Morning sunlight spilled gently through the high windows of the Mining Capital's mansion, painting golden lines across the chamber. Kael stirred first, finding himself still holding Sara in his arms from the night before. For a man who thrived in solitude and carried the weight of endless battles, the warmth of another presence pressed so closely against him was… strange. Yet not unpleasant.
Sara, waking moments later, blinked up at him. Her face flushed crimson instantly, realizing how tightly she was clinging to him. "Y-you… you didn't push me away," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Kael smirked faintly, brushing his fingers lightly against her cheek. "That's because I'm starting to think… I don't mind you being here."
Her heart skipped a beat. For someone like Kael—so measured, so guarded—those words were heavier than any confession. She buried her face against his chest to hide her smile, mumbling something incoherent.
He chuckled softly, a sound so rare it startled even himself. "Careful, Sara. You'll make me forget the war outside these walls."
For a long moment, they simply remained there—no masks, no duties, no burdens. Just Kael and Sara, caught in the fragile peace of morning. But duty always called, and soon, they dressed once more. Sara slipped her feminine mask back on, her phoenix fire hidden, while Kael donned his own. By the time they descended the grand stairs, the atmosphere of intimacy had given way to quiet professionalism… though a subtle warmth lingered between them, unspoken but undeniable.
The Mining Capital was alive with celebration. Banners of deep crimson and black fluttered in the wind. Smiths lined the avenues with demonstrations of forgecraft, children carried miniature banners, and the beating of ceremonial war drums echoed off the towering walls. The Foundation Day had begun.
At the heart of it all, the nobles gathered in splendor, their robes embroidered with gold, silver, and gemstones mined from the very mountains this city had been built upon. The mayor stood near the platform, flanked by city officials, while guards in polished steel kept order among the swelling crowds.
And then came the true weight of the Empire.
Duke Harrond, the Iron Fist himself, walked with slow, unshakable steps. His sheer presence parted the crowd, the symbol of absolute physical might.
Beside him, the three of the Empire's remaining backbones arrived one by one:
Archmage Veloria, draped in midnight-blue robes, her silver staff gleaming with crystalline focus. Eyes sharp as blades, she radiated the calm certainty of someone who had bent reality to her will countless times.
Marshal Cyras, a towering figure clad in crimson war-plate, scars lining his jaw. His every step sounded like the march of an army; he was war incarnate.
Countess Elayne, elegant and sharp, wearing a gown of obsidian silk that shimmered like moonlight on black water. Her voice, when she greeted others, was honey over steel—a woman as deadly in politics as any general in war.
Only Lord Gravemont was absent, his seat conspicuously empty, though none dared speak of it openly.
And at the forefront of it all stood the princesses—radiant, unmasked, the very image of imperial authority and grace. They bore themselves with poise, greeting nobles and officials, voices ringing clearly as they thanked those who had come.
Behind them stood Kael and Sara, masked and silent, their very presence stirring whispers through the crowd.
"Who is that man…?""The one who fought alongside Duke Harrond yesterday…""And the woman beside him—his companion?""No, look how the princesses treat them… they're not mere guards."
Kael ignored the whispers. His gaze swept over the sea of nobles, watching carefully. Every smile was weighed, every glance assessed. He had lived too long in shadows not to see the currents of intrigue swirling beneath the ceremony.
And from the slums, unseen by most, Umbra and the assassin leader watched the warehouse once more. Abyssal energy faintly pulsed within its walls, waiting, hidden… like a wound festering beneath all this pomp and glory.
Kael's eyes narrowed behind his mask. Let the nobles celebrate. Let the backbones posture. But when the time comes, the abyss will move. And when it does… I'll be ready.
The trumpets roared once more, reverberating through the open-air colosseum as the Foundation Day festivities entered their heart.
The morning had already been filled with martial displays—the synchronized drills of the Imperial Knights, the spellcasting demonstrations by young mages, and even a sparring match between two noble scions that ended in laughter rather than blood. Now, however, the program shifted to the ceremonial showcases: weapons, relics, and enchanted creations donated—or loaned—to the Empire in honor of the day.
The nobles craned their necks eagerly, merchants whispered calculations of profit and prestige, and even the usually stoic backbone leaders—Archmage Veloria, Marshal Cyras, and Countess Elayne—looked on with faint interest. Only Duke Harrond seemed wholly at ease, arms folded, his golden eyes watching Kael like a predator weighing the worth of another.
Sara stood close by Kael's side, her presence warm, grounding him in the swirl of politics and grandeur. Her lips curved slightly, though only he could see it beneath the veil of her composure.
The announcer's voice carried clear across the grounds."Presenting now, a most singular piece of craftsmanship—one wrought by mystery and brilliance alike! The bearer of this artifact, known only as the 'Masked Guest,' will demonstrate the staff's qualities upon this very stage."
A ripple went through the crowd as Kael, cloaked in his dark attire and concealing mask, rose from his place behind the princesses. Sara gave him a small nod, subtle yet encouraging.
The stage seemed to stretch forever as he ascended it, every eye burning upon him. Whispers cascaded across the nobles' rows:
"A masked figure?""Whose retainer is he?""Look at that staff… gods, is that dragonbone?"
The weapon in Kael's grasp was none other than the staff Branik had forged—a masterwork that pulsed faintly with contained mana, its veins of crystalline inlay glimmering like captured starlight. Its design was austere yet elegant, a silent declaration of dominance without flamboyance.
Kael planted the staff into the platform, the resulting hum of energy silencing even the chattiest merchant. His voice, low and commanding, carried across the crowd with practiced ease:"This is no ordinary conduit. This staff is a vessel of stability, not destruction. Its runes interlace to enhance efficiency, reducing waste, enabling spells of high rank to be executed with less strain. It is not a weapon meant to ravage, but a tool meant to endure—crafted to elevate mages beyond their limits."
Gasps, murmurs, and narrowed eyes greeted his words. Already, the merchants were thinking of profit, the nobles of power, and the scholars of innovation.
Kael raised the staff. Mana welled within him, gathered in disciplined threads, guided into the staff's crystalline core. He did not choose a mere light show or parlor trick—no, for Branik's name deserved more.
He intoned, voice sharp as steel:"[Sanctuary of Aether]."
A ring of radiant azure expanded from the staff's tip, blossoming outward into a shimmering dome that encased the entire stage. Within, the air grew lighter, purer; the burden of ambient mana was lifted, and those attuned to it felt clarity unlike anything they had ever known. Mages gasped as their channels eased, their senses sharpening as though centuries of fatigue had been washed away.
"This spell," Kael declared, "is S-rank. Ordinarily, its drain is overwhelming—unsustainable even for Archmages. Yet with this staff, its cost is reduced by half, its stability magnified tenfold. What was once impossible becomes attainable."
The barrier glimmered with breathtaking beauty, refracting sunlight into a rainbow cascade that painted the entire arena in hues of dawn.
The crowd erupted."A miracle—!""An S-rank incantation—sustained so easily?""Whose patron is this Masked Guest?!"
Kael lowered the staff, allowing the dome to dissolve into motes of fading light. His silence carried as much weight as his words—mystery only fueling the fire of speculation.
He bowed slightly, then stepped down from the stage as applause thundered through the arena. Sara's eyes gleamed with quiet pride behind her composure, her lips pressing together as if to hide the small smile threatening to break free.
While the audience was still consumed by excitement, Kael slipped into the shadows at the edge of the festivities. It was there that Umbra emerged—cloaked in darker concealment than even Kael's attire, his voice low and urgent.
"My lord," he whispered, her crimson eyes gleaming faintly, "the warehouse has been emptied. Not of coin, not of trade goods—of weapons. Crates of enchanted steel, smuggled without seal of the throne."
Kael's eyes narrowed beneath his mask."Whose mark?"
Umbra hesitated, then handed him a shard of black wax pressed with a sigil—the coiling serpent of Gravemont.
"Gravemont," he said softly. "He prepares for something far larger than trade betrayal. And he is not moving alone."
The staff pulsed faintly in Kael's grip, as though resonating with the storm that now brewed in his chest.