The atmosphere in the room returned to calm, Starmist just stroked his palm with his thumb and looked at it blankly, thinking about his nephew's words.

  One of the maids, a young woman with auburn hair and trembling hands, finally spoke in a whisper. “Forgive me, my lady… but what’s happening to this family?”

  Starmist turned slowly, surprised by her boldness — then smiled faintly. “You may drop the act now, Sicilia.”

  The “maid” chuckled, her voice shifting — becoming bolder, layered with something inhuman. A shimmer of orange light rippled over her body. Her mortal disguise peeled away like shedding silk, revealing her true form: pale orange skin, two elegant black horns curving backward from her temples, midnight hair cascading to her waist, and a sinuous tail swaying lazily behind her. Her long nails, the color of obsidian, gleamed faintly as she moved.

  The demoness wore a purple satin gown — deceptively soft, yet dangerous in the way moonlight can be dangerous and walked with the poise of someone who understood the balance between temptation and wisdom.

  Sicilia of the Sorcerer Faction, half-human, half-demon. One of the last of her kind in the All Realm, and Stargate’s unofficial adviser in all things mystical and political.

  She circled the room slowly, fingers tracing the edges of ornate boxes and letters stacked neatly near the window. Her nails clicked lightly against the ribbons.

  “So many love letters,” she mused with a teasing smile. “Seems you’re still the most desired woman in the realm.”

  Starmist chuckled softly. “They’re simply trying to maintain good relations with Stargate. Nothing more.”

  “Oh, please,” Sicilia said, glancing over her shoulder with a raised brow. “You’ve always had that effect, drawing attention without even trying.”

  “Everyone has their own kind of charm,” Starmist replied. “Everyone just as special in their own way.”

  The demoness stopped mid-stride, her tail flicking once behind her. She turned, her eyes gleaming a molten gold as she met Starmist’s calm gaze.

  “Yes,” she said quietly, “but it seems not all women are seen that way.”

  There was no malice in her voice, only weariness or envy. But before the silence could deepen, Starmist smiled — genuine, kind, disarming.

  “Then they’re the ones who can’t see clearly,” she said softly.

  Sicilia blinked, caught off guard. A reluctant smile crept onto her lips, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of shame. “You really do make it hard to hate you, Starmist.”

  Just then, the door opened again — hard.

  Starfall stepped in, clearly having forgotten something. “I—” He froze mid-sentence, eyes widening as he spotted Sicilia in her full form.

  “Whoa.” He grinned, leaning on the doorframe. “Sicilia, ever thought about using a more… friendly form?”

  The demoness’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

  He laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, I’m kidding! Don’t get all fiery on me.”

  Starfall adjusted his cuffs, half in irritation, half in panic, before turning back to his aunt. “If Father suddenly returns,” he said hurriedly, “please tell him I wasn’t here. Say I went to the training grounds or whatever you want. Just… don’t say I came.”

  Before Starmist could even form a reply, he was already gone the sound of his shoes echoing down the marble hall, fading like a heartbeat retreating into distance.

  The doorway trembled faintly in his wake.

  Starmist exhaled a long, tired breath. “My nephew…” she murmured, shaking her head slightly. “Always running from his duty.”

  Sicilia folded her arms, one brow arched, her tail flicking lazily behind her. “In our time, we faced monsters,” she said with a half-smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Now the new generation trembles at the thought of their fathers.”

  There was venom in her tone, but also truth — the kind that stung both of them.

  Starmist’s gaze softened. “Children born in war become different creatures, Sicilia.”

  The demoness didn’t argue. She only hummed in quiet agreement, turning her eyes toward the horizon beyond the balcony. The sky above Stargate shimmered faintly, the kind of calm that comes before something vast and unseen begins to stir.

  After a long silence, Sicilia finally spoke again — her voice lower, more deliberate. “Speaking of monsters… what do you make of King Alvoria’s death? You think someone else was in that Colosseum? Someone the Council missed?”

  Starmist’s eyes closed for a moment, fatigue seeping into every breath. Her recovery was still fragile, her strength not yet fully returned.

  “That,” she said slowly, “is a question to ask to your master. He always sees through the dark better than I do.”

  Sicilia’s golden eyes flickered, a brief reflection of concern beneath her usual mischief.

  And for the first time since the battle, the music outside had stopped. Only the whisper of wind and the soft pulse

  A week had passed since the tragedy.

  When the Council convened in Caelumreach, only four had attended in person: Leroy, Cygnus, Amaterasu, and Elysius.

  The others Starmist, Lucretius, and Bjorn had appeared through transmitters, their images flickering with static, voices echoing faintly through ether distortion.

  Even from afar, the wound in their ranks was palpable.

  Now, the meeting was over. The storm of arguments had passed, and silence followed. Leroy left the floating city and traveled eastward, into the mainland — to a place the others rarely dared to go.

  District three, the entertainment sector of the Mainland, was alive as always.

  Even at night, its boulevards pulsed with noise and color — music, laughter. Children clung to their parents’ hands. It was the beating heart of distraction — the one place in the All Realm that refused to sleep.

  And somewhere among the maze of theaters, fighting pits, and taverns stood the dome-shaped bar that everyone knew by name.

  The Pristine House.

  A monument to excess and power — part theater, part forge, part refuge for the unhinged and the extraordinary.

  Leroy arrived at its gilded doors with a few of his Tallymasters in tow.

  The moment they entered, a wave of sound hit them — laughter, glass shattering, the deep rumble of music emanating from the etheric strings of a war-lute.

  The bar was crowded with Weapon Masters — men and women, some cloaked in ceremonial armor, others half-drunk and adorned in relic tattoos that pulsed faintly in time with their heartbeats. The air smelled of smoke, sweat, and alcohol.

  Leroy didn’t bother hiding his face.

  There was no point — everyone here knew him. The moment he stepped inside, the hum of noise shifted; glances turned his way, followed by a chorus of voices.

  “Hey! Make way, First Brother here!”

  “Councilman Leroy! Get the best table ready!”

  A burly old man, already halfway through a mug of ale, raised his drink in salute, spilling half of it in the process. Laughter rolled through the crowd like thunder.

  Commoners and Weapon Masters alike rose to greet him, some with bows, others with the informal warmth only the weapon guilds could afford.

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  “Our First Brother’s back!” someone shouted, the nickname echoing through the room.

  Leroy grinned faintly and clinked mugs, exchanging a few brief toasts as he made his way to the bar counter. Despite the energy around him, his calm never wavered. He had that kind of composure that silenced a room without effort — authority wrapped in patience.

  When he reached the counter, he raised a finger. “Water,” he said simply.

  The bartender — a tall man with oil-slicked hair blinked, then chuckled as he poured the drink.

  “Six months since I’ve seen that face,” the bartender said, sliding the glass across. “Didn’t think the great Chairman of Unus Bank remembered us lowly drinkers.”

  Leroy took the glass, letting the condensation run down his glove before taking a slow sip. “Too many things to fix,” he said dryly. “And not enough hands to fix them.”

  The water was cold, and it grounded him — a small act of discipline in a room built for indulgence.

  From the corner of his eye, he noticed two Weapon Masters wrestling drunkenly near the corner table. Half-fighting, half-laughing, shattering another chair in the process. Nobody intervened. Not even the bartender.

  This was the way of District three. Chaos was tradition here.

  Leroy allowed himself a small chuckle. “Some things never change,” he murmured.

  “Hah, not in this place,” the bartender said. “We’re born to brawl and break tables, not debate politics like you Council types.”

  “Maybe that’s why I like it here,” Leroy replied, setting the glass down.

  The bartender leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Looking for someone tonight?”

  Leroy’s gaze drifted to the far end of the room — the stairway that led below, toward the private chambers where only high-ranking Weapon Masters gathered.

  “Are they here?” he asked quietly.

  The bartender shook his head, expression turning somber. “Not one of them. Haven’t seen a few of your usuals in over a month.”

  Leroy’s smile faded.

  He tapped the rim of his glass once — a soft, rhythmic sound against the wood. “Is that so…”

  Leroy exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that felt heavier than it should.

  He reached up, unclasping the small council emblem pinned to his chest — a silver crest marked with the sigil of the Unus Bank. It wasn’t an act of humility; it was practicality. He slipped the pin into his coat pocket and drew out another one — a bronze medallion, dull with age, engraved with a crowned skull tilted slightly to the right, twin swords crossed behind it.

  He pinned it to his left breast. The insignia of the Weapon Masters.

  A different loyalty. A different way of life.

  “I’m the busiest man in the All Realm,” he muttered with a faint grin, “and somehow I’m still the only one who knows how to keep time.”

  The humor didn’t reach his eyes.

  Ten minutes passed. The laughter upstairs dulled into a background hum. No one came.

  Finally, with a sigh of mild irritation, Leroy rose from his seat and turned to the bartender.

  “If they show up,” he said, “tell them I’m below.”

  The bartender nodded silently. Leroy didn’t need to explain which “below” he meant.

  He descended the staircase at the back of the bar — a narrow spiral of gray marble that wound downward for what felt like forever. Three floors deep, the air grew cooler, cleaner. The underground of the Pristine House was not like the grim basements of common taverns. It was refined — designed for secrecy, not squalor.

  Gray marble walls gleamed faintly under candlelight. Gilded frames held portraits of ancient duels and long-dead Weapon Masters. Glass cases displayed blades, gauntlets, and other crafts that no longer had names. The scent was of polished stone and chilled wine, not earth or rot.

  A few attendants stood waiting, dressed in dark uniforms, silent as shadows. The Tallymasters had already done their work, the crates were stacked neatly in the corner, sealed and marked. Their contents were known only to him and the Council.

  Leroy stepped into the central chamber — the heart of the underground.

  A great round table dominated the room, surrounded by ten empty chairs. Above it hung a golden chandelier that bathed the space in warm amber light. The silence was deep, but not unfriendly — the kind of silence meant for confidences, conspiracies, and decisions too dangerous for daylight.

  He sat down, gloved fingers brushing against the smooth surface of the table. A few documents lay scattered there — contracts, cargo manifests, weapon blueprints — the paper trail of things best forgotten.

  Leroy sighed again, activated his transmitter, and waited.

  Static flickered briefly — then a voice, soft and unmistakably elegant, filled the room.

  “Hello.”

  “Starmist,” Leroy greeted, his voice echoing faintly against the marble walls. “As we discussed before — I’ve brought the crates. I spoke with Cygnus and Amaterasu earlier today. Everything’s in motion.”

  “Let’s hope they don’t lose patience with us,” Starmist replied. “We’ve delayed too long already.”

  Leroy chuckled quietly. “Patience isn’t exactly a virtue among Weapon Masters.”

  “Speaking of patience,” she continued gently, “did you ever manage to reach your brother, by yourself?”

  Leroy leaned back in his chair, the faintest hint of weariness in his expression. “Not yet. I was hoping to meet him before the Silver Chair convenes.”

  “He’s… busy lately, but I'll arrange your meeting with him before Silver Chair” Starmist said, her tone carefully neutral.

  “I'm counting on you,” Leroy murmured, though there was something resigned beneath the words.

  Sensing the change in his tone, Starmist shifted the subject lightly.

  “Your friends, they haven’t arrived yet?”

  Leroy glanced around the empty chamber, the ten chairs standing like witnesses to an invisible gathering.

  “Same as always,” Leroy muttered, irritation threading through his voice. “They’re useless.”

  Starmist laughed softly through the transmitter — that melodic, slightly teasing sound that only she could make.

  “You haven’t changed,” she said.

  Leroy’s expression softened a fraction, though his eyes stayed fixed on the table. His finger began tapping absently against the polished surface — a rhythmic tick of thought.

  “I forgot to ask,” he said at last. “How’s Starlax holding up?”

  “Oh.” Starmist’s tone shifted — a fondness creeping in. “She locked himself in her room for three days. Wouldn’t speak to anyone. But once she got some sweets, she was back to normal.”

  Leroy chuckled under his breath. “That sounds about right.”

  “And Starfall?” he asked.

  “Still doesn’t care,” she replied simply.

  “Of course not,” Leroy sighed. “Pass my regards to Starlax, will you? Should I send a gift?”

  “No need,” said Starmist. “He’s received more than enough lately. Oh—speaking of, our faction will hold a gathering next week at Stargate. You should come. You might even catch my brother there.”

  “Stargate…” Leroy mused. “Alright. I’ll make time for it.”

  They exchanged farewells, brief and formal, before the line went silent. The faint glow of the transmitter dimmed, leaving only the steady flicker of the chandelier above.

  Leroy leaned back, staring at the empty seats that surrounded him. The echo of their conversation lingered in the stillness.

  “Pathetic,” he muttered again. “What’s going on in those useless heads of theirs?”

  His voice carried softly through the marble chamber, swallowed by the quiet.

  He summoned a servant formal attire. “Bring me something to eat while I wait. Anything.”

  The servant run and left.

  Leroy rubbed his temples, eyes half-lidded with boredom. Waiting was not his art; planning was.

  But for now, all he could do was sit alone, in a vault three stories underground.

  After a few moments, he sighed again and flicked on the transmitter, this time dialing Bjorn.

  No response.

  “Of course,” he muttered. “The man’s probably sleeping on his office again.”

  He hesitated, then switched the frequency to another channel. “Elysius,” he said aloud, waiting as static filled the air.

  A faint click. Then, the soft, breezy voice of a young boy:

  “Hello, this is Elysius.”

  “Elysius, it’s me,” Leroy replied. “Where are you now?”

  “Relaxing, more or less,” the boy said, his voice breaking slightly under a gust of wind. “D’Hertz and I are walking around District five, watching the trade ships come in. Needed a bit of air. Why do you ask?”

  Leroy paused. The truth was, he hadn’t planned to ask anything. He was simply restless — a man too accustomed to noise to bear the sound of his own solitude.

  But instinct filled the gap where reason faltered. His tone shifted, finding purpose.

  “Tell me,” he said, voice lowering. “Have you heard the rumors? About the illegal relic trade resurfacing again?”

  “Heard of it, yes,” said the boy’s voice, faint beneath the hum of wind and the lazy strum of D’Hertz’s guitar in the background, “but I don’t really understand it yet.”

  Leroy leaned back in his chair, one hand resting against the side of his jaw as he spoke — calm, deliberate, his tone threading between irritation and intrigue.

  “Some Extraterrestrial Houses are suspected of running the trade,” he explained, his words slow and measured. “A few commonfolk kingdoms have been aiding them quietly — lending ports, licenses, silence. But this time, it’s not just the usual smuggling. There are unregistered relics changing hands… and Cryon batteries too.”

  A faint pause, filled by the echo of D’Hertz plucking at the strings.

  “Batteries?” Elysius asked, curiosity surfacing through the static.

  “Yes,” Leroy said. “And not the cheap kind. These were produced illegally, outside Council oversight. That means someone has access to Forger blueprints — or worse, is working with one.”

  He heard the boy hum thoughtfully on the other end. Though Elysius was young, he listened with the kind of patience that made elders proud or nervous. Leroy could sense it: the quiet sharpness behind that polite tone.

  “I think I remember a line about this during the last Council meeting,” Elysius said, the wind catching his voice again. “But it was dismissed too quickly.”

  “That’s why I’m telling you now,” Leroy replied. “Look into it. Quietly. You’ve got the mind for it, faster than most of those old relics sitting in the chamber.”

  A small laugh came through the transmitter.

  “Understood, brother. I’ll check the Council archives later.”

  “Good.” Leroy’s voice softened. “I’m counting on you.”

  “Of course.”

  The signal clicked faintly, then fell into silence.

  Leroy sat there for a long moment, staring at the small transmitter crystal as its light faded to black. The sound of its hum died out, leaving the heavy stillness of the underground room.

  He wasn’t one for idleness. If he was alone, he might as well work.

  From the side table, he pulled a stack of reports — financial ledgers marked with the sigils of the Tallymasters. Columns of numbers, handwritten notes, authorization seals — the lifeblood of All Realm’s economy rendered in neat, exhausting ink.

  He began to read, though his eyes often drifted toward the empty chairs circling the round table. The chandelier above flickered once, its light catching on the edge of his bronze emblem.

  The documents detailed the endless machinery of empire:

  Domestic and intergalactic trade.

  Emergency funding requests from Silver Chair protectorates.

  Resource subsidies for The Forger, whose creations powered half the realm.

  Humanitarian allocations for the Sevenstar Foundation, written in cold bureaucratic precision.

  All numbers. All systems. No soul.

  Leroy rubbed his temple and sighed. Money, he thought, is the cruelest relic of them all.

  This all of it, was why he needed to meet Lord Star: patriarch of the Star lineage, elder brother of Starmist, father of Starlax and Starfall, and one of the wealthiest. The man didn’t just understand balance sheets, he commanded economies.

  Leroy skimmed another page, but the numbers swam before his eyes. He wasn’t built for this kind of war — the silent one fought with ledgers and interests.

  He closed the report halfway through, resting his elbows on the table, fingers steepled before his lips.