He toyed with the coin, spinning it along his index finger before shifting his gaze toward Tholdir's chair.
"Thol," Aldir asked casually, pointing with his left index finger, "how long would it take to hasten the awakening of Atlas—by force, of course?"
Tholdir raised an eyebrow and began to rise from his kneel, but before he could respond.
A flicker of flame coiled around Aldir's fingertip, swirling and condensing into a solid arrowhead. He blew gently upon it. The projectile shot forward, striking the chair and reducing it to ash in an instant.
"Well… it would take only a few days, my lord…" Tholdir's voice faded into a hushed murmur, awe overtaking him as he stared at the simple yet exquisite spell Aldir had woven.
"Specifics, Thol. I want specifics," Aldir said, turning his head just enough to offer a knowing smile.
Tholdir swallowed, his grip tightening around his staff.
"Twelve," he answered. "It would take only twelve days to accelerate the process."
Aldir's smile softened. He turned away, sweeping his arm downward as a portal bloomed open before him. He stepped through and as it sealed shut, Tholdir released his staff and collapsed to his knees, coughing violently. Tears streamed down his face.
His sobs slowly twisted into laughter. A manic grin stretched across his lips as he wept and laughed in equal measure—not from fear or sorrow, but from astonishment, exhilaration, and above all—
Awe.
Such mastery of the arcane. Such precision. Such knowledge. To condense flame into a singular point, solidify it—only a handful of mages in the world could achieve such a feat. To witness it firsthand was unforgettable.
Rising shakily to his feet, tears still clinging to his beard, Tholdir lifted his staff with reverent delight.
"I will hasten the process," he whispered."I will hasten the process.I will hasten the process…"
Eight days before the accusation. Fraye stood before her father's portrait. Her expression was composed, serene—yet beneath it lingered worry.
She wore a radiant yellow dress, a white flower tucked behind her left ear, her hair gathered neatly into a bun. Two layered necklaces adorned her neck, crafted from coral and green seastone.
She was luminous as she stepped out of her chamber and onto the manor's railway platform. Before her stood a gathering of nobles, assembled for the celebration.
They had been invited by her father to commemorate his success in establishing a trade route with Thylmar—Relisquae's bloodiest and most savage dwarven kingdom. A feat no other merchant had come close to accomplishing.
Yet her father was not present.
Instead, he had sailed southward to the continent of Vesuveia, continuing his relentless pursuit of new trade routes for Relisquae.
Fraye felt betrayed. He had promised to return, promised to stand beside her. Though they loved one another deeply, their bond had been strained ever since her mother's passing.
She wished she were anywhere else, wished someone else could shoulder the burden of greeting guests and commencing the festivities.
With a heavy heart, she drew a steady breath and clasped her hands together. A carefully crafted smile spread across her face as she raised her voice.
"I welcome you all to my father's grand celebration," she began—her tone clear, gentle, and composed, "honoring his journey in safeguarding Relisquae's prosperity and his mission to usher greatness across our beloved continent."
When her short speech ended, a cacophony of applause erupted—a sound she despised. The noise of these people, these creatures of wealth and avarice. Every one of them sought an opening to speak with her, not out of goodwill, but in hopes of brushing against her father's reputation and fortune.
From the corner of her vision, Fraye spotted the most despicable noble among the crowd of self-serving opportunists.
Kaeloth Fandrei of Xelencia's Merchant Guild.
An elf born and raised in the Xelencian Empire of the Vesuveia Continent. He had later migrated to Relisquae, establishing himself in Kroma and swiftly dominating trade—outpacing competitors despite hailing from an entirely different land.
Fraye's hands curled into fists at her sides as she struggled to contain the storm churning within her—a whirlpool of disgust, dread, and gnawing unease. Yet outwardly, her gentle, composed expression did not waver.
As the celebration unfolded, guests dispersed into small groups—conversing, drinking, and indulging in expertly prepared dishes crafted by the manor's chefs.
Kaeloth wasted no time.
He approached Fraye as she spoke with a noblewoman, who immediately excused herself the moment she noticed him. His composed yet commanding presence caused nearby nobles to instinctively step aside.
The older elf greeted Fraye with a warm smile, taking her hands in his own. His grip was firm, his palms calloused and rough—marked by countless old scars.
"It has been quite some time, hasn't it, Fraye?" he said, releasing her with a soft chuckle.
She returned the gesture with a courteous smile, forcing her body to remain at ease as she bowed her head slightly.
"Indeed it has, Mr. Fandrei. I hope the guards welcomed you without issue. If they seemed stern, please forgive them—it is merely protocol. Especially when it comes to you."
She stepped back, fingers interlaced before her.
Kaeloth's gaze drifted to a family portrait hanging nearby—Fraye, her mother, and her father captured in a moment of warmth. A sentimental piece. His expression softened, and a single tear slipped free.
"A beautiful painting," he said quietly. "It captures the grace and brilliance of your family—especially your mother."
He turned back to her, offering a gentle smile.
Fraye found herself unable to respond. The words stirred something within her. Kaeloth was many things—cunning, manipulative, a masterful actor—but when he spoke of her parents, his praise was sincere.
Though her father despised the man, Kaeloth held genuine affection for him—something deeper than mere respect, though he knew it could never be returned.
"Your father chose a remarkable woman," Kaeloth continued softly. "It is a tragedy that she had to pass while bringing you into this world."
He dabbed at his cheek with a small white handkerchief. Then his brow furrowed, his lips curving into a faint frown.
"Why do you look at me with such disdain?" he asked.
"No… wait."
His gaze sharpened.
"Why are you afraid of me?"
A tremor ran through Fraye. Cold shivers crept down her spine. Though her posture remained composed, her widened eyes betrayed her, caught between fear and fury.
"Your flattering words are nothing more than sweet candy meant for naïve children," Fraye replied, closing her eyes as she released a slow breath.
She struggled to steady herself—but what followed shattered her restraint entirely.
"My words? Is that so?" Kaeloth said, stepping closer to the portrait. He turned back toward her, the faint frown curling into a smile.
Then everything else seemed to fade into darkness—leaving only that horrifyingly calm expression.
"Fraye, I never meant to insult your mother," he continued evenly. "I hold far too much respect for your father. If my words offended you, then you have my apologies."
His gaze returned to the painting, lingering—especially on her father. A note of reverence passed through him as his right hand lifted instinctively, reaching out to touch it.
A collective gasp rippled through the room.
Fraye seized his wrist.
Her grip was iron-tight, her composure finally broken. Tears streamed freely from her eyes as fury twisted her features.
"Take your filthy hand away from that portrait," she hissed.
"What reason do you even have for being here?"
The nobles erupted into hushed murmurs—some whispering that this scandal would stain her father's name, others quietly wondering whether Fraye had just sealed her own fate.
Even so, Kaeloth merely laughed softly, the sound only heightening the tension between them.
"The audacity," he said calmly. "I praised your parents. I came here to offer congratulations—to celebrate your father's achievement."
With a gentle but deliberate motion, he pushed her aside.
As he walked toward the entrance, the guests instinctively parted. Some had already begun slipping away, unwilling to be present any longer.
"If I was unwelcome," Kaeloth added coolly, "perhaps you should have stated so in your speech—or better yet, stood beside your father when doing so."
Before exiting, he paused. Turning once more to the portrait, he bowed his head respectfully—then departed.
Madam Gretel quickly approached Fraye, guiding her away as she signaled the maids and butlers to soothe the unsettled crowd.
"My dear, calm yourself," Gretel whispered, wrapping her arms around the trembling elf. "You must not allow your hatred for that man to consume you. This is your father's celebration. You must keep control."
Though the gathering had not yet ended, the mood had already soured. Unease lingered in every corner of the hall.
As for Fraye, she felt hollow—overwhelmed by shame, rage, and above all, fear.
Outside, as Kaeloth approached the carriage that had brought him, a tall hooded figure emerged from the shadows and pressed a pouch into his hand.
"Forty-five thousand Xian," Sly rasped. "You may count them if you wish. Platinum—all of it."
Kaeloth accepted the pouch and stepped into the carriage.
"Does he require anything further from me?" he asked.
Sly only chuckled as he joined him inside.
"He will contact you when the time comes. For now, take me to the church—of the Almighty Glorious Life. The one whose head priest is undead."
He shut the door.
Kaeloth nodded and whistled for the driver. The horses surged forward, carrying them swiftly toward their destination.
Meanwhile, Volhcard stood in the park, scattering crumbs to the ducks as he gazed skyward. A faint smile curved his lips.
"Content, are we, my dear student?" Dareth asked, approaching from behind.
Volhcard did not turn—only watched the ripples in the water spread outward.