Chapter 21

I was leaning over my workbench, carefully inscribing the last set of protective runes onto the delicate bracelet before me. My fingers moved with the precision of long practice, the thin lines of the runes glowing faintly under my chisel as I etched them into the metal. It was a piece meant to be elegant yet functional, one that would safeguard its wearer's mind against the more insidious forms of manipulation. A difficult set of runes to craft, but worth the challenge.

Standing just behind me, Flavia Aurelia observed with a poised grace that came naturally to her. She was a statuesque noblewoman, the kind of person who carried herself with an effortless sense of authority. Her beauty was striking—sharp features, high cheekbones, and eyes that seemed to constantly appraise her surroundings. But it wasn't her looks that were most disarming; it was her ease with power, the way she wielded her influence without the need for pretense. She wasn't here to flaunt her status—she didn't need to.

I had nearly finished the bracelet when she smiled, her gaze fixed on the delicate lines forming under my hand. "You've outdone yourself, David," she said, her voice carrying the warmth of genuine admiration, with a slight, conspiratorial tone, as if this was our little secret. "This will be more than just an accessory."

It took me a moment to find my voice. The mind-protection runes I had crafted for her were particularly advanced, something even I hadn't fully mastered until recently. They created a sort of shield around the wearer's thoughts, making it exceptionally difficult for someone to tamper with their mind—be it through direct magic or more subtle forms of influence. It wasn't something that was typically shared with clients. But Flavia had a way of getting what she wanted without ever directly asking.

"It'll be ready in a few minutes," I replied, offering her a quick glance over my shoulder. I couldn't help but notice the way she studied the bracelet, not just with admiration but with the critical eye of someone who understood what she was holding. It wasn't often that I worked for a client who appreciated the intricacies of rune-crafting beyond the superficial.

Flavia nodded, her smile widening slightly. "You're becoming quite well-known for these high-quality pieces," she said, a note of amusement in her voice. "People are starting to talk."

I returned her smile, but there was a hint of irony in mine. "It's my pleasure to be of use," I replied, the words feeling a little too polished. But it was what people like her expected, wasn't it? A bit of deference, a bit of charm. Keep things simple, play the part. That's how you survive in this city.

She raised an eyebrow, clearly catching the subtle distance in my response. I doubted much got past her. But she didn't press. Instead, she just continued to watch, waiting patiently as I finished the final touches on her bracelet.

When I had completed the last rune and set my tools aside, I straightened up, feeling the weight of a question that had been gnawing at me for some time. Flavia was known for her connections, her ability to navigate the complex hierarchy of the city with grace and confidence. And, more importantly, she was known for her willingness to share a little too much information if it suited her. She enjoyed her conversations—especially those that allowed her to remind others just how well-informed she was.

"Flavia," I began, choosing my words carefully, "if I may ask, I've been looking through the city's library, trying to find more information about the larger empire beyond these walls. But the records seem… incomplete, to put it mildly. Almost as if the city were intentionally isolated."

She tilted her head slightly, her smile returning with a knowing glimmer in her eyes. "Oh, that," she said with a soft chuckle, as if I had just mentioned an old inside joke. "Yes, that's by design. The last few leaders decided that keeping the outside world quiet would help keep the masses here content."

I turned to face her more fully, curiosity piqued. "They think withholding information keeps people here?" I asked, trying to sound neutral. But there was a sharpness in my tone, a hint of disbelief that she didn't miss.

"Precisely," she replied, almost too casually, as if the very notion was laughably transparent. "Knowledge is power, David. And the less people know about the greater world beyond our walls, the less likely they are to desire something… different." She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice as if we were sharing a scandalous piece of gossip. "Not that many of them can read, anyway."

I felt my brow furrow involuntarily. It made sense in a twisted sort of way. The city's isolation wasn't just geographical—it was intellectual as well. Information was currency, and the city's leaders had made sure they were the only ones with the coins to spend.

"So we're a small, isolated city on the edge of the empire," I mused aloud, my mind racing with this new understanding. "Bordering orc territory, no less." It wasn't just isolation by choice—it was enforced by geography and military necessity.

Flavia nodded, her expression turning more serious. "We're on the very edge of civilization," she said, almost wistfully. "Beyond the valley, it's mostly orc tribes and the occasional wandering mercenary looking for trouble. The leaders here believe that if they limit the information, the people won't get ideas about leaving. They'll stay, they'll accept their lives, and they'll continue to play their part."

"And the orc tribes?" I pressed, sensing there was more to this than she was letting on.

"Oh, they're more a nuisance than a true threat," she replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Every now and then, one of the tribes decides to try its luck raiding the valley. But our defenses are well established, and the soldiers are well-trained. The tribes have never managed more than a skirmish before being driven back into the plains."

Her tone was casual, but I detected a hint of something else in her voice. Contempt, maybe? Or perhaps it was just the weariness of someone who had seen too many skirmishes to be truly concerned by them anymore. Either way, it was clear that she didn't view the orcs as a serious danger—at least, not compared to the threats that lurked within the city itself.

"I see," I said, trying to absorb all of this new information. It wasn't what I had expected, but it made a strange sort of sense. The city was isolated, not just by geography but by design. And the orcs? They were just a convenient excuse, a reason to justify keeping the city's gates closed and its people ignorant.

Flavia must have sensed my lingering unease because she placed a hand on my shoulder, her touch light but firm. "Don't worry, David," she said with a reassuring smile. "You're one of the few who can see beyond the walls. And that makes you valuable. Just be careful where you tread."

Her words were meant to comfort, but they only served to remind me of the precarious position I was in. Knowledge might be power, but it was also a dangerous burden to carry in a city like this. The more you knew, the more you became a threat to those who held the reins.

Still, there was something oddly exhilarating about it all—being on the edge of something larger, something hidden from the masses. It was a dangerous game, but one that I found myself increasingly drawn to.

With a final nod, Flavia took the bracelet from my hand, slipping it onto her wrist with a practiced grace. She examined it for a moment, turning it this way and that, her smile widening with satisfaction. "It's perfect," she said, her tone filled with genuine appreciation. "You truly are a master of your craft, David."

I inclined my head, grateful for the praise but still lost in my thoughts. "Thank you, Flavia," I said, my voice quieter now. "It was a pleasure working on this for you."

She gave me one last lingering look before turning to leave, her movements as elegant as ever. And as she walked away, I couldn't help but feel that she had given me far more than a simple commission. She had given me a glimpse behind the curtain, a hint of the deeper machinations that kept this city running. And with that knowledge came the realization that I was in deeper than I had anticipated.

I watched her disappear down the corridor, the weight of her words settling over me like a shroud. This city was a place of secrets, of carefully guarded lies and half-truths. And the more I learned, the more I understood just how fragile the balance of power truly was.

As I turned back to my workbench, I couldn't shake the feeling that this conversation had changed something. Not just in my understanding of the city, but in my place within it. I was no longer just an outsider trying to find his way. I was becoming a part of the web, whether I wanted to or not.

The days blurred together in the workshop, each one merging into the next with the steady rhythm of my tools and the hum of runes being etched into metal, wood, and stone. It had been a couple of weeks since Severus Calpurnius met his end in a cloud of crumbling masonry and well-earned vengeance, and I had taken a deliberate step back from the games of intrigue and blood. The city had a short memory when it came to powerful men meeting violent ends; it was too used to such events to dwell on them for long. And that was a blessing.

After the dust settled—both literally and figuratively—I decided that the smartest move I could make was to make myself indispensable to those with power. They were the people who could shield you, elevate you, or, if necessary, pretend you didn't exist. And in a city like this, you needed all three.

So I threw myself into my craft with a single-minded intensity. My workshop became both sanctuary and proving ground. I accepted commissions from the upper echelons of the city, pouring my focus into creating items that combined functionality with a bit of flair. The kind of things that a discerning noble would both show off and rely on in moments of desperation. The stakes were high, but then again, that was the point. The upper crust of this city loved feeling exclusive, and nothing made them feel more so than possessing something unique and powerful.

Every day, high-ranking patrons—nobles, merchants, and military officers—sent messengers to my door. They came bearing letters with ornate seals, requesting everything from elegant necklaces with subtle warding charms to more aggressive enchantments for weapons that needed to deliver a bit more than just a sharp edge. Word spread quickly that I could inscribe protection into jewelry, disguise offensive runes as part of an ornate brooch, and craft charms that did far more than improve one's appearance.

The orders kept coming, each new commission paying handsomely in gold, influence, or, more frequently, secrets. It seemed that the richer someone was, the more they believed they could buy my silence or loyalty with a whispered confession or two. It was a mistake on their part—one I didn't discourage. People tended to underestimate the importance of a good reputation when it came to discretion.

I kept my head down, working with relentless precision. And in doing so, I stayed ahead of the rumors that still circled around the sudden vacancy left by Severus Calpurnius. If anyone suspected me, they weren't foolish enough to voice it openly. After all, I was becoming too valuable to alienate.

The upside of my intense focus on crafting was the sheer amount of practical experience I gained. Crafting for high-paying clients required pushing the boundaries of what I could do, testing the limits of my runes' abilities and stability. It wasn't just the art of creation; it was learning to understand the different ways people might misuse—or, in some cases, abuse—my work. That knowledge became invaluable.

For every piece I made for a client, I created something for myself. New enhancements to my armor. Small, concealed charms that could deflect the prying eyes of magical surveillance. A series of rings, each one inscribed with a specific ward or offensive rune, all connected through a carefully designed series of secondary runes that acted as triggers.

Every piece I made was an experiment, an opportunity to refine my techniques and apply the lessons I learned to my own arsenal. It wasn't just about protecting myself—it was about perfecting my craft and making sure that if anyone came for me again, I wouldn't be the one on the defensive.

The more I worked, the more I felt that old itch of satisfaction—of mastery. There was something deeply gratifying in watching a piece take shape under my hands, in feeling the runes hum with barely contained energy as I brought them to life. The city's whispers reached even my workshop, and I started to hear it more frequently: "master runewearver." The title spread like wildfire among the nobles, who loved the idea of having something exclusive and tailor-made by someone with a reputation for excellence.

Of course, I didn't let the praise go to my head. Well, not entirely. I'd seen what happened to men who started believing their own hype, and I had no intention of becoming one of them. But the title wasn't just for my ego—it was a tool, a shield that gave me a measure of protection. If people believed I was valuable enough, they'd think twice before crossing me.

Yet, despite the accolades and the gold pouring in, I hadn't left the workshop in what felt like weeks. There were too many distractions outside, too many people with questions or demands that could pull me away from what mattered. Staying in my workshop, surrounded by my tools and projects, was a way to keep control. And besides, it gave me time to experiment, to innovate.

One of the things that kept me so deeply absorbed in my work was a new commission from a rather prominent military officer—someone who wanted a set of gauntlets with integrated shock runes that would discharge on impact. It was a complex challenge, especially when he insisted the runes remain entirely hidden from sight. A hidden weapon that could still pass as a mark of prestige. The officers loved their military medals, after all.

It took me days to figure out how to weave the shock runes into the leather and iron without creating a tell-tale glow or pulse. The runes had to be subtle, reactive to pressure rather than a vocal trigger. I tried three different designs before finding one that felt right. I tested it against various surfaces, adjusting the intensity of the shock and ensuring it wouldn't discharge too easily. There was a fine line between a defensive gauntlet and an inconvenient accident waiting to happen.

And then there was the necklace for Lady Selenia, whose tastes demanded both elegance and utility. She'd requested something that would protect against charms and hexes, but not so ostentatious as to draw unwanted attention. I worked with gold, inlaid with small gemstones that held the runes. Each stone had to be carefully calibrated to absorb and reflect magical influence—essentially acting as a mirror to any attempts at manipulation.

I knew how important it was to get it right. Lady Selenia was not someone to cross, and more importantly, she was well-connected. Failing to deliver on her request would have sent ripples through the network of high-society clients. Success, on the other hand, would cement my reputation further.

During these weeks of near-seclusion, I rarely lifted my head from my workbench, except to consult old texts or test a new prototype. There was something almost meditative about it, losing myself in the focus of crafting. The complexity of the runes demanded absolute attention, and in that attention, I found a kind of peace.

But that peace was always underscored by a quiet sense of vigilance. As much as I enjoyed the acclaim, I knew that it came with risks. Power, after all, was not something you could accumulate without attracting the wrong kind of attention. I could feel the eyes on me, people weighing their options, considering what it might take to get me under their control—or, failing that, out of the way entirely.

Not that it kept me up at night. I had fortified the workshop to the point where even the most ambitious assassin would think twice before attempting anything. But it did mean that every interaction, every commission, was a step in a much larger dance. One misstep, and I could find myself isolated and outmaneuvered.

Still, the work had its own rewards. Every successful commission, every satisfied patron, was another step toward cementing my place in the city's hierarchy. And in this city, being useful to the right people was as good as being untouchable.

As I put the finishing touches on the officer's gauntlets, I couldn't help but smile at the irony of it all. A couple of weeks ago, I was locked in a struggle with Severus Calpurnius, fighting to survive in a city that didn't care whether I lived or died. Now, I was the man everyone wanted a piece of, the one whose creations were coveted and whispered about behind closed doors. I'd gone from being a target to being a resource—and a very valuable one at that.

The evening had settled over the city like a velvet cloak, quiet and heavy with secrets. I had long since lost track of time in my workshop—though, to be fair, time had a funny way of slipping through your fingers when you were working with rune-etched jewelry that could potentially stop a noble from losing his sanity to more nefarious influences. A practical matter, really.

I was in the final stages of fine-tuning the bracelet's runes, testing their resonance, when the knock came. A knock is a bit of a generous description, really—it was more like a heavy fist demanding attention rather than requesting entry. Whoever was on the other side of the door wasn't here for idle chat or friendly conversation.

I sighed, setting down the bracelet and tools with deliberate slowness. "Of course," I muttered to myself. Evenings in this city were rarely uneventful.

When I reached the door, I took a brief moment to steel myself. The workshop was my sanctuary—a place where I held all the cards. But outside, the game was always changing, the players always shifting. I pulled open the door, already running through the list of possible visitors, but there he was in the flesh: Lucius Cassian, one of the high-ranking members of the city council. He was an imposing man with a smile that could be mistaken for warmth if you weren't paying close attention. Flanked by his usual bodyguard, a hulking mass of muscle that could probably break a door by sneezing in its general direction, Lucius stood there as if he owned the place.

"Lucius," I greeted him, carefully modulating my tone to stay polite without sounding particularly pleased. "What a surprise."

His smile widened, but there was a gleam in his eyes that suggested this wasn't a social call. He stepped forward without waiting for an invitation, his eyes sweeping the workshop with a keen interest, like a collector appraising a potential acquisition. He didn't need to ask permission—he was already here.

"You have quite the setup, David," Lucius said, his tone conversational, but the weight of the statement carried something else entirely. "I've heard a great deal about your work."

There it was again—that delicate line between compliment and threat. I nodded, stepping aside to let him take in the room. "I aim to please," I replied, keeping my tone neutral. It wouldn't do to let on just how unsettling his visit was. Lucius Cassian wasn't a man who showed up without an agenda, and he certainly wasn't one to leave without getting what he wanted.

He wandered the workshop, his fingers lightly brushing over the surface of a half-finished amulet on the workbench. I resisted the urge to cringe—runes were delicate things, and while Lucius might not know that, it still grated on my nerves to see someone so casually dismissive of the craft. He wasn't admiring my work; he was assessing it. A fine distinction, but an important one.

"Your reputation precedes you," he continued, his voice almost casual, as if we were old friends catching up. "Which is fortunate, considering the interest you've garnered."

"Interest?" I echoed, knowing full well that this wasn't going to end with a friendly handshake.

"Yes," Lucius said, turning to face me with that same practiced smile. "The leader of our city—Lord Quintus Alaric, I'm sure you're familiar—has expressed a desire to meet with you. He's heard of your skill, and given your… recent success, he believes a discussion is in order."

Ah, there it was. A thinly veiled command wrapped in the pretense of a request. A 'discussion' with the city's leader, no less. Lord Quintus Alaric was known for his pragmatic approach to leadership—more of a shrewd merchant-king than a benevolent ruler. And if he was summoning me, it wasn't to offer compliments.

Lucius's bodyguard shifted slightly, an almost imperceptible movement that nonetheless reminded me of the unspoken consequences of refusing this so-called invitation. Not that I intended to decline, but it was always good to be aware of one's position in the larger game.

"I'd hate to keep Lord Alaric waiting," I said, forcing a smile to match Lucius's. "But if you'll give me a moment to get presentable?"

Lucius inclined his head, a slight nod that managed to convey approval without an ounce of humility. "An excellent idea," he agreed. "One should always look their best when meeting with those in power."

There was a flicker of amusement in his voice, a subtle reminder of the stakes at play. This wasn't just about appearance—it was about control. Lucius was already orchestrating this meeting in his mind, maneuvering pieces on a board that I hadn't even seen yet. I was being drawn into a larger game, and the best I could do was play along for now.

"Take your time," Lucius said, his tone almost generous. "But not too much, of course. The evening waits for no one."

I gave a brief nod and excused myself, slipping out of the main room and into the smaller back chamber where I kept my more formal attire. As I moved, my mind raced through the possibilities. Lucius wasn't one to waste time on small matters, and if Lord Alaric wanted a meeting, it meant there was something specific they wanted from me. But what?

For now, it didn't matter. What did matter was that I wasn't going to walk into this meeting unprepared.

In the small back room, I set to work, pulling on my most finely tailored clothing—a dark, fitted jacket with discreet runes woven into the lining. The runes were similar to those I'd been selling to clients lately—designed to offer a subtle layer of protection without drawing attention. I wasn't foolish enough to believe a meeting with the city's leader was without risk, and if Lord Alaric had summoned me, it meant there was more at play than a simple introduction.

The jacket was reinforced with warding runes, hidden beneath the fine fabric so as not to give away their presence. They weren't powerful enough to stop a direct attack, but they would deflect a subtle spell or two—something that might come in handy if the conversation turned less friendly.

Next came the accessories. A set of rings, each one inscribed with a specific set of runes—one for deflection, another for detection, and a third with an offensive charge that could be triggered by a vocal command. I slipped them onto my fingers, feeling the familiar hum of magic resonating through them. It was a comforting weight, a reminder that I still had some control in this increasingly uncertain situation.

Finally, I reached for the pendant—a simple silver piece that rested just below my collarbone. It wasn't ornamental; it was inscribed with a particularly intricate set of runes that could absorb and redirect a single, powerful spell. It was the kind of thing that most people wouldn't notice, but in a city like this, being unnoticed was half the battle.

Once I was dressed and armed with my hidden protections, I took a moment to steady my breathing. The nerves weren't new—every important meeting had its risks—but it was still disconcerting to be summoned without warning. I didn't like walking into situations blind, but if Lucius and Lord Alaric thought I was going to do so without some measure of preparation, they were sorely mistaken.

When I returned to the main room, Lucius was examining one of the completed pieces on a display rack—a delicate necklace with protective runes hidden within the filigree. He glanced up as I entered, offering an approving nod. "Much better," he said, the smile never leaving his face. "Appearances are everything in our line of work, wouldn't you agree?"

"Absolutely," I replied, matching his tone. "Shall we?"

Lucius gestured toward the door, and I followed him out, his bodyguard falling into step behind us. As we made our way through the quiet streets, my mind was already racing, calculating the possible outcomes of this meeting. Lord Alaric was known for his ambition, his ruthlessness, and his willingness to use those with unique skills to his advantage. And now, apparently, I was on his radar.

Whatever game Lucius and Lord Alaric were playing, I would have to tread carefully. But if there was one thing I had learned in my time here, it was that power wasn't just about strength—it was about control. And as long as I could keep control over my work, my reputation, and my connections, I might just be able to navigate the dangerous waters I was about to enter.

I kept my expression neutral as we walked, outwardly calm while my thoughts continued to race. Lucius's words echoed in my mind, and I couldn't help but wonder what role he intended me to play in all of this.

The streets of the upper city were never quiet, not really. They might look serene, with their carefully manicured gardens and polished marble statues, but beneath the surface, they buzzed with whispered secrets, glances exchanged under heavy-lidded eyes, and the ever-present hum of ambition. And tonight, as I walked through those very streets with Lucius Cassian at my side, that hum seemed louder than usual.

It wasn't every day that a man like me strolled alongside one of the city's most influential council members. As we moved, heads turned, curious eyes watching from shaded terraces and behind elegant silk curtains. I could see it in their faces—the nobles and merchants who liked to think of themselves as the true power brokers of this city. They whispered among themselves as we passed, their speculation dancing in the air like a heady perfume.

"Isn't that the runewearver?"

"Who's the man with him?"

"Lucius Cassian… interesting."

It was almost enough to make me chuckle. Almost. But there was no time for indulging in that particular amusement. Not when Lucius was leading me to what I could only assume was a significant moment in my rather unpredictable career in this city. The councilman moved with a casual confidence, the kind that made it clear he knew these streets, and the people in them, were all part of his well-managed collection. And he wasn't one to let his prized possessions slip through his fingers.

I kept my head down, my face carefully composed into a mask of polite indifference. I had learned long ago that giving people nothing to read meant they filled in the blanks themselves, and those assumptions could be more useful than anything I could have said aloud. Let them speculate—speculation was currency in this city, and the more people spent, the more valuable I became.

As we ascended toward the top levels of the city, the architecture shifted from mere displays of wealth to something more imposing. The buildings here weren't just grand; they were statements of power and permanence. The winding cobblestone streets narrowed, sloping gently upward toward the heart of the city, and with each step, the scenery became more exclusive, the guards more numerous, and the enchantments less subtle.

Lucius led the way, his footsteps echoing softly against the smooth stone as we approached the provincial palace. Though "palace" was a generous term—it was more a fort dressed up in finery, like a wolf wearing a silk robe. The walls were high, the stone ancient and reinforced with layer upon layer of protective runes. They glowed faintly in the twilight, a subtle reminder that this was not just a place of luxury but a fortress designed to protect and intimidate in equal measure.

As we walked past the runes, I couldn't help but study them, noting their patterns and sequences. I had made it a habit to memorize the runes I encountered in places like this, quietly storing them away for later. You never knew when a particular arrangement might come in handy—or when you might need to circumvent someone else's precautions. It was just good business, really. A runewearver worth his salt always kept an eye on the competition.

We reached the main gate, where the palace guards stood in crisp formation, their expressions set in the carefully neutral way of men who knew the value of silence. Even with Lucius Cassian in the lead, the guards were diligent, checking his tokens with a practiced efficiency that spoke of long hours and unwavering discipline. I kept my own token ready, handing it over with the same polite indifference that had served me so well.

The guards nodded, returning the tokens, and the gates creaked open. Lucius gave me a brief glance, one that conveyed a mix of approval and expectation. He knew I was watching everything, and he wanted me to see just how secure this place was—just how untouchable its inhabitants were.

We stepped inside, and the atmosphere changed immediately. The air here was heavy with incense and the faint scent of polished wood, and the corridors were lined with columns of alabaster and gold. It was the kind of wealth that wasn't just displayed—it was flaunted, a reminder of who held the power and who was merely allowed to exist in their shadow.

As we made our way deeper into the palace, I couldn't help but notice the carefully placed symbols of luxury. Tapestries depicting scenes of victory and conquest, statues of ancient heroes carved from rare marble, and golden candelabras that cast a warm, flattering light over everything. It was all a calculated display, designed to project an image of refinement and authority. And yet, beneath that veneer of elegance, there was something else—something colder, more deliberate.

Lucius led me through the winding corridors, his movements as confident as ever. The further we went, the more I felt the weight of the place pressing down on me. It was a palace, yes, but also a prison of sorts—a gilded cage for those who had clawed their way to the top and were now desperate to keep anyone else from joining them.

We passed a series of rooms where finely dressed men and women were gathered, their conversations hushed but intense. The kind of conversations that shaped the city's future without ever being acknowledged in public. In one room, I saw a group of military officers leaning over a map, their expressions grim as they discussed something that looked suspiciously like a campaign strategy. In another, a trio of merchants was locked in a heated debate, their voices low but their gestures sharp and pointed.

And then there were the women.

They were beautiful, of course—almost painfully so. Dressed in flowing silks and adorned with jewels that glittered in the dim light, they moved with a practiced grace, their smiles never quite reaching their eyes. They weren't just decoration; they were status symbols, a reminder of the power and wealth of the man who kept them here. Lord Quintus Alaric, it seemed, understood the value of appearances as well as anyone in this city.

As we passed, a few of the women glanced in my direction, their expressions curious but carefully composed. They were used to visitors, I supposed—men brought here for business or pleasure, or perhaps both. But there was something in their eyes, a faint flicker of calculation, that told me they weren't as passive as they appeared. In a place like this, everyone was playing a part, even those who seemed to be little more than ornamentation.

It reminded me of something I had said in one of my podcasts about powerful men. I had spoken at length about the way men in positions of authority often surrounded themselves with symbols of their status—beautiful women, rare artifacts, grand displays of wealth—not just to impress others, but to reassure themselves. Power, after all, was a fragile thing, and those who held it were often the most aware of its fleeting nature. They needed constant reminders of their dominance, constant validation that they were still in control.

And yet, for all their wealth and influence, they were still just men—prone to fear, doubt, and insecurity like anyone else. The difference was that their fears were more elaborate, their insecurities more deeply hidden behind layers of luxury and ritual. They built walls around themselves, both literal and metaphorical, and filled those walls with everything that made them feel safe.

I wondered what Lord Alaric's fears looked like. What was he trying to protect himself from?

Lucius must have sensed my thoughts, because he glanced at me with that same calculating smile. "Impressive, isn't it?" he said, his voice low and smooth. "Lord Alaric has done well for himself. He's made this city a beacon of stability in a turbulent world."

"Stability," I echoed, my tone carefully neutral. "That's one word for it."

Lucius chuckled softly, as if I had made a clever joke. "You're perceptive, David," he said, his eyes gleaming with something that might have been admiration. "That's why you're here."

I didn't reply. There was no need. Lucius wasn't the kind of man who expected direct answers—he preferred to have his assumptions confirmed through silence and subtlety. It was all part of the game, and I had no intention of giving him more than he needed.

We continued through the palace, the corridors growing narrower and more private as we approached the inner sanctum of Lord Alaric's residence. The guards here were even more vigilant, their eyes sharp and their weapons within easy reach. They checked Lucius's token again, scrutinizing it with an intensity that suggested they took their job very seriously. Even the councilman wasn't exempt from their scrutiny—another reminder of the delicate balance of power in this place.

As we passed through the final set of doors, the atmosphere shifted once more. The outer palace had been a display of wealth and power, but here, in the private quarters of the lord, there was something more intimate and controlled. The tapestries were darker, the lighting softer, and the air was thick with the scent of rare spices and incense.

We entered a large sitting room, where a fire crackled in an ornate hearth, casting flickering shadows over the polished floors. A long table was set with decanters of wine and trays of delicacies, all arranged with a precision that spoke of careful planning. Everything here was calculated, deliberate—designed to create a sense of comfort and luxury, even as it served to remind visitors of their host's power.

Lucius gestured for me to take a seat, his smile never wavering. "Lord Alaric will be with you shortly," he said, his tone almost reassuring. "He's eager to speak with you."

I nodded, settling into the plush chair and letting my eyes wander over the room. It was a space meant to disarm, to lull visitors into a false sense of security. But I wasn't here to be lulled. I was here to learn, to observe, and to play my part.

The door opened, and a figure stepped into the room. It was time to meet Lord Quintus Alaric, the man who held the reins of this city—and who, for reasons known only to him, had decided that I was worth his attention.

The door creaked open, and in walked Lord Quintus Alaric. Even in the dim, flickering light of the sitting room, his presence was impossible to ignore. He moved with the steady confidence of a man who knew that every eye in the room belonged to him, and perhaps a few he couldn't see. He was youthful in appearance, maybe in his late thirties if you squinted and ignored the knowing look in his eyes. Eyes that betrayed something older, something honed by decades of power, influence, and ambition. And if the rumors were to be believed, the man's youthful appearance was due to a steady diet of high-level monster meat, a delicacy known for its life-preserving properties.

Lord Alaric was an imposing figure, but not in the way that someone physically large might be. It was his air of control, his carefully maintained elegance, and the predatory awareness in his eyes that set him apart. He looked like someone who could charm you while simultaneously plotting your untimely demise—should the situation call for it. And yet, as he entered, there was an unexpected warmth to his expression. A smile that felt… almost genuine.

"Master Goodchild," he greeted, his voice smooth and polished, like a blade hidden beneath a velvet sheath. "It's a pleasure to finally meet the man whose work has been causing such a stir in our fair city."

I blinked, caught momentarily off guard by the friendliness of his tone. I had been prepared for intimidation, for veiled threats, for the kind of verbal dance that noblemen and powerbrokers enjoyed when dealing with upstarts like me. But this? This was something else entirely.

"Lord Alaric," I replied, inclining my head respectfully, but not too deeply. In my experience, men in his position valued confidence just as much as deference. "The pleasure is mine."

Lucius Cassian stood to the side, his face a mask of carefully managed neutrality. But I could see the flicker of confusion in his eyes. Lucius wasn't often caught off guard—he was the kind of man who liked to be two steps ahead of everyone else, so much so that he practically sprinted through conversations. But now? Even he seemed to be struggling to keep up with whatever game Lord Alaric was playing.

Lord Alaric settled into one of the high-backed chairs, gesturing for me to do the same. I took the seat opposite him, my posture relaxed but my senses on high alert. This was a man who controlled every element of his surroundings, and I had no intention of letting myself be lulled into a false sense of security.

"I must say, I've heard nothing but praise for your work," Alaric continued, his tone conversational, almost jovial. "Your craftsmanship, your attention to detail, your discretion… all quite remarkable qualities. It's rare to find such a combination in one man."

I gave him a polite smile, unsure of where this was going. Compliments from a man like Alaric were rarely given without purpose, and every word he spoke felt like a step toward some larger agenda. "I do my best," I replied, keeping my voice even.

"And your best," he said, leaning forward slightly, "has set a new standard in this city. You see, talent is a resource—one that this city, and the empire as a whole, values greatly. I make it my business to ensure that such talent is recognized and, more importantly, nurtured."

There it was—a glimpse behind the curtain. Alaric wasn't just here to compliment me; he was here to assess me, to measure my worth in the grander scheme of things. And yet, for all his politeness, there was a weight to his words that couldn't be ignored. This wasn't just flattery—it was an appraisal.

"I appreciate the recognition, my lord," I said carefully. "Though I suspect there's more to this conversation than just praise for my work."

Alaric's eyes gleamed with something akin to amusement. "Quite right, Master Goodchild," he said, leaning back in his chair. "You are a perceptive man. It's one of the reasons I've taken an interest in you."

Lucius shifted slightly, his gaze flickering between me and the lord. He was as curious as I was, though he did a better job of hiding it. Whatever Alaric was about to say, it wasn't just a surprise to me—it was news to him as well.

Alaric took a moment to pour himself a glass of wine, swirling it gently before continuing. "One of my more… confidential duties," he began, choosing his words with care, "is to identify and funnel exceptional talent toward the heart of the empire. It is a role that often goes unnoticed, but it is one that brings considerable honor to those involved—both to the individuals themselves and to the cities that produce them."

I felt a flicker of unease, though I kept my expression neutral. It didn't take a genius to figure out where this was going, and I wasn't entirely sure I liked it. Alaric wasn't just looking to compliment my work—he was looking to recruit me, or worse, to make me a tool in someone else's grander plans.

"Your expertise in rune-craft," he continued, "has caught the attention of certain individuals in the inner empire. They see in you not just a skilled craftsman, but a potential asset. And while our provincial capital is often… overlooked, as it were, an opportunity like this could bring a great deal of prestige to our city."

Lucius's face was a study in carefully masked tension. For the first time since we'd entered the room, he looked genuinely out of his depth. It seemed even he hadn't expected Alaric to extend this offer, and that only added to my growing sense of unease. What exactly was the lord playing at?

Alaric set his glass down, meeting my gaze with an intensity that made it clear this wasn't a request—it was a command wrapped in the illusion of choice. "You will be traveling to the provincial capital," he declared, his tone as smooth as silk, "with letters of introduction and tokens to mark your status. It is a great honor, Master Goodchild, one that few in your position would ever receive."

The room seemed to grow colder, the air heavy with unspoken implications. Alaric's words were measured, but there was no mistaking the weight of them. This wasn't just an invitation—it was an expectation, and one that carried the full force of the city's authority behind it.

"I am grateful for the honor," I replied, choosing my words carefully. "But if I may ask, when am I expected to leave?"

Alaric's smile widened, as if he had anticipated the question. "Normally, such an opportunity would require immediate departure," he said. "However, given the unique circumstances in our city, and your particular skills, I find myself inclined to grant you a brief delay."

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. "A delay?"

"Indeed," Alaric confirmed, his voice taking on a more casual tone. "While the inner empire is eager to welcome you, this city still has a need for your talents. There are certain… high-level items that must be created, and I believe you are the only one capable of crafting them to the necessary specifications."

I could feel Lucius's eyes on me, his expression unreadable. Alaric's insistence on this "delay" wasn't just a matter of logistics—it was a statement of control. He wanted me to know that, even as he sent me off to serve the empire, I was still under his watchful eye. And the fact that Lucius seemed as surprised by this as I was only made it clearer that there were layers to this game that I hadn't yet begun to unravel.

"I will, of course, do whatever is required to serve the city," I said, keeping my voice steady. "It would be an honor to create whatever items are needed."

Alaric inclined his head, as if bestowing a royal blessing. "Excellent," he said. "Your dedication is commendable, Master Goodchild. I have no doubt that your work will reflect the prestige of our city in the eyes of the inner empire."

The conversation felt like it was nearing its conclusion, but I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this than met the eye. Alaric's politeness, his apparent benevolence—it was all too… accommodating. Men like him didn't extend such courtesies without a reason, and I had a sinking suspicion that reason had yet to reveal itself.

"Is there anything else you require of me, my lord?" I asked, hoping to glean more from the conversation.

Lord Alaric watched me, his eyes narrowing just slightly, as if weighing something that hadn't been said out loud. There was an air of calculation in that gaze, the kind that only comes from years of managing power and the people who orbit it. When he finally spoke, his tone was lighter, but there was a deliberate edge beneath it.

"Only this," he said, leaning forward, his voice suddenly more intimate, as if he were offering a secret. "You must have complete protection, Master Goodchild. Not only from those who would see you as a threat, but from all manners of accidents and... unfortunate misunderstandings." He allowed a beat of silence to linger, ensuring I understood. "I can ensure this, but it means forming the right alliances."

He didn't look at Lucius when he said this. But I did. My gaze met the councilman's, and Lucius—usually so adept at concealing his thoughts—seemed momentarily caught off guard. He quickly composed himself, giving Alaric a single, firm nod. The kind of nod that said he understood the weight of what was being asked.

Alaric's voice softened, almost a murmur now. "I trust, Lucius, that you will handle these matters for me personally?"

"Of course, my lord," Lucius replied, his tone even but lacking its usual smug certainty. "It will be done."

The intensity of that exchange lingered, and I found myself standing at the center of something far larger than a casual meeting over wine and compliments. Alaric's words were not a request—they were a declaration, a deliberate move to secure my safety, and by extension, his interests. A man like him wouldn't waste time on sentiment. If he was offering protection, it wasn't out of kindness; it was a calculated investment in someone he believed could be useful. Or dangerous, depending on the circumstances.

"Good," Alaric said, leaning back, the tension easing as quickly as it had appeared. He smiled again, and just like that, the mask of benevolence was back in place. "I look forward to seeing what you accomplish in the coming weeks. And, of course, to your eventual journey to the capital."

I nodded, keeping my own mask firmly in place. "I appreciate your confidence in me, my lord."

The meeting concluded with all the formalities expected of such an occasion, but the weight of what had just been promised hung in the air like the scent of incense, heavy and lingering. Alaric had made it clear that I was not merely an asset to him—I was a project. Something to be nurtured, protected, and perhaps manipulated if the situation called for it.

Lucius escorted me out of the sitting room, his usual confidence replaced by a strange silence. It was a silence that spoke volumes, louder than any words he might have offered. He had brought me here with a plan in mind, but it seemed even he hadn't anticipated the full extent of Alaric's intentions. And if Lucius was rattled, that could only mean one thing: whatever game we were playing, the stakes had just gotten a lot higher.

As we walked through the winding corridors of the palace, the echoes of our footsteps were the only sounds, and yet the silence seemed filled with unspoken questions. I replayed the conversation in my mind, examining every word, every glance. Alaric's politeness had been unsettling enough, but it was the calculated nature of his offer that left me with a nagging sense of unease. Men like him didn't give without expecting something in return, and whatever he had planned for me, it was clear that this was only the beginning.

When we reached the palace gates, Lucius finally broke the silence, his voice low and almost introspective. "That… was unexpected," he muttered, more to himself than to me. "Lord Alaric rarely takes such a direct interest in anyone."

I glanced at him, trying to gauge his reaction. Lucius wasn't easily caught off guard, and the fact that Alaric's actions had unsettled him only confirmed my suspicions. This wasn't just a matter of prestige—it was a test, and one that came with complications.

"Perhaps he sees potential," I replied, keeping my tone deliberately neutral.

"Perhaps," Lucius echoed, his expression unreadable. "But potential is a dangerous thing, Master Goodchild. And in this city, those who possess it often find themselves at the center of… complications."

Complications. It was a polite way of saying danger, intrigue, and all the delightful hazards that came with ambition and power. Lucius didn't need to elaborate further—he knew, and I knew, that Alaric's interest in me wasn't merely benevolent. It was strategic. In a city like this, everything was.

We stood at the gates for a moment longer, the cool night air brushing against my face. I took a slow breath, steadying myself. Alaric's offer, his warnings, and Lucius's unease—they all pointed to a larger game being played, one in which I was now a key piece. And while I might not have asked for this role, there was no turning back now.

The city was full of secrets, and I had just been given a glimpse into its darker corners. But if Alaric thought I would simply play along without question, he was in for a surprise. Because if there was one thing I had learned in my time here, it was that power wasn't just about strength—it was about control. And as long as I kept control over my own destiny, I could navigate whatever twists and turns lay ahead.

Lucius didn't offer any further remarks as we parted ways, and I didn't press him. The councilman was skilled in the art of deflection, and if he was keeping his thoughts to himself, it meant he was still processing the implications of Alaric's sudden interest in me. I knew better than to try to force a conversation where none was welcome.

The streets outside the palace were empty, shrouded in shadow. I made my way back to the workshop, the weight of the evening's events still heavy on my mind.