Marvel's position between Tower loyalty and family devotion showed in the careful way he positioned himself, closer to Hilton than protocol strictly required, his body language speaking louder than words about where his true allegiances lay.

"The Archon seemed... protective of his identity during the council," Marvel replied with practiced discretion. "That suggests mutual respect, at minimum. Possibly deeper strategic alliance."

The assessment pleased Hilton in ways that went beyond simple paternal satisfaction. This wasn't relief that David had finally met minimum expectations, this was genuine pride in a son who had exceeded every reasonable standard.

"Do I need to visit the boy," Hilton asked with casual confidence, "or has he finally learned to handle himself?"

Marvel's honest assessment carried the weight of someone who had observed David's growth firsthand. "My Lord, unless something extraordinary comes up, I believe David has earned your trust."

Hilton's satisfied grin transformed his battle-scarred features into something approaching warmth. "Good. I was beginning to worry he'd never show the De Gror steel."

How much David has changed, Marvel thought as he watched his lord's reaction. To gain even Lord Hilton's satisfaction through independent action... What exactly happened in Lysora County?

The conversation shifted as Hilton's expression grew more serious, the weight of other responsibilities pressing against paternal satisfaction.

"How is Kaiden? Any word from the border?"

Marvel's efficiency showed as he retrieved a sealed letter from his organized correspondence. "The platoon was seen leaving two weeks ago. He left this for you before departing."

The letter exchange happened with practiced smoothness, years of partnership making such interactions feel automatic. Hilton broke the seal and scanned the contents, his expression shifting through pride, concern, and grim assessment.

"Kaiden has always been a monster," he said with the complex mixture of emotions that marked fathers discussing exceptionally capable children. "I predicted the Empress would eventually need his particular talents."

The letter's contents were brief but informative: drake movements toward the capital from border territories, threats eliminated with characteristic efficiency, investigation continuing to identify larger patterns. Kaiden's professional competence was evident in every line, but something in the undertones suggested even he found the supernatural movements concerning.

"'Eliminated the threat. Investigating the source. Will report when pattern becomes clear,'" Hilton read aloud, his voice carrying subtle unease beneath paternal pride. "When Kaiden finds patterns concerning, the rest of us should start preparing for the worst."

****

The Magic Tower representatives had been assigned temporary quarters that reflected their status as honored guests while maintaining appropriate security. The rooms were comfortable but impersonal, designed for diplomacy rather than extended residence.

Archmage Kaelith Dawnrender settled into a chair with the careful movements of someone whose bones had seen a centuries of existence. "Two days of briefings and we learned nothing new about demonic capabilities that our own research hadn't already revealed."

Archmage Seraphel Noctis, whose shadow magic felt constrained by imperial formality, responded with dry humor. "At our age, Kaelith, did you really expect imperial politics to yield research breakthroughs?"

Mage Marvel, clearly distracted by larger concerns, offered practical perspective while his mind calculated how to report back without compromising his growing loyalty to the De Gror family. "The Tower will be disappointed, but what did they expect? Demons don't leave instruction manuals for convenient study."

The conversation that followed revealed the frustrations of experienced professionals forced to operate within political constraints. Dawnrender's complaints about stone chairs built for formality rather than comfort, Noctis's sharp observations on how shadow magic clashed with diplomatic protocol, and Marvel's weary attempts to mediate between competing loyalties.

But beneath the surface griping lay more serious concerns. Dawnrender's real mission had been to assess whether humans could be systematically corrupted by demonic influence, a question the Tower considered crucial for future defensive strategies.

"Based on what we observed," Noctis concluded with scholarly precision, "the answer is yes, but it requires long-term infiltration and specific targeting of individuals in positions of authority."

Marvel's growing distance from Tower politics became more apparent to his colleagues as the discussion continued. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere, focused on loyalties that transcended institutional obligations.

The Tower's expectations, they all understood, often bordered on the unreasonable. Demands for miraculous insights from limited information, pressure to produce results that would justify significant resource investments, political maneuvering that treated knowledge as a weapon rather than a tool for understanding.

All three were experienced enough to navigate these complications, but the conversation hinted at growing tensions between Tower research priorities and imperial defensive needs.

****

Sunset painted the capital's gates in shades of gold and crimson as merchants, travelers, and citizens flowed through security checkpoints with the casual efficiency of routine. Guards performed their duties with professional competence, alert for conventional threats while remaining completely unaware of the supernatural presence passing by them like a shadow given consciousness.

The invisible figure moved through gate security without detection, magical concealment operating on principles that transcended human understanding. Initial observations catalogued defensive capabilities and found them adequate for mortal threats but laughably insufficient for anything operating on a bigger scale.

These insects, the predatory intelligence thought as it observed daily human behavior, how can beings this weak have survived the cosmic currents that shape reality?

The figure drifted through crowded marketplaces with alien curiosity, studying social bonds and emotional complexity that defied comprehension. Markets filled with traders hawking goods, families sharing meals, children playing games, all behaviors that seemed inefficient from a purely survival-focused perspective.

Cultural observation revealed layers of meaning that puzzled a mind accustomed to raw power dynamics. Why did these creatures invest such energy in activities that provided no immediate survival advantage? What evolutionary pressure had created beings who prioritized emotional bonds over individual strength?

Then the familiar scent reached enhanced senses, stopping the analytical observation cold.

Two distinct magical signatures, impossible but unmistakable: energy that shouldn't exist in this world's natural order, combined with bloodline traces that resonated with ancient draconic memories.

The invisible presence began following the combined scent trail with predatory focus, analytical curiosity transforming into hunting instinct. Whatever carried both signatures had become the primary focus, more interesting than human social behavior or defensive capabilities.

The trail led toward the noble district, where cobblestone streets gave way to manicured gardens and elegant mansions. Each estate bore the architectural marks of old money and older power, but one particular scent signature drew the hunter's attention like iron to lodestone.

Properties bearing the De Gror family name sprawled across several city blocks, their defensive walls speaking of military heritage and practical paranoia. The invisible figure paused at the perimeter, studying guard rotations with the patience of something that measured time in centuries rather than heartbeats.

Fascinating. They position sentries for human threats, completely unaware of what walks among them.

The dual signature grew stronger as the hunter moved deeper into the estate grounds, passing through shadows that provided no concealment for normal eyes but offered perfect camouflage for something operating beyond mortal perception. Gardens designed for beauty rather than defense, fountains that masked sound, pathways that spoke of comfort rather than tactical awareness.

Such confidence in their safety. Such ignorance of what hunts them.

In the distance, a single window glowed with warm crystal light on the mansion's second floor. The invisible figure paused at the garden wall, watching a silhouette move across the illuminated space with fluid grace. Each movement carried the unconscious precision of someone trained in combat, yet the casual nature suggested complete unawareness of being observed.

The chaos signature pulsed stronger now, mixed with draconic bloodline traces that should have been impossible. Two essences that had no business existing in the same vessel, yet here they were, combined in ways that defied every law of magical compatibility.

What are you, little anomaly? What accident of fate created something so... interesting?

A slow smile curved lips that no one could see, predatory satisfaction mixing with anticipation of mysteries soon to be unraveled.

There you are…