Snow drifted gently across the grounds of an expansive estate—white flakes caught in the glow of crystalline lamps lining a courtyard paved with dark stone. Towers rose at the property's edges, their silhouettes carved like ancient spires yet outfitted with glass panels that shimmered with internal circuitry. The main house stretched wide, its sharp eaves dusted with fresh snow, its walls a blend of carved stonework and polished alloy. Warm light glowed from tall, arching windows, casting a golden haze over the wintry scene.
Inside, the office where the two men met carried the same duality. Bookshelves carved from synthetic timber lined one wall, filled with leather-bound volumes. The opposite wall was sleek metal, embedded with softly blinking monitors. A wide desk of dark wood and reinforced plating stood between them, illuminated by the soft flicker of a suspended luminary crystal.
The older man sat with effortless poise. His attire—a suit woven with subtle microbial threads, his shoulder bore a sleeping mantle of midnight blue fabric while the opposite sleeve bloomed an ivory lace — he reflected wealth and prestige. Brown hair slicked back and streaked with grey framed a face both handsome and calculating, light brown eyes studying every detail with quiet confidence and a healthy Chevron style mustache resting on his face. His build was lean, but stern in its refinement, his presence carried the weight of someone used to command.
Across from him stood a man in a militaristic uniform—deep charcoal fabric reinforced with insulated plating meant for long winters, the collar lined with white synth-fur and five golden medals which resembled suns on his chest. Wheat-blonde hair was clipped clean, pale green eyes fixed straight ahead. His posture was exact, his expression devoid of warmth, nearly mechanical in its restraint.
"They've been escalating," the officer reported, voice crisp. "Another spike of Hlyr, stronger than last week's. And all of them originating from the slums."
The older man tapped a finger on the desk, thoughtful. "Strange, isn't it? So much raw power showing up in such a… neglected part of our beloved bastion of humanity."
His lips curved into a faint smile. "If I didn't know better, I'd think someone was hiding something from us."
"Other Houses have already taken notice," the officer replied.
"House Vesten has begun mobilizing observers. House Cindrel submitted a request to intervene—'for public safety.'"
"Public safety," the nobleman repeated with soft amusement. "Their favorite excuse."
The officer's jaw tightened. "If the spikes continue, they'll demand military access to the lower districts."
"Yes," the older man said, leaning back in his chair. "And that… would complicate matters."
He studied the officer for a long moment.
"You owe me a debt do you not, Sir Foyd," he said at last.
The younger man didn't deny it. His eyes flickered—just barely. "I haven't forgotten."
"Good." The nobleman folded his hands. "Because I need a favor. Something discreet. Something only someone of your… discipline can manage."
A pause stretched between them like tension pulled taut.
Finally, the officer inclined his head. "What do you require?"
The nobleman's smile sharpened, though his voice remained smooth. "A simple thing, really. Keep the others occupied. Delay their movements. And retrieve something for me from the slums before anyone else realizes the value."
"You're certain this is wise?" the officer asked quietly.
"Certainty is a luxury." The nobleman stood, stepping toward the window where snow drifted beyond the glass. "But opportunity? That must be seized."
The officer bowed his head slightly—acceptance given, though grudging.
"As you command, my loyalty lies with the House of Achrion" he said, as if programmed down to the last syllable.
"Excellent." The older man's expression was serene, almost gentle.
But his eyes gleamed with calculation.
"Then let us begin."