Marquee

The city was alive with magic.

Stone arches loomed above the wide cobbled street like the ribs of some ancient beast, etched with silver sigils that faintly pulsed in rhythm with the ambient mana.

Trees with crystal-veined trunks lined the road, their leaves shifting color depending on the mood of passersby.

Shops overflowed with wares—spell-stitched cloaks, self-playing harps, floating ink pots. A skytram hummed overhead, trailing wind-chimes and flower petals in its wake.

Zazm adjusted his coat, stepping through the crowded gate with practiced nonchalance. Zephyra floated beside him, half a step off the ground, her arms loosely folded. She said nothing, just scanned the area with her usual unreadable expression.

"Big place," Zazm muttered. "Didn't expect this much noise."

Zephyra's voice was calm and flat. "From the way Jahanox was describing it, I expected a barn with illusions. Guess even he has standards."

Zazm huffed. "Right… Jahanox said something about us being siblings, didn't he? From some noble house."

"House Arion," Zephyra said. "Made it up on the spot. Very classy."

Zazm groaned. "That idiot. What even is a House Arion supposed to be?"

"No idea. But apparently you're the 'eldest son,'" she deadpanned. "Congratulations. You inherited the family nonsense."

They walked deeper into the city. The street curved slightly downhill, revealing more of the city's heart: tall towers wrapped in golden ivy, bridges of woven stone, and carriages drawn by translucent beasts that looked part-horse, part-stormcloud.

Mana-lanterns hovered at intersections, their light adjusting automatically to the sun's intensity.

That's when Zazm noticed it.

People were staring.

He met one pair of eyes. The man blinked, then subtly bowed his head. Another passerby slowed down just to glance his way—and quickly averted her eyes with a startled expression.

More eyes followed. Whispers. Shifts in posture. A woman clutching a child gently turned them away as Zazm passed.

"What now?" he muttered, checking his coat for dirt.

Zephyra floated closer. "Maybe it's the coat. Or the vibe. Or the fact that everyone looks like a toasted raisin and you're walking in here like a marble statue."

"What the hell…" Zazm muttered.

Zephyra tilted her head. "You didn't cast anything weird, did you?"

"No."

"Then maybe they can see something we can't?."

He shot her a look, but then caught a reflection in a shop window and paused.

His hair.....

It shimmered faintly under the ambient light, a striking contrast against the bronze-and-gold backdrop of the city.

Most people around had shades of brown, auburn, or pale silver. Some even had emerald or red strands. But no one absolutely no one had black hair like his.

"…No way," he whispered.

Zephyra leaned in, watching a nearby woman quickly step aside and murmur something to a passing guard. "Starting to think we're not as low-profile as we thought."

"No look at my hair...."Zazm hinted Zephyra in a low voice.

"It is like usual what do you mean?"

Zazm carefully looked around and started walking trying to get rid of attention, "Look around no one has black hair, what if only some type of dark magicians only have black hair?"

Zephyra flew around getting a better look around but before floating next to Zazm again, "Either you're something rare or a royal criminal."

"Either way I'm screwed...."

As if on cue, a robed man stepped forward from a nearby storefront and bowed low.

"Forgive my boldness, milord," he said, voice trembling slightly. "We were not informed that a representative of the high blood would be visiting the lower districts."

Zazm blinked. "High blood?"

"Please," the man continued, "allow us to offer House Asterwyn's hospitality—should you seek rest or escort to the inner sanctums. Is your guard nearby? Or your steward?"

Zephyra turned to Zazm slowly. "What the hell is saying?"

Zazm opened his mouth—then remembered something.

"Jahanox said… House Arion," he muttered.

Zephyra raised a brow. "Wait. You don't think?"

"I think," he hissed back, "these people think I'm someone important."

"Because of your hair?" Zephyra asked, blank-faced.

"Apparently."

The man was still bowing, clearly waiting.

"Uh…" Zazm coughed and lifted his chin slightly, trying to act the part. "We're… traveling discreetly. No steward."

"Ah, I understand," the man said quickly. "A noble on retreat. Of course."

He backed away with a respectful bow, then whispered something to two others standing nearby. They gasped—and then they bowed.

Within minutes, word had begun to spread. Shopkeepers lowered their heads. Children were pulled aside.

A robed woman dropped a bag of apples when Zazm passed by and didn't dare pick them up. A patrolling knight hesitated, then saluted him.

Zazm walked a little faster.

"This is getting out of hand."

Zephyra's voice remained flat.

"Congratulations. You're accidentally royalty."

"House Arion doesn't even exist."

She floated beside him, brushing her fingers across a vine-wrapped lantern. "Well, it does now. Looks like Jahanox's little improv went viral."

Zazm gritted his teeth. "If one more person bows to me, I'm leaving this place."

A small boy ran up to him, pressed a single white flower into his hand, then ran off again.

Zazm stared at the flower.

Zephyra smirked slightly. "Too late."

---

Zazm walked through the cobbled path, his long coat catching in the breeze as the two armored guards led the way ahead. Their polished silver armor gleamed, etched with faint runes along the shoulders and vambraces. One of them held a banner bearing a dark-blue crest with a golden boar on it, while the other kept glancing back at Zazm like he was guiding a lost god.

Zephyra hovered just behind him, arms crossed, legs loosely folded as she floated lazily through the air like a bored phantom.

"Are we just going to follow them forever?" she said flatly. "Because I'd rather phase through a wall and scream at someone's mirror than keep doing this."

"I'm trying to learn what I can," Zazm muttered under his breath. "Play along."

"I'm invisible."

"Then float along."

After another minute of silence, Zazm cleared his throat and addressed the nearest guard.

"You there."

The guard flinched slightly, then turned with a crisp bow. "Yes, my lord?"

Zazm nodded as if he was used to the title. "This city... who governs it?"

The guard straightened. "You are currently in the eastern district of Eldareth, my lord. The capital city of the Duchy of Vaelmont. These lands are under the jurisdiction of His Grace, Duke Elric Vaelmont, High Lord of the Sapphire Banner."

Zazm kept his face impassive, though the names meant absolutely nothing to him.

Zephyra's voice slid into his ear. "Duke Vaelmont. Sounds like a snob. Bet he owns three mansions and still can't tie his own boots."

Zazm ignored her and continued, "And what of the hierarchy here? Are there other nobles beneath him? Or above?"

The guard hesitated, then said, "Only the King stands above the Duke, my lord. But within the Duchy, Duke Vaelmont holds full authority. Each district is watched over by appointed Lords, lesser nobles sworn to his name."

"I see," Zazm said, pretending to consider that deeply. "And the black hair...?" He gestured subtly toward his head. "It's… not common, is it?"

Both guards glanced at each other.

"It is exceedingly rare, my lord," the other guard replied with a note of awe.

"Such a trait is never found among common bloodlines. It's said to be preserved only among the High Houses, royalty, and the founding noble lineages. Forgive me for saying so, but many of us assumed you were... a hidden heir."

Zazm smiled slightly, though internally he was screaming.

Zephyra gave a slow blink beside him. "You really do look like a main character."

"Well I'm," Zazm muttered dryly.

The first guard added, "The people will surely talk, my lord. Your arrival has caused quite a stir. If you are indeed from a forgotten or reclusive House… the court will want to know."

Zazm stiffened. "The court?"

"Of course, my lord. The Duke holds an audience hall in the inner sanctum. I believe news of your presence has already begun to spread."

Zephyra's expression barely shifted, but her voice dripped sarcasm. "Well, look at you. Local celebrity in under an hour. Want me to start calling you 'Your Royal Creepiness'?"

Zazm pinched the bridge of his nose and kept walking.

"I need to contact Jahanox," he muttered.

Zephyra gestured to the side. "Or improvise. You're getting good at it."

"Yeah," Zazm grumbled, "until the fake house name gets me executed."

Crowds bustled around fountains and market stalls, but they kept their distance, eyes wide, whispers trailing behind him like smoke.

He leaned closer to the nearest guard. "I need a favor."

"Anything, my lord," the man replied instantly, almost too quickly.

"I'd prefer it if you kept my presence… discreet."

The guards exchanged a look. One of them hesitated. "My lord, it may already be too late for complete silence. But we can do our best."

Zazm gave a thoughtful nod, then decided to push it.

"You see… I didn't intend to reveal myself. I only became visible because I lost a certain… artifact."

Zephyra blinked next to him. "What?"

Zazm pressed forward with the bluff. "An heirloom from my bloodline. It concealed my… more distinct traits. Black hair included."

He narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to seem mysterious. "Without it, well… here we are."

The second guard visibly straightened. "A Camellion Veil, then?"

Zazm paused, pulse ticking. "…Yes. Precisely."

"Those are rare artifacts indeed," the guard said with an almost reverent tone. "Crafted with moonstone dust and tied to bloodlines. Only nobles could afford one. If you lost it, my lord, you must have been in dire circumstances."

Zazm kept his face smooth, but inside, he was celebrating.

Zephyra floated closer, her voice dry and low. "You should consider a career in lying."

Zazm didn't reply.

The guard nodded again. "We'll tell anyone who asks that you're a noble heir who has only recently returned from exile. The loss of a Camellion Veil would explain much. And if I may, my lord it's an honor to serve a scion of such lineage."

Zazm gave a small, practiced smile. "You're sharp. I appreciate that."

They continued forward, moving through wide iron gates into a higher district, the buildings turning from stone to marble, stained-glass windows reflecting the high sun.

Noble women in gowns and men in fine cloaks watched him pass from balconies and carriages.

Zephyra hovered just a bit behind, peering at the world with unreadable eyes. "A fake heir from a fake house walking into a real court with fake artifacts."

She gave a tiny, brief smile. "This is either genius or idiocy. I can't decide which."

Zazm exhaled slowly. "Yeah. Me neither."

Zazm sighed, brushing a hand through his hair with visible irritation. "Seriously—why isn't Miwa using telepathy now of all times?" he muttered, his voice low but sharp. "Where even are they?"

Zephyra, floating beside him with her usual unreadable expression, gave a slow blink. "Maybe they're watching. Maybe they're dead. Or maybe they're laughing in some corner while you improvise your fake noble lineage."

Zazm shot her a sideways look. "Thanks for the encouragement."

Before either could say more, the guards came to a stop in front of towering silver gates. The structure ahead stretched wider than most of the city blocks they'd passed through. Wrought iron railings lined the top of the white-stone walls. Decorative spears of polished steel shimmered beneath banners bearing a crest—an emerald stag crowned in silver.

The gate slowly opened, and they were led into a courtyard lined with trimmed hedges, a circular fountain at the center. The mansion loomed beyond it—three stories tall, accented with domed towers and glass balconies.

Zazm frowned. "Where are we?"

One of the guards straightened and replied without meeting his eyes. "You stand before Marquee Asterwyn's estate, my lord. He is the noble under whose land you now walk."

Zazm raised an eyebrow. "Marquee?"

"Yes, my lord. A noble of the second circle. He commands this city and its surroundings. Anything you may need, he will provide. He was informed of your arrival the moment word spread."

"And you won't tell me anything useful because…?"

The guard cleared his throat. "We are peasants, my lord. Details are for your kind to discuss among yourselves."

Zazm grit his teeth and let out a slow exhale. "Right. Of course."

Zephyra drifted ahead, peering up at the manor with faint interest. "So. Do we meet the old, stuffy noble now or what?"

Zazm folded his arms. "Yeah. I guess we do."

"At this point aren't we just going with whatever is happening?" Zephyra asked looking towards the mansion.

"I don't know let's just go along...."

He started walking toward the mansion, boots tapping the marble stone of the courtyard.

Despite every nerve telling him to walk away from this ridiculous situation, he reminded himself that knowledge was power—and maybe, just maybe, this Asterwyn would spill something useful.

Even if he had to pretend to be a royal brat to hear it.

The inside of the manor was nothing short of extravagant. Golden wall sconces lit the hall with a soft amber glow, and the floors were polished to a near mirror shine. Intricate paintings lined the corridor—battles, banquets, regal portraits—all too indulgent for Zazm's taste.

Before he could absorb it all, a tall, silver-haired butler bowed deeply before him.

"Welcome, my lord. We have been expecting you," the man said in a perfectly neutral tone.

"I am assuming you've been sent here for my arrival?" Zazm asked, waving slightly. "Where's the Marquee? I thought I was here to talk to him."

The butler straightened. "Of course, but first—your journey must have been long and taxing. The Marquee insists you freshen up and wear something befitting your status. Please, this way."

Zazm narrowed his eyes slightly. "Wait—what's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

But the butler was already leading him into a side room—lavish and wide, with marble floors, a raised bath behind a curtain, and a large bed covered in deep green velvet sheets.

"Your garments are, respectfully, weathered by travel," the butler said. "Our tailor will take your measurements while you prepare for a bath. Your new wardrobe will be ready shortly."

"Wait, wh—"

Too late.

A flurry of activity swept the room. Maids and a sharp-eyed tailor seemed to materialize from the walls.

Measuring tapes wrapped around Zazm's arms and shoulders, his legs, his waist. The tailor jotted numbers with speed, muttering colors and cuts.

"Wha—hey—could you not grab my leg like that?"

"It's necessary for fitting, my lord," a maid replied flatly, not even looking up.

The butler gave a final bow. "Please enjoy your rest. Everything shall be prepared shortly."

And with that, he vanished like smoke.

Zazm stood frozen, still reeling, as the swarm departed just as fast as it had arrived.

Zephyra floated in midair, completely unfazed, before flopping face-first onto the bed with a soft whump.

"Royal life is weird," she said monotonously into the blankets. "I give it a six out of ten so far."

Zazm muttered something under his breath and shuffled toward the bath area. Warm steam billowed around him as he stepped into the water, trying to collect himself.

After all the chaos of the last few days—portals, consciousness-merging, emotional ghosts, and fantasy cities—he supposed he could use a moment to clean up.

When he finally emerged, toweling his hair dry, he looked around and said, "Alright, where're the new clo—?"

He didn't finish the sentence.

The maids returned without a word, stepping toward him with well-practiced coordination—and immediately began reaching for his towel.

"WOAH—HEY—WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" Zazm yelped, jumping backward and nearly slipping on the marble.

One of the maids blinked, unfazed. "It is our duty to assist you in dressing, my lord."

"Nope. Nope nope nope." Zazm backed up with a hand raised like a barrier. "I can wear my own damn clothes, thank you. Personal space exists even for nobles, right?!"

Another maid, equally stoic, said, "But it is custom—"

'FUCK YOUR CUSTOMS.'

"Out. All of you. Now."

Zephyra watched from the bed, chin propped on her hands. "You're such a modest prince," she said, deadpan.

"Zephyra, not now."

The maids, finally responding to his firm tone, bowed in sync and exited wordlessly, leaving behind a neatly folded set of elegant clothing on a polished chair.

Zazm sighed hard and muttered, "This place is going to kill me before anything else does."

Zephyra gave the faintest trace of a smile. "At least you'll die clean."

"You go out aswell..." Zazm said pointing Zephyra to the door.

"You know I live inside your hea--"

"You are going out or not." Zazm said as he picked up a stool nearby.

"That's not..... Okay fine fine, I'm going." Zephyra said as she floated out of the room.

Zazm leaned against a wall totally tired, "One weird thing after another....."

Zazm finally pulled on the last piece of his outfit—a long black overcoat embroidered with silver along the edges, a deep violet lining brushing against his legs with every step. The mirror in front of him reflected a figure he barely recognized.

"Zephyra," he called, adjusting the stiff collar that felt like it was slowly choking him. "You done snoozing?"

Zephyra floated lazily through the door, gave him one flat look, and tilted her head. "Huh. You look good."

Zazm raised an eyebrow. "That's surprisingly normal of you."

"But…" she paused, squinting at him. "Why are you wearing so many clothes? You look like a very fancy onion."

He sighed, arms out in exaggerated frustration. "Don't ask me. First there's whatever this is"—he pinched the high-necked shirt beneath—"then a shirt over that, then this fitted thing that I think is a vestcoat? Then a coat. Then this long cloak-tail-back-jacket-thing. I spent more time putting this on than I did bathing."

Zephyra snapped her fingers. In an instant, her usual ethereal attire shimmered into a flowing purple dress, subtly iridescent, with her hair now braided down one shoulder. She didn't look amused—just regal in a ghostly sort of way.

Zazm blinked. "What was that for?"

She shrugged. "I just wanted to match the atmosphere. I get bored. Deal with it."

Zazm shook his head, letting out a long breath before turning to the door. "Let's get this over with."

Outside, the same silver-haired butler stood waiting like a silent statue. "The Marquee will receive you now, my lord."

Zazm gave a practiced nod. His expression shifted, shoulders pulling back, jaw setting firm. With a single glance at the butler, he spoke with calm grace. "Lead the way."

As they walked through the golden-lit halls, Zephyra floated beside him silently for a few seconds before saying in her usual flat tone, "You act too well. You're a convincing noble."

Zazm smirked without looking at her. "Thanks to my life back with my parents. All those etiquette classes and pointless banquets."

"Still carrying that silver spoon in your soul," she said, poker-faced.

"At least that rich life benefited me somewhere," he muttered, raising a brow as they passed an ornate stained-glass window depicting knights in battle.

The butler finally stopped in front of a pair of tall, carved wooden doors, each embossed with a golden tree crest.

"The Marquee Asterwyn awaits within," he announced.

Zazm gave a small bow of his head. "Thank you. You've been most helpful."

The butler bowed deeply and stepped aside.

Zazm glanced at Zephyra, who just floated upward and folded her arms as if preparing to watch something entertaining.

The grand doors creaked open, as if even the hinges held their breath in anticipation. Zazm stepped forward, his new regal outfit flaring dramatically with every calculated stride. He wasn't trying to look important—it just happened. Layers of coats, vests, buttons, and whatever that long back-thing was fluttered behind him as if they had their own agenda.

Zephyra floated just behind him, feet barely brushing the floor. Her dress shimmered like dusk and secrets. She seemed out of place, yet somehow more commanding than even the glittering chandelier overhead.

Across the richly decorated study stood a tall, lean man with sharp cheekbones and even sharper attire. His silver-embroidered cravat screamed, "I own land." This was Marquee Asterwyn.

He smiled—a rehearsed noble smile. It was neither warm nor cold. It existed purely to flex courtly etiquette.

"Ah," said the Marquee, setting aside a goblet of plum wine. "It is not every day I host a noble such as yourself. Welcome, Lord…"

He bowed down slightly, "I am Marquee Asterwyn. I govern this land."

There was a pause. An invitation.

Zazm stepped forward, nodded slightly, and placed his hand over his chest. He tried to speak in a tone that screamed ancient power and secretive elegance.

"…of House Arion."

'House Arion. Totally fake. Sounds noble enough, right? Arion. Aryan. Airy-on. Whatever. Just sound mysterious. Don't stutter. You're a noble now.'

Thanks to Zazm and Zephyra being bound to same consioussness they can talk with each other in the mind.

Zephyra agreed, 'Yeah it sounds real gotta thank whoever came up with this shit.'

The Marquee's eyebrows twitched—but not in suspicion. In panic. He looked at him and thought to himself.

'House Arion…? Never heard of it. Wait. Wait. Could it be one of those hidden royal bloodlines? The type that only surfaces during national crises or weddings? Damn it, I can't admit ignorance. I'll look like a cabbage in velvet.'

He laughed lightly then gave a bow so elegant it probably summoned butterflies somewhere.

"Ah, but of course," he said smoothly. "House Arion. A name… known in only the highest of circles. A lineage so esteemed, even the stars must know your sigil."

Zazm blinked.

'Wait, he's HEARD of it? But it's fake! Did we accidentally stumble onto a real house? No, no,this is bluffing. I'm bluffing he's bluffing, we're all bluffing.'

Zephyra commented clearly enjoying it all. 'Plot twist. House Arion is real, we are royally fucked.'

'No No don't worry we're fine.'

He tilted his chin up slightly and delivered the most confident lie of his career.

"Yes, we're… elusive. Our sigil is rarely flown. We reside in the West. Deep West."

The Marquee's face lit up as if a puzzle piece had clicked.

'The west? Oh gods, that makes sense! Those wierdly secretive territories by the whispering hills. That foggy place with all the reclusive scholars and battle freak nobles. OFCOURSE.'

"Indeed!" the Marquee exclaimed, eyes shining. "The fog-veiled valleys of West Halvane… no wonder I couldn't place the name. That region is rich in secrecy and... cultural refinement."

'Under no circumstances can I make him angry.'

Zazm smiled—barely. More like his lips flinched upwards out of anxiety.

'Halvane? Is that a real place? I'm going with it. That's my homeland now. Born and raised in Foggy Halvane. Sure. Sounds hauntingly prestigious'

'You better thank your parents, it's thanks to those times you can lie with such precision.'

Zazm cleared his throat. "At least my awful childhood came in handy somewhere."

Zephyra gave a small clap, 'You lied your way into nobility using trauma. I'm proud of you.'

'Please shut up, I'm trying to survive.'

The Marquee clasped his hands together.

"You must be tired from travel. Forgive me for the lack of fanfare—had I known House Arion was sending their heir, I would have prepared a full reception."

Zazm put a hand on his forehead dramatically. "Please, no. We are… discreet. Fame is the shadow of fools."

'Did I just say that? That sounded deep. Zephyra, write that down. "Fame is the shadow of fools." Holy hell, I'm good.'

'What the fuck is going on, is that marquee alright?' Zephyra face palmed clearly trying to understand what is going on.

'The dumber he is the better for us.'

The Marquee gasped softly.

"Truly… the West breeds wisdom."

Zephyra casually wandered to the side, inspecting the Marquee's expensive wall tapestry with narrowed eyes.

The marquee asked, "What is your rank again?"

Zazm coughed into his sleeve. "Second heir. Technically. But the first one… turned to asceticism. Became one with the clouds."

'What the hell did I just say—?'

Zephyra nodded as if finally understaning something,'You killed your fake brother and turned him into mist. Still a better story than Snow-white.'

The Marquee looked thunderstruck.

"A Cloudbound?! By the heavens, such sacrifice. Your family must be… ancient."

Zazm nodded, poker-faced. "Ancient. Dusty. We had a phoenix once."

The Marquee stared at him.

"Of course you did."

Zephyra looked at him with surprise, 'Did you just canonize your family as phoenix-tamers?'

'I'm digging my own grave with a diamond shovel.'

There was a long pause. Somewhere, destiny wept in confusion.

Zazm sat on a velvet-backed chair with such poise he surprised himself. The Marquee poured him some drink, offered it with two hands.

"I shall alert the Council discreetly," the Marquee said. "A noble of your stature must be welcomed in ways fitting your lineage."

Zazm stared into the glass.

'Council? There's a council? Okay. Sure. Go for it. I hope they don't ask for my sigil. What would House Arion's sigil even be? A… triangle? Sword made of fog?' He shouted inside his mind.

At this point Zephyra had thrown logic and sense out the window, 'Make it a crow inside a spiral. That sounds pretentious.'

Zephyra finally sat beside him, her expression unreadable.

She leaned closer, her voice soft in both mind and air.

"So, Lord Arion. How long before you dig yourself into a grave?"

Zazm took a sip of the drink and whispered back in his head.

"Hopefully after dessert."

_____________________