The doors to the Throne Room of the Palace of Ironshold did not merely open; they groaned as if the mountain itself was protesting the intrusion of outsiders.
As Aster, Astra, and Arliene stepped into the massive hall, they were immediately met by a stream of exiting nobles. These were not the perfumed, lace-wearing aristocrats of the Wynfall capital. These were men and women whose fine silks were worn over muscular, sturdy frames, their hands calloused from overseeing refineries and their faces weathered by the biting high-altitude winds. The royal noble meeting had clearly just adjourned, and the atmosphere was thick with the residue of political tension.
The nobles paused as the trio passed, their eyes lingering on the twins' silver hair. Whispers, as heavy as falling stones, followed them through the hall.
"The Snowflakes?"
"The ones who caused the scene at the fountain?"
"So small... are these really the ones who woke the Guardian Dragon?"
Aster kept his gaze forward, his expression a mask of royal composure. He didn't look at the gossiping nobles; he looked at the man sitting at the far end of the long obsidian hall.
King Boron of Orestes was a mountain in human form. He sat upon a throne carved from a single block of raw iron-ore, his massive frame draped in the thick furs of a mountain behemoth. His beard was a dense, silver-grey thicket that reached his chest, and his eyes—dark and piercing—seemed to weigh the very mana of everyone who entered his presence. He didn't look like a king who governed with laws and ink; he looked like a king who governed by the sheer force of his grip.
The trio reached the base of the dais and performed the formal salutes. Arliene bowed with the grace of a woman who had survived the vipers of the Wynfall court, and the twins followed with the precise, practiced respect of the royal line.
"King Boron," Arliene spoke, her voice steady and clear, cutting through the murmurs of the hall. "We thank you for your hospitality and for receiving us during our period of rest."
Boron grunted, a sound that rumbled in his chest like a distant rockslide. "The Kingdom of Wynfall has sent many messengers, Arliene. Most were turned away at the Palace gates. But I find myself unable to ignore children who make my veteran guards weep and my mana-fountains dance in the streets."
He turned his heavy gaze toward Aster. "Prince Aster. I am told you are the architect of these 'miracles.' And I am told you have a request regarding our mana-crystal exports."
Aster stepped forward, standing small but immovable against the shadow of the massive throne. "That is correct, Your Majesty. The Kingdom of Wynfall is entering an era of unprecedented magical development. To fuel the devices I am creating—the Harmonic Players that will soon be in every home—we require a steady, high-volume import of resonance-grade crystals. Orestes possesses the finest veins on the continent. I am here to secure a long-term contract."
The King leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the Fifteen-year-old. "A businessman before you've even hit your adult age. Remarkable. But tell me, Prince... if you came here for a trade agreement, why did you cause an unnecessary scene in my capital streets? My captains report that you disrupted the market district with a 'performance.' Time in this city is measured in gold and iron. Silence is our virtue."
The atmosphere in the room turned cold. The few remaining advisors leaned in, sensing the King's displeasure. In Orestes, disrupting the flow of work was a serious offense.
Aster didn't blink. "I didn't cause a scene, Your Majesty. I provided a necessary service. Your people are the hardest workers I have ever seen. They move mountains with their bare hands. But even the busiest people need some sort of entertainment to help them relax. A mind that never rests eventually cracks, just like over-stressed stone. Your country is severely lacking in that regard."
A collective gasp went up from the advisors. To tell King Boron to his face that his kingdom was "lacking" was perceived as either madness or a death wish.
King Boron froze, his hand tightening on the arm of his throne. Then, slowly, a deep, rumbling sound emerged from his throat. He was laughing—a harsh, dry sound like grinding tectonic plates.
"Amusing," Boron said, his eyes glinting with a dangerous curiosity. "A valley-prince stands in my palace and tells me Orestes is lacking. Tell me, boy, what do you suppose we should do? Hire dancers to twirl in the mines? Should my workers drop their picks to listen to children whistle? We are not like your people. Our bodies are built for the struggle of the peaks. We don't need the songs of weaklings to entertain us. Strength is our entertainment."
"Is that what you truly believe?" Aster asked, his voice dropping into a tone of sharp, adult-like challenge. "Then let's make a wager."
Arliene's breath hitched. "Aster..." she whispered, but he didn't stop. Astra, standing beside him, squeezed his hand, sensing the "Raze" side of his soul taking full control of the negotiation.
"A wager?" Boron asked, leaning forward, fascinated by the boy's sheer audacity.
"You say music is for weaklings," Aster said. "I say music is the ultimate tool to empower the strong. I ask for permission to open a Snowflake Harmonic Store here in the capital, and permission to host a grand concert for your citizens. If I can take one of your own countrymen—someone you would consider 'common'—and turn them into a star that this entire kingdom appreciates, will you admit that Sound Magic has value? If I succeed, you grant us the crystal contract at a fair price and allow our stores to operate."
The King tilted his head. "And if you fail to move my people? They are as hard as the granite they mine, boy."
"If I fail," Aster stated firmly, "I will leave Orestes immediately. I won't speak another word about magic stone exports, and I will personally pay a massive fine to your treasury for wasting the King's time. I will admit that Sound Magic is, as you say, a 'song for weaklings'."
Both Arliene and Astra were visibly shocked by the finality of his words. The stakes were everything. Without those stones, Aster's dreams of a musical revolution would be strangled in the cradle.
But King Boron was more than just a king; he was a man of the mountains who respected courage. He was wildly amused by the young boy standing before him without a trace of nervousness, making demands that would make grown diplomats tremble.
"You have a heavy tongue for one so small," Boron said, a smirk appearing through his beard. "Very well. I accept. My people are born with physical strength so they can use it for the glory of the mountain. They do not care for fluff. You have two weeks until the Moon-Feast. If you can make a 'star' out of a miner, I will sign your papers. If not... you leave empty-handed."
Aster bowed, a confident smile playing on his lips. "I accept those terms. I'll begin preparations immediately."
***
As the guards escorted them back toward the royal guest wing, Arliene finally let out the breath she had been holding.
"Aster, that was incredibly reckless," she said, her voice a mix of fear and admiration. "This isn't Vornis. These people pride themselves on being 'unmovable'."
"Exactly," Aster replied, his mind already spinning with marketing strategies. "The harder the stone, the more satisfying it is when it finally vibrates. They think they don't need music because they've never heard it done right. They've only heard folk songs and whispers. They haven't heard a produced, resonated anthem."
Astra looked at her brother. "Who are you going to use? The boy from the fountain?"
"Elian," Aster said, remembering the boy's name from his earlier brief interaction. "He has the raw frequency of a great singer in his throat. He just needs a teacher to refine it. King Boron definitely thinks that I can't shake his people right'? Fine. I'll show him that a song can be as strong as a landslide."
***
That evening, the news of the "Prince's Wager" spread through the high-rock city like a wildfire. In the taverns where miners drank bitter ale, they laughed at the "pretty boy from the valley" who thought he could change their ways.
"A star?" one miner laughed, slamming his mug down. "The only stars we care about are the ones we see when a beam hits our heads!"
But in a small, damp room in the worker's district, the ten-year-old boy Elian sat huddled in his thin blankets. He had heard the news. He remembered the silver-haired prince who told him that he would come back for him. For the first time in his life, Elian didn't feel like a nameless apprentice. He felt like a spark.
Up in the palace, Aster stood on the balcony of their high-class suite. He looked out at the lights of the city perched on the hills, the clouds drifting lazily below him.
"This kingdom is built on iron," Aster whispered to the night air. "But every piece of iron has a ringing point. I just have to find it."
He wasn't just a prince on vacation anymore. He was a manager with a deadline, a producer with a mission, and a boy who was about to prove that Sound Magic wasn't just entertainment—it was a force of nature.
The battle for Orestes had truly begun.