The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the courtyard as Tristan Bloodsword arrived at the home of the man who had contacted him a fortnight ago. His fingers drummed against the folded parchment in his coat pocket, the same letter that had pulled him away from a war that grew more desperate by the day.
As the servant guided him to his destination, he realized that he would be in good company.
"…In the name of all that is good, how did you ever manage to get leave from the front?" he asked, approaching the blonde woman standing not too far away from him.
Lara Sonnenstrahl's lips curved into a knowing smile, fine lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes. "I assume the same way you did, Tristan." She adjusted the ceremonial sash of her rank with practiced ease. "Though I am surprised you chose to attend in person. From what I hear, your boys are having their hands full at the moment."
A heavy sigh escaped him. The weight of command settled across his shoulders like a lead cloak. "You can say that again. The Empire has been keeping us on our toes." His jaw tightened. "Not that I need to tell you that. From what I hear, your people barely managed to hold on last time."
The blonde commander's elegant composure cracked for just a moment. Her fingers curled into fists before she caught herself. "I told the council long ago that we would never be able to hold our forward positions if the Empire got serious." The words came out clipped, each one sharpened by old frustrations. "…But Mother wants to hear none of it."
Tristan nodded, understanding all too well. Every commander along the frontier sang the same bitter song these days. The pattern repeated itself from Valor to Equinox: mounting casualties, dwindling supplies, and decision-makers safe in their capitals who refused to acknowledge reality.
They had all seen the writing on the wall. The initial "weakness" the Empire had displayed? Nothing but bait, and they had swallowed it whole. Now their forces were overextended, supply lines stretched thin, while the Empire's true strength emerged like a blade from its sheath.
Pride and stubbornness kept their leaders from ordering the retreat that every field commander knew was necessary. Not that Tristan could entirely blame them. History had taught harsh lessons about giving the Empire any ground. The Great Western Expansion still haunted their collective memory—entire provinces carved away and held to this day.
Still, by clinging to their gains, they were dancing to the Empire's tune. A masterful trap, really. Damned if they retreated, doomed if they didn't.
Which made today's gathering all the more intriguing.
Tristan's gaze swept across the converted hangar. The space had been cleared of its usual clutter, simple chairs and tables arranged with military precision.
At the table nearest to them, Albert Thorsten sat with the stillness of a man who had spent decades in negotiation chambers. The Invocatian diplomat's weathered face revealed nothing, but his presence here spoke louder than words. If the Immortal Witch had sent her most trusted advisor, she took Ezekiel’s seriously indeed.
The Korrovan delegation occupied the next table, a cluster of officials in their distinctive flowing robes. Among them, Tristan recognized one of the younger diplomats bearing the unmistakable features of the Raja bloodline. The fact that they'd sent actual royalty, however distant, wasn't lost on him.
His own presence here represented Valor, though he wasn't alone in that. Across some tables, he spotted Elder Reed of the Bloodletter family. The woman's scarlet robes seemed to drink in the light, and her expression suggested she'd rather be anywhere else. The feeling was mutual; politics in Valor had grown increasingly tedious lately.
"Quite the gathering, isn't it?" Lara observed, following his gaze. "Especially given the times."
Indeed. With Rukia burning and their forces bleeding at every border, the fact that so many had answered von Hohenheim's summons spoke to either the young man's growing influence or their collective desperation. Perhaps both.
Tristan withdrew the letter from his pocket, smoothing it against the table's surface. The elegant script seemed to mock him now. "Our host certainly has a way with words, even if he's clearly overpromising."
"We'll see." Something in Lara's tone made him look up.
"…I don't know what words he used to convince you," Tristan said slowly, "but if they were anything like what was said in my letter, then calling it overpromising might be putting it mildly."
The High Commander's expression grew thoughtful. "His words were quite fantastical. But I've learned to reserve judgment when it comes to Zeke."
Interesting. Tristan filed that away for later consideration. "I hope you're right. Still, I don't share your expectations."
"Then why come at all?" Her golden eyes sharpened with curiosity. "I know better than most how busy you are."
He leaned back, considering his answer. "When was the last time a single person dealt this much damage to the Empire? The bounties alone cost them dozens of skilled mages. For that alone, I owe him my presence." His voice dropped. "And from what I hear, our boy has gotten himself into quite a bit of trouble for his efforts."
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The words darkened Lara's features. "It was only a matter of time, really. Zeke has been a thorn in the Empire's side for too long. I always wondered when the price would come due."
"All the more reason to show our faces." Tristan's hand moved to rest on his sword hilt, an old habit when discussing matters of loyalty. "No matter what these merchants decide, the world will know that Maximilian's heir still has allies within the Alliance."
A knowing smile played at the corners of Lara's mouth. "That's not all you hope to do, is it? You're here to make him an offer."
He couldn't hide his surprise. "How can you tell?"
"How else?" She spread her hands in an elegant shrug. "I've been asked to do the same."
A short laugh escaped him. "Great minds think alike, it seems."
"Ezekiel is too valuable to be left in the hands of these merchant folk." Her voice carried the kind of certainty that came from bitter experience. "If they end up betraying him, Equinox would be more than happy to take him."
Tristan found himself nodding. On this, at least, they were in complete agreement. He'd seen enough of Tradespire's so-called neutrality to know its true nature. These Merchant Lords would sell their own mothers for the right price, then negotiate for the funeral arrangements.
The side door opened with barely a whisper of sound, but every head in the room turned as if summoned.
Ezekiel von Hohenheim exited from a nearby workshop with the measured stride of someone who knew exactly how much his time was worth. No fanfare, no announcement—just presence.
Tristan studied him closely. It had been a long time since he last met the boy. Even at a glance, it was clear Ezekiel had matured in more ways than one. His frame had filled out, his shoulders had broadened, and his facial features had grown more refined. But that physical growth paled in comparison to his magical development.
Ezekiel had been a newly minted True Mage when they last met, roughly on par with his youngest son, Mordred. Now, however, Tristan could feel a vastly greater amount of Mana swirling around the young man.
Grandmage, and not a weak one.
He'd been skeptical when the rumors first reached the front. Even after hearing about the broken records on the Association's leaderboards, he'd assumed some clever trick was at play. The boy had always been cunning; perhaps he'd found a way to game the system.
That skepticism died now, crushed under the weight of undeniable reality. This was power earned, not stolen or faked. Power that had been tempered in fires Tristan could only guess at.
A glance at Lara confirmed she'd reached the same conclusion. Her usual composure had cracked just enough to show genuine surprise, and perhaps a hint of hunger. They'd both come here thinking to recruit a talented young Mage who needed protection. Instead, they found a talent even the most selfless philanthropist would covet.
Ezekiel's golden eyes swept across the assembled representatives, acknowledging each with a nod precisely calibrated to their rank and relationship.
"Everyone..." The young Grandmage's voice carried easily through the space without being raised. Another mark of his growth, he'd learned the kind of presence that made people lean in to listen. "I am truly honored by your presence here today."
The words were perfectly respectful, yet something in his tone suggested he viewed this less as a favor received and more as an opportunity granted. Tristan found himself reassessing once again.
"All of you are busy people." Ezekiel's hands clasped behind his back in a gesture Tristan recognized from a dozen field briefings. "Therefore, I will not waste any more of your time and will get straight to the point."
The pause stretched just long enough to ensure complete attention.
"I have invited you here today to give you all the chance to be among the first to purchase our newest product before anyone else."
Silence.
Not the expectant silence of an audience waiting for more, but the thick, uncomfortable quiet that followed a joke that had fallen completely flat. Around the area, expressions shifted from anticipation to confusion to barely concealed disappointment.
Tristan felt his own face tighten. After the promises in that letter—"a solution to problems you didn't even know you had"—this felt like being offered a feast and served stale bread. His mind raced through the implications. Was the boy truly so desperate that he'd summoned military leaders from active war zones just to offload his unsold luxury craft?
The merchant elite of Tradespire had turned their backs on von Hohenheim's Gondolas. Everyone knew it. The flying ships that had once been status symbols were now social poison. And they'd been pulled from vital duties for... a clearance sale?
Still, loyalty—and perhaps lingering hope—made him ask the obvious question. "What discounts can we expect?"
The Gondola remained a solid product, politics aside. With the right price point, Valor could find uses for them. Transport, reconnaissance, or even retrofitting for combat duties. If von Hohenheim needed to clear inventory, Tristan would help where he could.
Ezekiel's expression shifted to something unreadable. "There will be no discounts, Mr. Bloodsword."
The words fell into the room like stones into still water. Tristan blinked, certain he'd misheard. Around him, similar expressions of disbelief bloomed on diplomatic faces trained never to show surprise.
"You can't actually expect us to buy your ships at full price, can you?" The young Raja diplomat leaned forward, his tone remaining admirably diplomatic despite the absurdity. "Even if we weren't at war, the kind of demand that existed in Tradespire simply doesn't exist anywhere else..."
The man had given voice to what they all thought, wrapped in silk rather than speaking the harsh truth: that Ezekiel had apparently lost touch with reality. Even Tristan, who'd come here with nothing but good intentions, found himself questioning the young man's sanity.
To summon them under false pretenses, to waste their precious time when every hour away from the front cost lives, all for this insult of an offer?
But instead of apologizing, instead of acknowledging the awkwardness, Ezekiel von Hohenheim smiled. Not the desperate smile of a merchant trying to salvage a deal, but the confident grin of someone holding a winning hand.
"I understand your confusion," he said, and now there was something else in his voice—anticipation? Amusement? "But how about taking a look at my product before making a judgment?"
The disappointment in the room had curdled into something closer to irritation. Even Elder Reed, who'd maintained stony silence throughout, now shifted in her seat with obvious impatience. Only Lara Sonnenstrahl seemed unaffected, that same expectant expression playing across her features as if she alone were privy to some secret.
"Bring it out then," Tristan managed through gritted teeth. He'd claimed earlier that he'd come to show support, but honesty forced him to admit he'd harbored hope. Hope that the boy's promises might offer something, anything, to help turn the tide of this grinding war.
Ezekiel's smile widened, becoming almost incandescent in its brightness. The sheer confidence of it transformed irritation into bewilderment.
"I brought it out with me when I came just now."
The words hung in the air, impossible and yet spoken with such certainty that every person found themselves looking around, searching for what they'd missed. The space remained empty save for themselves, the tables, and—
“Behold,” Ezekiel’s voice cut through the silence, the thinly veiled pride finally shining through. “The Wraith.”