BOOK 7: CHAPTER 1: PEACE AMIDST WAR

A dozen quills danced.

In perfect silence, they glided across parchment, guided by invisible threads of force. Letters wrote themselves in elegant script, wax seals pressed down by unseen hands, ribbons tied and tagged with flawless coordination. Each piece of correspondence vanished in a flash of light as it was sorted, signed, and sent away.

At the center of the cyclone sat Zeke.

The newly appointed Merchant Lord of Tradespire rested at his desk, one hand holding a steaming cup of black tea, the other flicking through a stack of scrolls marked with sigils he did not recognize. His robes were unfastened, collar loose, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He had not left his manor in two days.

Opposite his desk, sitting as still as a masterfully carved statue, was Akasha.

To him, she looked as real as any flesh-and-blood human. But to anyone else entering the study, the seat across would appear empty. Her presence here was nothing more than an illusion, crafted of Mind, just like the Spirit herself.

Yet the absence of a physical form didn’t stop her from interacting with the world. Dozens of letters hovered around them in a slow spiral, each one catching the light like drifting leaves. With every flicker of her attention, another response formed.

"Next," Zeke said, still not looking up.

Akasha's voice flowed into his mind like cool water: "Invitation from House Bloodletter. A private banquet in three days. Ninety percent chance of ulterior motive. Eighty percent chance of political networking. Twelve percent chance of poisoned wine."

Zeke smirked at the last remark. Akasha had come a long way—she could even joke now.

"Decline politely. Reference prior obligations. Suggest interest in future dealings once matters settle."

“Is that true?” she asked, her ocean-like eyes catching the light.

“No.”

"Done."

The scroll vanished.

Zeke reached for the next letter, frowning. The seal was unmarked, the parchment flawless.

"No sender," he muttered.

Akasha tilted her head. "Shall I—"

"No need."

He broke the seal and unrolled the letter in one smooth motion. His eyes scanned the contents, then narrowed.

"Well?" Akasha prompted.

"Marriage proposal," Zeke replied, dropping the letter into the steadily growing pile labeled nonsense. "Claims her beauty is matched only by her dowry."

Akasha was silent for a moment. "I am running out of table space for that category."

"Incinerate the pile."

"As you wish."

A brief flash, and the scrolls were reduced to ash.

Zeke sighed and leaned back, letting the scent of burning parchment fade into the fragrant aroma of his tea.

The manor was quiet.

Outside, Tradespire buzzed with rumors of the boy lord who had claimed the impossible—the one who had risen from obscurity, stood against noble houses and Imperial doctrine alike, and walked away victorious. 𝑅ÂɴỖ𝔟Е𝙎

But here, in the sanctum of his study, that so-called prodigy was buried in paperwork, with dark circles under his eyes. Far less glamorous than the rumours made him out to be.

He reached for another scroll.

"Next."

“It’s a report from Rukia.”

Zeke’s brow furrowed. “Anything we don’t already know?”

“The 13th battalion advances further toward the heartland, as we predicted. They are only a few days from reaching the first major city.”

Zeke rose and walked past Akasha to the center of the room, where an enormous, slightly translucent map hovered in midair. His eyes scanned the various markings, each one denoting a known formation of the Ehrenlegion, slowly advancing across the landscape.

Just then, the marker labeled 13th shifted, adjusting to match the details from the latest report. This map was the product of hundreds of dispatches and eyewitness accounts, offering perhaps the most accurate depiction of the situation in Rukia available to anyone outside the Empire’s command structure.

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Zeke took a step back, his gaze sweeping over the entirety of Rukia. It was not a pleasant sight. The Ehrenlegion advanced with the precision of a well-oiled machine, engineered for swift conquest. Meanwhile, the half-elves’ troops resembled a gang of drunken teenagers who had never so much as seen a real fight.

Unfortunately, that wasn't far from the truth.

The last recorded war Rukia had taken part in had occurred long before any of its current leaders were born. In recent generations, the nation had grown complacent, comfortably nestled beneath the protective shadow of the Elven Matriarchy, content to sell its grain to anyone willing to pay.

They had no need for war. No appetite for conflict. And, truthfully, they weren't even wealthy enough to justify an invasion.

Zeke sighed. "What a mess."

His gaze drifted to the city in the projection that was all but certain to fall, then shifted to a nearby marker labeled "von Hohenheim."

"Send word," Zeke said. "I want Leo out of there before the 13th arrives."

Akasha nodded without a word, and another letter began composing itself, joining the flurry of parchment already suspended in the air around her.

Then, the faintest flicker crossed her expression: a twitch of an eyebrow, so subtle it would go unnoticed on anyone else. But on her, it was the equivalent of a startled gasp.

"What is it?" Zeke asked immediately, not missing the shift.

A letter appeared before him, sealed with a crest he recognized all too well.

"The council? What do they want?"

"It's an invitation to an emergency session. Attendance is mandatory for all Lords currently within the city."

Zeke sighed again. The weight of his new position was beginning to show. Ever since his appointment, his days had been consumed by an endless stream of letters and back-to-back meetings.

Worse still, the irritating correspondence he once ignored had taken on a new tone. Now, the people writing him were just important enough that he couldn’t afford not to respond personally. He was about fifty percent convinced it was a plot by his enemies to quietly drain his will to live. Sadly, even if that were true, he had no choice but to play along.

Still, it wasn’t all bad.

His new rank came with its own advantages. Chief among them: no one could afford to ignore him either. That was how he managed to get his hands on every scrap of intel that entered the city. Keeping tabs on the situation in Rukia and along the main warfront had become far easier because of it.

“When?” he asked, eyeing the floating letter as if it had personally wronged him.

“It has already started.”

His head dropped. But there was no helping it. With Akasha’s assistance, he dressed quickly.

His robes had already been prepared: charcoal-gray silk trimmed in bronze thread, formal enough for the council, yet modest enough not to draw attention. He fastened the final clasp at his throat, the fabric settling around him like a second skin.

Zeke stepped outside and inhaled the cool night air.

The streets were so brightly lit that it might as well have been midday. Tradespire’s artificial illumination didn’t follow the sun: it followed traffic flow, market density, and ambient heat. A city where the hour was dictated by gold.

He boarded the gondola waiting at the manor’s edge.

The servant bowed deeply but said nothing. There was no need; Akasha had taken care of everything the moment the summons arrived. The gondola cast off in silence, lifted by layers of Enchantments. Through the paneled sides, Zeke watched the city pass beneath him—spiraling domes, bridges of glittering stone, and the colorful banners of merchant Houses catching the high-altitude breeze.

The higher he climbed, the cleaner the air became.

The gondola passed the outer line of the Third Circle, gliding through the wards into the Second, where only Merchant Lords and sanctioned diplomats could walk unescorted. The skyline shifted with the boundary: less commerce, more grandeur. The buildings here leaned back from the streets, expansive and serene, as though the chaos of the lower tiers was nothing but a forgotten storm on the horizon.

The chamber of the Merchant Council was carved directly into the trunk of the central pillar, a spire so vast and ancient it could be mistaken for a mountain. The gondola docked with a soft chime. Zeke stepped out, adjusted his robes, and entered.

The sound struck him before anything else.

Voices. Loud, layered, impassioned. A dozen arguments overlapped, crashing like waves against the same jagged shore. The chamber, shaped in a wide half-ring, gleamed with polished wood and brass that caught the golden lamplight above. At the far end stood the Speaker’s dais—currently vacant. The Merchant Lords sat in a sweeping arc, each at their own station, all consumed by their own form of outrage or protest.

Zeke did not announce himself.

He simply followed the curve of the chamber until he reached his assigned seat, still unadorned, still new. A few Lords glanced up as he passed; most did not. He sat without fanfare and remained silent.

He listened.

“…the tariffs will cripple our northern routes!”

“Only if Equinox declares open war. Until then, it’s just posturing.”

“You’re naive if you think they haven’t already committed.”

“The elves won’t act. They never do. And if they do? It’ll be nothing but symbolic.”

“Symbolic or not, fire still burns, and I don’t plan to have my caravans caught in a retaliatory strike.”

“This isn’t about fire. It’s about grain!”

That last voice rang out above the rest: older, rougher. Lord Varnes, whose House had once controlled more food trade across the eastern provinces than all the others combined.

“Had” being the key word. With the attack on Rukia, his entire trade empire was now teetering. If the region fell, so would his routes. So would his House.

Zeke let the names and voices flow around him, quietly committing each to memory. Every complaint revealed a story. Every phrase betrayed a fear. The war had spread to a new region, but the real threat to these merchants wasn’t flame or steel: it was instability.

Broken routes. Shifting borders. Trade collapsing like a punctured lung.

A Lord two seats down slammed his palm on his station. “We must freeze all trade with Imperial territories until this is resolved.”

“And cripple half our contracts in the process?” came the sharp retort.

“Better that than having our ships impounded and our goods seized by some backwater tyrant!”

Zeke’s fingers drummed against the arm of his chair, silent and contemplative.

Until the Speaker arrived, every word exchanged was little more than noise, each declaration a puff of posturing. The room was filled with seasoned schemers, masters of feigned outrage and carefully polished facades.

It was theater.

He leaned back slightly, observing the others with quiet detachment. Each of them commanded legions of coin and contracts, yet none truly believed the war would reach their doorsteps. Their only concern was how to exploit this latest crisis, how to carve profit from the chaos.

Meanwhile, Rukia burned. The Empire advanced with every heartbeat. Hundreds perished with each passing second. But to these Lords, it meant nothing.

They cared not for the color of blood, only for the gleam of gold.

Bam, bam, bam!

The gavel struck three times, marking the arrival of the Speaker and the official start of the council meeting. Here and now, in these late-night hours, amid the shouting and cursing of merchants, the fate of the continent might very well be decided.