The eighth chime of the Tradespire clock tower rang out, solemn and deliberate, echoing through the high arches of the Council Hall's private antechamber.
Lord Matthian Duskveil stared at the slow swirl of amber in his glass, the silence among his peers louder than any argument. They were waiting for him to change his mind.
He didn't.
"You're making a mistake," Orla Thorne said flatly, her jeweled fingers tapping the rim of her goblet. "A new seat filled by someone who doesn't kneel to the Empire? That's not something we can afford to throw away."
"I haven't thrown anything away," Matthian replied, still watching his drink. "I've simply chosen not to interfere, one way or the other. It's the most I would have done for anyone."
"He's not just anyone," Harel Vantine interjected. "Two records on the unified ranking list before the age of twenty, for fuck's sake! The whole city's been whispering about him for weeks. And the boy's from here, with no ties to any nation, nobody pulling his strings as far as we know…"
"Which only makes it worse," Matthian said, finally looking up. "We don't know who he is. We don't know what he wants. And yet we expect him to help us in this council? Based on what? Rumors and whispers?"
"His hatred of the Empire is well known, far more than just a rumor," Harel scoffed. "He's poured millions into it. My people say he has enough dead war heroes in his backyard to start a museum."
Matthian nodded, not even attempting to deny the claim. The bounty the boy had issued was claiming Imperial lives by the day, and the steady stream of headhunters entering his estate had never stopped.
But that didn't make the boy an ally.
"He holds a grudge," he said simply. "That much is clear. He's driven by emotion, by anger. It will not last. The truth is, we still don't know who he becomes once that anger fades."
There was a long pause.
Matthian stood and paced slowly to the wide balcony overlooking the upper tiers of the council hall. Through the enormous crystal panes, he could see the long table being prepared, scribes and aides moving about like ants below. The hearing would begin soon.
"If we intervene or not, we all know how this will end," he said. "The criteria for joining the council are deliberately rigid. They were designed to keep people out, to prevent this council from being filled with those too weak to shoulder the burden. Trade, connections, power—most don't even meet one of the requirements. This Ezekiel somehow got his foot in the door. I don't care how he managed it, but the fact that he's even on the docket is a miracle on its own."
"And yet," Orla said, "you're content to let that miracle burn."
"No," Matthian said quietly. "I'm content to see if it can walk through fire."
A scoff came from the other end of the table. Orla leaned forward, her fingers tapping lightly against the polished wood. "Don't pretend this is about principle. The hearing was moved up without warning, and we all know he isn't in the city. If he misses the vote, he forfeits the seat."
Matthian met her gaze without blinking. "If Ezekiel is to sit among us, he must prove he belongs. If he can't overcome something as small as a rescheduled hearing, then he's not ready to wear a Lord's chain."
"Small?" Lord Harel's voice rose slightly. "We all saw the report. He left for the Wilderness barely ten days ago. This was clearly a move by those empire dogs to break his wings. How is he supposed to return in time?"
"He's resourceful," Matthian said simply. "And if he isn't, then it wasn't meant to be."
A tense silence followed. No one spoke, but Matthian could feel the judgment in the room, thick and heavy.
They thought him cold. Harsh. Disloyal to their cause for turning his back on a promising contender.
Let them.
They didn't see the long game, didn't understand what it meant to shape a promising stone into a brilliant gem—someone who might one day guide Tradespire through storms that hadn't yet formed. The boy was gifted, no doubt. But cleverness alone wouldn't be enough. Not here. Not among those who smiled while sharpening blades.
If they truly wanted the boy to survive in this place, they had to let him struggle first.
Let him bleed.
If he were worthy of the seat, he would take it with his own hands. And if he didn't, then he was never meant to stand among them.
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The distant clang of ceremonial spears marked the hour. It was time.
The merchant lords rose and filed into the main chamber. Matthian followed, his expression calm, though his thoughts churned beneath the surface like a gathering storm.
The hearing began with the usual formalities—reports on grain subsidies, a dispute over silver tariffs, updates from the outer trade routes. Matthian listened in silence.
Then, the Speaker rose.
"Before we adjourn," he said, his voice echoing through the high chamber, "one final matter remains."
A ripple of anticipation moved through the gathered lords. They all knew what was on today's docket. It was no coincidence that so many of the usually absent lords had chosen to attend, especially the ones aligned with the Empire.
They had come to make things difficult for the boy, no doubt.
"The Council will now consider the induction of a new member. All lords are requested to remain or forfeit their voice in this matter."
Servants closed the tall bronze doors with a resonant thud. The guards moved to their stations along the edges of the chamber.
"Summon the nominee," the Speaker announced. "Ezekiel of Tradespire."
A heavy silence followed.
No one moved.
The pause stretched, every second amplifying the absence.
Everyone knew the boy had left the city.
Everyone knew the odds of his presence today.
"…Perhaps Tradespire's newest prodigy considers punctuality beneath him," someone murmured, just loud enough to be heard across the chamber.
Matthian recognized the voice instantly. Lord Joseph Fies, his pro-Empire counterpart, and a snake through and through. He was already working to smear the boy's reputation before the hearing had even begun.
The vultures were circling.
A few chuckles followed, low and derisive. Lords leaned toward one another, whispering in hushed tones.
"I heard he was in the Wilderness," one voice said.
"Maybe he fled, knowing he wouldn't pass."
"Or maybe he never meant to come at all."
Even Matthian didn't interrupt the murmuring. Let them talk, he thought. Let them show their hand before the game began.
Then came the sound—boots on stone.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Heavier than they should have been.
The room froze.
Every head turned toward the great bronze doors. The echo of each step rang louder than the last.
A knock followed. Not rushed. Not forceful. Just… firm.
The guards exchanged a brief glance, then opened the doors in unison.
Two silhouettes emerged from the blinding corridor beyond.
One tall and robed, face hidden.
The other young, sharp-eyed, unmistakable.
Crimson hair, wild and vibrant like fresh blood in the snow.
He walked with unhurried confidence, his gaze sweeping over the chamber without a hint of deference.
And when his eyes found Matthian, for the briefest instant, it felt as though the boy were standing above them all, looking down on the lords from the floor below.
How unsettling!
Perhaps it was due to Matthian's finely tuned senses, sharpened by decades of reading the slightest shifts in expression, but he could tell.
This young man was a predator, his feral nature carefully concealed beneath layers of silken robes and a neutral mask. But he could see through the disguise. There was something unmistakably bestial in his gaze, a haughty kind of arrogance, the likes he had not seen in any man.
Matthian swallowed.
This was the boy rumored to be a clever negotiator, gifted engineer, and magical prodigy?
Him?
If someone had told him Ezekiel had been raised by wolves in the wilderness, he would have been less surprised.
After finishing his inspection of the gathered lords, the young man turned his attention to the Speaker.
"Ezekiel of Tradespire," he introduced himself, as if responding to a passerby rather than addressing the Speaker of the Merchant Council, a figure who outranked even seasoned lords like Matthian in authority.
A murmur of discontent swept through the crowd. Matthian frowned as well. The boy wasn't making any friends with this kind of behavior.
"So I see," the Speaker replied without missing a beat. "Now that your attendance has been—"
"A moment," a voice interrupted, freezing the entire hall. Even Matthian's breath caught.
Could it be?
"I will attend this hearing, if the council has no objections," the voice said.
Matthian finally remembered how to breathe and immediately turned toward the highest seat in the chamber, the one set apart from all the others, positioned a full level above even the Merchant Lords.
It was a seat that was always empty.
The last time its occupant had spoken in this chamber was years ago, when a new law threatened the council's authority and the future of free trade itself.
Only during moments of great consequence had that voice echoed through these halls.
And now, it had returned.
Matthian's ears hadn't deceived him. Behind the curtain shielding the elevated seat, he could just make out three silhouettes. A royal Messenger stood on either side, and in the center sat none other than King Midas himself.
The legendary founder of Tradespire and the richest man on the continent had come in person to oversee the hearing.
The implications… were staggering.
Matthian turned his gaze back to the boy, who was also looking up at the King. He caught it just in time—a flicker of something across the young man's face, an emotion that didn't belong there.
Hostility?
No. That couldn't be. Yet Matthian couldn't ignore what his instincts were telling him.
His thoughts began to race. It was becoming clear that there were many things he didn't know about this boy and the circumstances surrounding this hearing. The fact that the King himself had made an appearance only confirmed it.
Once again, Matthian silently praised his decision to stay out of the matter.
No matter how gifted the boy might be, he certainly wasn't worth the risk of wading into such dangerous waters. And judging by the look on Ezekiel's face, he had never expected anyone's support to begin with.
He looked at them all the same way, without distinction. Pro-Empire, anti-Empire—it made no difference. This young man saw no allies in the chamber, only prey.
"Of course not, Your Majesty," the Speaker said after a pause. "It would be our honor to have you preside over this hearing."
"What about you, Ezekiel of Tradespire? Do you consent to my presence?" the King asked, surprising everyone in the room.
The young man remained silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the curtain concealing the King's features, as if willing it to open. Then a faint smile touched his lips, softening his expression and revealing a glimpse of the boyish charm expected from someone his age.
"Of course," he said. "I would prefer to have you close, your majesty."