The opera was simply evidence of the power held by old families. Crystal chandeliers, gilded balconies, velvet curtains that had cost more than most villages saw in a year. Welst had been here before, in another life, when his father's name still opened doors. The memories sat on him like a heavy stone, but he managed to push it aside.
He adjusted his cuffs, smoothed the front of his coat, and stepped through the entrance.
The crowd parted for him in small, subtle ways. A noblewoman he recognized from the academy's charity galas inclined her head. A minor baron who had once dined at his father's table offered a thin, uncertain smile. They were watching him, all of them, waiting to see what the disgraced son of the Leuchtenberg family had become.
Welst smiled back. He had practiced this smile. It was warm, open, just slightly self-deprecating—the smile of a man who had nothing to prove and everything to gain.
"Mister Welst." Lady Mirabelle appeared at his elbow, her gown a cascade of emerald silk, her smile sharp as glass. "I hadn't heard you were back in the capital."
"I'm not staying for long." Welst took her hand, bowed over it with just the right amount of deference. "The Heroes keep me busy. The Bow Hero in particular is quite demanding."
Her eyebrows rose. "The Bow Hero. Noritoshi Kamo."
"You know him?" Welst asked, as if the name were nothing. As if the whole room weren't listening.
"I know of him." Lady Mirabelle's voice dropped, conspiratorial. "The noble houses talk. He's been seen at various places... in the lower district. With the Shield Hero at that. I must say, the two of them have been making quite a stir in the capital."
"The Shield Hero has been doing important work down there," Welst said mildly. "The Bow Hero supports him. They're quite dedicated at fulfilling their duty."
"Dedicated to their duty." She tasted the words. "To what, exactly? What do they see as their duty?"
Welst smiled. "Of course, it's the people this kingdom has forgotten." He let his gaze drift across the opera house, taking in the silk and jewels, the glittering wealth that had built itself on backs that were not its own. "The Bow Hero has a particular fondness for the downtrodden, especially the demi-humans. No, it's because they're demi-humans that they became miserable. But still, he finds their resilience... admirable."
Lady Mirabelle's smile flickered. Around them, conversations had quieted, just slightly, just enough for his words to carry.
"How... unusual."
"Is it?" Welst turned to face her fully, his expression open, guileless. "I find it refreshing. A Hero who sees the value in all of the kingdom's people and not just the ones with titles. Not to mention he's very open with everyone he's met so far."
He let the words hang, let them settle into the silence he had created. Then he laughed, easy and warm.
"But listen to me, going on about politics when there's an opera to enjoy. I hear the soprano is magnificent tonight."
Lady Mirabelle laughed too, a little too quickly, a little too loudly. Around them, the conversations resumed, but the currents had shifted. Welst could feel it. They would talk about this later, in their carriages, in their drawing rooms, in the quiet moments between courses at dinner. The Leuchtenberg boy. The one who fell from favor, but he's with the Bow Hero now. And the Bow Hero, apparently, has opinions about demi-humans.
"You must tell me more about this Bow Hero. Perhaps over tea? I'm hosting a small gathering on Thursday. The Marquist of Selby will be there. And Lord Vance, of course. He's always interested in hearing about the Heroes."
Welst inclined his head. "I would be honored."
She smiled, and it was almost warm. "Then I shall expect you."
She drifted away, her emerald gown trailing behind her, and Welst allowed himself a small, satisfied breath. One.
He made his way to his seat, accepting congratulations on his position, deflecting questions about the Heroes' plans, offering nothing but warmth and availability and the faint, tantalizing suggestion that he might, perhaps, be worth cultivating.
The second offer worth mentioning came from a man he had not expected.
Lord Ashford was old money, older than the Leuchtenberg, older than most family in the capital with only the royal family as the exception, old enough that his family had been noble before Melromarc was Melromarc. He stood by the champagne fountain, his silver hair immaculate, his eyes pale and sharp, and he was watching Welst with the patience of a man accustomed to wait decades simply for one right single moment.
"Mister Welst." His voice was dry, papery, the voice of a man who had outlived everyone he had ever loved. "I heard you've been spending time with the Heroes."
Welst approached with care. Ashford was not a man to be rushed. "The Bow Hero has been kind enough to include me in his work."
"The Bow Hero." Ashford's lips pressed together, considering. "I remember him, the one who caused the scene at the castle. The one who so openly disrespected every single noble and even the royal family in this country with what looks like not a single thought in his brain."
"He believes in doing what's right." Welst let the words settle. "Regardless of what others think."
Ashford was quiet for a moment.
"My family has a record of his predecessor, did you know that? Ah, guessing by your expression, you did not know. The last Bow Hero." His eyes went distant, seeing something Welst could not. "He was a fool. A charming fool, but a fool. He thought he could save everyone, and he died trying." He looked at Welst, and there was something sharp in his gaze. "Is this one a fool too?"
Welst considered his answer carefully. "He is careful. He plans. He does not rush into things without understanding the cost." He paused. "But when he acts, he acts. He does not wait for permission."
Ashford nodded slowly. "Good. The world has enough people who wait for permission." He reached into his coat, produced a small card, pressed it into Welst's hand. "If your Hero ever needs a place to hide, or a voice to speak for him, my doors are open. The old families remember what it was like before the rot set in. Some of us would like to see it gone."
He was gone before Welst could respond, disappearing into the crowd with ease.
Welst looked down at the card. Plain. Unmarked. No name, no title, just an address in the old quarter and a single word: Ashford.
He tucked it into his coat. Two.
By the time the curtains rose on the second act, Welst had collected half a dozen invitations, a handful of promises, and a list of names that would have made Beloukas weep with envy. He had made himself visible, made himself valuable, made himself the man that everyone wanted to know.
He took his seat in the third row, beside Lady Mirabelle and her emerald gown, and let the music wash over him. The soprano was magnificent. The orchestra was flawless. And Welst, the disgraced son of the Leuchtenberg family, smiled and applauded and let the world believe that he was nothing more than a lucky scholar who had fallen into favor with Heroes.
But in his coat, the cards and letters and folded lists pressed against his chest, and he could feel them there with every breath.
When the final curtain fell, when the applause faded and the crowd began to disperse, Lady Mirabelle touched his arm again.
"You'll come to my salon on Thursday, won't you? I have so many people who want to meet you."
Welst smiled. "I wouldn't miss it."
She left, and he let her go. He waited until the crowd thinned, until the nobles who mattered had disappeared into their carriages, until only the servants remained, extinguishing lamps and gathering forgotten programs.
Then he slipped out through the back door.
The alley was dark, wet with recent rain, and smelling of recent puke from the drunken people around. A guard stood by the service entrance, his uniform neat, his posture bored. He straightened when Welst appeared.
Welst pressed a pouch into his hand. Heavy. Generous. "For the trouble. I apologize for accidentally getting in without proper background check and reservation. Must have been quite the headache for you."
The guard weighed the pouch, glanced at Welst's face, and nodded once. "No trouble at all, sir. Must have been a clerical error."
"Indeed." Welst stepped past him, into the waiting carriage, and let the door close behind him.
He sat in the dark, listening to the wheels turn, and counted.
Two. Two influential families could be supporting him now. Carberab. Ashford. Both old, both respected, both with more power than they let anyone see.
He smiled. It was his chance.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Days Passed
The carriage wheels turned, and the days turned with them.
Welst attended Lady Mirabelle's salon on Thursday, as promised. The gathering was smaller than he expected—a dozen nobles in a drawing room that smelled of old roses and older ambitions. Lord Vance was there, his eyes sharp, his questions sharper. The Marquist of Selby asked about the Heroes' plans with carefully masked disinterest, making it looks like as if he already knew the answer.
But it was Lady Mirabelle who controlled the room. She moved through her guests like a spider through its web, touching an arm here, laughing at a joke there, never letting the conversation drift too far from where she wanted it.
When she finally drew Welst aside, it was with a cup of tea and a smile that had not changed in forty years.
"You've done well for yourself, Mister Welst. Considering... everything."
Welst accepted the tea. "I've been fortunate."
"Fortune favors the prepared." She seated herself across from him, her emerald gown pooling around her like water. "Tell me. What do you know of the Reichnott family?"
Welst's pulse quickened. He kept his expression neutral. "They're wealthy. Merchants, originally. They've built considerable influence through trade."
"Yes." Lady Mirabelle smiled. "But do you know where that wealth comes from?"
He waited.
"The Reichnott family are a secret distant branch of a line that long ago stopped being nobility. Their titles are gone, their lands are gone, but their wealth remains. They have spent generations accumulating what others have discarded—factories, mines, trade routes. Things that nobles consider beneath them, things that make real power." She leaned forward. "They have more political pull in the court than most dukes. And they have been waiting for someone to invest in."
Welst set down his tea. "You're offering to connect me with them."
"I am offering to connect dear Reichnott with you." Her smile widened. "Consider this as me throwing in my lot with you, Mister Welst. I am too old to wait for another generation to act. If the Heroes are truly going to change things, I want to be on the right side of that change. And the Reichnott family—" She paused, savoring the words. "They will be very interested in what you have to say."
Lord Ashford's invitation came right after.
The Ashford estate was older than the palace, older than the capital itself. Its walls were thick stone, its halls narrow, its windows small against the cold. Welst was led through corridors that had not changed in centuries, past portraits of men and women who had died before Melromarc was a kingdom, into a study that smelled of leather and dust.
Lord Ashford sat behind a massive desk, his silver hair gleaming in the firelight, his eyes pale and patient.
"You've been busy," he said. "Mirabelle speaks highly of you. That is not a thing she does lightly."
Welst inclined his head. "I'm honored."
"You should be." Ashford gestured to a chair. "Sit. Tell me about the Heroes. Not the ones I've heard in the stories or the rumors. The ones you actually know."
Welst sat. He told him about Noritoshi's calm, Naofumi's stubbornness, the way they worked together even when they disagreed. He told him about the children in Beloukas's cages, about the plan for Rabiel's estate. He told him enough to be believed, not enough to be dangerous.
When he finished, Ashford was quiet for a long moment.
"The Aberdeen family," he said finally, "is still legitimate nobility. They're quite new, all things considered. They have been neutral for most of their time existing, watching and waiting, firmly refusing to take sides." He leaned back in his chair. "They are also the Ashford family's closest allies. What you are building—this coalition, this movement—it will need legitimate names. People who can stand in the open without fear of being dismissed as radicals or traitors."
He reached into his desk, produced a sealed letter, placed it on the leather blotter.
"The Aberdeen family has been waiting for someone to give them a reason to act. Take this to them. Tell them Ashford sent you." He paused. "And tell them that the world is changing. Those who do not choose a side will be chosen for."
Welst left the Ashford estate with the letter pressed against his chest, right beside the card Lady Mirabelle had given him.
The carriage rolled through the capital's streets, past the lit windows of houses where nobles were dining, scheming, pretending the world was not about to shift beneath their feet.
Two families. Carberab and Ashford. Two pillars of neutrality in this country, reaching out of the shadows to offer their support. They told him to keep it a secret from everyone. Even the heroes they're supporting. At least for now. And through them, the Reichnott family, the Aberdeen family, and maybe more, in the future would also become their allies.
He had told Noritoshi nothing. He could not. Not yet. The neutral families had survived for centuries by staying in the shadows, by letting no one know which side they favored. If their support became known too early and their names were linked to the Heroes before the victory was certain, there's a decent chance the king or maybe even the Church would take action and they would be destroyed. Everything he was building would crumble before it could stand.
So he kept their secrets for now. It would be hard to keep this up considering Noritoshi unlocked that weird bow with the map. But now that he already told Noritoshi about the Reichnott and Aberdeen family, he finally has a good reason on why he's often located at expensive salons in the capital. And when Noritoshi asked how the work was progressing, he smiled and said: Slowly. But it's progressing.
It was not a lie. It was just not the whole truth.