Every eye followed Ezekiel's gaze upward, tracking the invisible line of his sight into what appeared to be nothing more than empty sky. Clear blue stretched endlessly above them, unmarred by cloud or craft.
Tristan's jaw tightened. The muscles in his neck protested as he craned to look higher, searching for whatever phantom the boy claimed to see. This had gone beyond the realm of eccentricity. Either Ezekiel von Hohenheim had taken leave of his senses entirely, or there was something at play that defied understanding.
A shift in the ambient Mana drew his attention sharply to the left. Lara stood with one slender finger raised, her expression carved from stone. The air around her trembled, responding to her call with the eagerness of a well-trained hound. Even from several paces away, Tristan could feel the currents bending toward her will.
Light erupted from her fingertip, not the devastating lance of her battle magic, but dozens of hair-thin beams that fanned out like searching fingers. Each beam held just enough power to reveal, not destroy. A probe, then. But probing for what?
Most of the beams passed through empty air unimpeded, their light continuing until they faded naturally. But a cluster aimed at one particular patch of sky seemed to... stick. They didn't pierce through as the others had. Instead, they bent at odd angles, scattering like light through a prism.
Lara's eyes snapped to Ezekiel. The question written across her features wasn't the same confusion that gripped the rest of them. No, this was the look of someone seeking confirmation of a suspicion already half-formed.
"How?" The single word carried weight.
Ezekiel's grin stretched wide, pride radiating from every line of his young face. "I had a feeling you'd be the one to figure it out."
"Is it like the illusion used by the Sheinbar family?" Lara pressed, her usual playful demeanor nowhere to be found.
The boy's expression shifted, pride giving way to a frown. "Sheinbar? Never heard of them." His head tilted, bird-like in its curiosity. "Are you telling me I'm not the first to figure this out?"
The surprise in Lara's widened eyes mirrored Tristan's own. The Sheinbar family stood among Equinox's most prominent houses, their mastery of Light legendary. But where others wielded light as a weapon, the Sheinbars bent it to create illusions so perfect they could fool even experienced mages.
Tristan's gaze returned to the patch of seemingly empty sky. The implications sent a chill racing down his spine despite the warm afternoon sun.
"Well," Ezekiel continued, his contemplative expression brightening, "I suppose I could explain my method, and you can tell me if it matches theirs. Fair trade?"
Lara's elegant features twisted into something between disbelief and caution. "Are you certain you should reveal something like that?"
The boy's shrug was almost insulting in its casualness. "I'm past the point where I need to hide the secrets of my engineering. But first..."
The sharp clap of his hands rang out like a signal.
The air itself seemed to peel away.
What emerged from nothingness stole the breath from Tristan's lungs. An airship hung suspended above them, but unlike any vessel he had ever encountered. Where traditional warships sprawled massive and ungainly across the sky, this craft was compact—perhaps forty feet from stem to stern. Every line of its construction spoke of predatory purpose.
The hull curved like the body of some deep-sea hunter, all sleek angles and deadly efficiency. Black as a moonless night, the ship's surface seemed to drink in the sunlight rather than reflect it. No observation deck broke its smooth lines. No hatches or ports marred its seamless shell. The entire vessel appeared to have been carved from a single piece of shadow given form.
But it was the silence that truly unsettled him.
Airships were creatures of noise—the constant whistle of wind through rigging, the deep thrumming of gust runes expelling air, the creak of wood and rope under strain. This ship hung in perfect stillness, as quiet as a held breath. Even now, fully visible, it made no sound whatsoever.
The others had noticed it too. Glances flew between the assembled representatives like startled birds. The ship possessed no visible means of staying aloft—no sails to catch the wind, no vents for propulsion runes, nothing that conventional wisdom said an airship required.
"It's not an illusion," Ezekiel explained, his voice carrying easily in the stunned quiet. "That would be far too cumbersome for something of this size. Instead, we bend the light around the hull. Makes it appear as if nothing exists in that space."
His hands moved as he spoke, sketching invisible diagrams in the air. "Truth be told, I adapted the principle from Space Magic. Worked so well in practice that we made it the ship's signature feature."
"Bend the light?" Lara's voice cracked slightly. "That's impossible. No enchantment could handle such complexity. The calculations alone for the object's exact shape would require—"
She stopped mid-sentence as Ezekiel's grin widened to show teeth.
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"I told you…" He said with the grin of a cat that got the cream, "The things I do, nobody else can. Every single function was developed solely for this vessel. Every screw, every floorboard, every joint was calculated and accounted for. The enchantments only function within this exact configuration."
The expression on Lara's face was one Tristan had witnessed perhaps three times in all their years of acquaintance. Her mouth opened slightly, closed, then opened again. In any other circumstance, he might have savored the sight of the unflappable mage rendered speechless. But his own mind reeled too violently to appreciate the moment.
"From scratch?" The words escaped Lara as barely more than a whisper. "Who designed this ship?"
Ezekiel's bow was deep and flourished, one hand swept out to the side in perfect court fashion. "Ezekiel von Hohenheim, at your service."
For a long moment, Lara simply stared. Then a laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep in her chest—soft, genuine, and tinged with something like wonder. She shook her head slowly, golden hair catching the light.
"You know, brat," she said, warmth creeping back into her voice, "I came here expecting greatness. Even so, you've managed to surprise me. This is... unbelievable."
The smile that answered her was different from Ezekiel's usual cocky grin. This expression held genuine pleasure at having his work understood and appreciated by someone capable of grasping its true significance.
"Well," he said, the smile fading into something more serious, "before I properly introduce this product, I should share its greatest weakness."
Ice formed in Tristan's stomach. Of course. Nothing this revolutionary came without a price. His mind raced through possibilities—did it require a dozen Archmages to power? Could it only fly for minutes at a time? Was the hull actually fragile despite its appearance?
Ezekiel's expression had gone so grim that Tristan braced for catastrophe. When the words finally came, they were nothing like what he'd expected.
"The price. It's quite expensive."
"Pardon?" The word slipped out before Tristan could stop it.
"The ship costs one million gold," Ezekiel admitted. "Ten times the price of the Gondola."
Shock rippled through the gathering like a stone dropped in still water. The sum was staggering—more than most noble houses saw in a year. But if that was its greatest weakness...
"But," Ezekiel continued smoothly, cutting off the rising murmur of voices, "I am certain that by the end of the day, you'll all realize what a bargain that price actually represents."
A derisive snort cut through the air. Tristan didn't need to look to identify its source—Elder Reed of the Bloodletters had never met a copper she didn't want to keep.
"Let's approach this differently," Ezekiel suggested, his gaze sweeping across the assembled representatives. "Tell me what you'd expect a ship of that price to accomplish, and I'll tell you what the Wraith can do. How does that sound, Miss Reed?"
The Bloodletter representative's scowl could have curdled milk. Her family's legendary frugality was matched only by their ruthlessness in business. Tristan doubted they'd pay such a sum to save their own mothers, let alone for an untested vessel.
"For one hundred thousand gold," Elder Reed bit out each word like it pained her, "I would expect this ship to change the course of a war."
Ambitious. Presumptuous, even. The Empire had weathered everything thrown at it—gold, magic, bodies—and remained unbroken. She was essentially demanding a miracle wrapped in wood and steel.
Yet Ezekiel's face lit up as if she'd handed him a gift.
"That's exactly what I designed it for," he replied without hesitation. "The Wraith exists to give its owners an advantage over anyone who lacks one."
Elder Reed's scowl deepened. "Pretty words are worthless, boy. I want facts."
"Very well." Ezekiel's tone remained perfectly pleasant. "I assume by 'war,' you're referring to your current border situation with the Empire?"
At Elder Reed's sharp nod, he continued. "From what I understand, the primary challenge lies in maintaining supply lines. The Empire's network of underground tunnels, combined with their air superiority, makes deep territorial deliveries nearly impossible without suffering raids. Forward bases operate on starvation rations."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "If my information is correct, both Fort Dawnguard and Fort Bloodmoon are perhaps four days from complete collapse. Does that accurately summarize the situation?"
Tristan's hands clenched involuntarily. This boy—this outsider—had just delivered a more accurate assessment than most of the war council. How could he know what seasoned generals refused to acknowledge?
"A few Wraiths could resolve that situation entirely."
"How?" The question tore from Tristan's throat before dignity could stop it. Elder Reed's agenda be damned; he needed to know.
Ezekiel gestured upward. The Wraith began its descent, still wrapped in that unnatural silence. Not even the displacement of air marked its passage.
"A single Wraith can carry fifty soldiers or five tons of cargo without any reduction in performance. Note that this isn't maximum capacity, merely the threshold before speed becomes affected."
Every word sank into Tristan's mind like hooks into flesh. Around him, the other representatives leaned forward with poorly concealed hunger.
"Top speed exceeds any existing airship by a factor of two. Even trained flyers below Archmage level cannot match its pace."
Tristan's breathing quickened.
"Complete invisibility. Total silence. No air disturbance thanks to our proprietary propulsion system based on Space rather than Wind principles."
His eyes widened involuntarily.
"The hull consists entirely of elven wood weave treated with a dwarven lacquer that blocks all forms of magical detection. This renders the ship not merely undetectable but functionally indestructible by conventional means."
Ezekiel paused, his grin taking on a savage edge. "…Or, to put it crudely: I could personally pilot this vessel directly into Magusburg, straight to the city center, and His Imperial Majesty would be none the wiser until I crashed it into his damn palace. A collision, by the way, the ship would withstand without a scratch."
Silence descended like a physical weight.
"You think I'm selling you a ship." Ezekiel's voice had gone soft, almost gentle. "But that's not what this is. I'm offering you the ability to move anything anywhere at speeds that make previous limitations obsolete."
His gaze locked onto Elder Reed with laser precision. "If you can't win a war with that advantage, perhaps you shouldn't be fighting one."
The insult should have stung, should have roused Tristan's pride. But his mind had already leaped past offense to possibility. If even half of what Ezekiel claimed proved true...
Scenarios cascaded through his thoughts like a tactical waterfall. Raids behind enemy lines. Supply runs that couldn't be intercepted. Extraction of key personnel from hopeless situations. Intelligence gathering on an unprecedented scale. Ambushes, flanks, surprise attacks…
The applications seemed endless.
Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, the astronomical price had ceased to matter. His only concerns now centered on two questions: How many could he secure? And how quickly could they be delivered?
The transformation was complete. In the span of a single demonstration, Ezekiel von Hohenheim had converted skepticism into desperate need. The boy hadn't just presented a product—he'd revealed a revolution wrapped in shadow and silence.
And Tristan would be damned if he let any other house claim the advantage first.