to be in earshot but not the spotlight.
"This is my son," Everard said, "his name is Hugo."
Her gaze flicked to me, and for just a fraction of a second, I saw something—surprise.
"Everard… your son? Is he human too?"
Everard looked vaguely amused. "What kind of question is that? Your senses seems to be messing with you since Sebastin is sitting close to Hugo."
She glanced toward Sebastian, who was sitting closer to me, and then looked back at me with a softer expression.
"That must be it," she murmured, agreeing with him.
Then her eyes lingered on me again, this time with a warmth that didn't quite match her earlier smirk.
"Let us speak again, one to one — after your old father has stated his business. Is that alright with you?"
"Of course," I said formally. "The pleasure is mine."
Internally, I was already filing this under Suspicious Old Elf Knows More Than She's Saying