Daren stared at the fortune sitting heavily on his lap. He furiously shook his head, his calloused hands pushing the three heavy pouches back toward the edge of the anvil.
"Lexel, no," Daren stammered, his voice thick with panic. "I absolutely cannot take this. You two already cleared my debt. Giving me thirty thousand gold on top of that is outright robbery on my part. I won't accept it."
Lexel completely tuned him out.
He continued rubbing his wet hair with the towel, his golden eyes wandering lazily around the cluttered, soot-stained blacksmith shop.
"So," Lexel interrupted, entirely deaf to Daren's frantic protests. "What exactly does a person wear to a Baron's banquet? Do I need a cape? My dad always wore a cape to these things, but I always thought they looked ridiculous."
Anthierin blinked. The severe whiplash of the conversation hit her like a physical blow. She looked at Daren, who was still holding out the king's ransom with trembling hands, and then back at Lexel.
"You just handed him enough wealth to buy a small city," Anthierin hissed, her hands balling into fists. "And you want to talk about capes?!"
"I'm in a towel, Rin," Lexel pointed out dryly, gesturing to his bare chest. "Unless you want me to fight the Baron's entire guard detail wearing this, we need to go shopping. And fast."
Daren slowly lowered his hands. He looked at Lexel's bored expression, realizing the boy was genuinely never going to take the gold back. The older blacksmith let out a long, defeated sigh that slowly morphed into a wet, genuine chuckle.
"He's right, Anthierin," Daren said, wiping his eyes one last time before carefully securing the heavy pouches inside his leather apron. "If you are walking straight into a noble's estate tonight, you cannot show up in your dusty travel gear. They will use your appearance as an excuse to humiliate you before you even reach the dining hall."
Anthierin groaned, rubbing her temples to fend off an impending headache.
Daren suddenly paused, his eyes widening as a brilliant spark of an idea hit him. He turned on his heel and waved his calloused hand.
"Rin, follow me," Daren ordered, his tone suddenly urgent.
He led her out of the main workshop and down a short, dusty hallway to his personal living quarters. He walked straight to a heavy oak wardrobe in the corner of his bedroom. Reaching inside, Daren pressed his thick thumb against a concealed wooden latch.
With a soft click, a hidden compartment swung open.
Anthierin leaned forward, her eyes bulging out of her head. Hanging carefully inside the dark, cedar-lined space was a stunning, impeccably preserved evening gown made of deep crimson silk and woven gold thread.
"This is..." Anthierin whispered, completely breathless.
"My late wife's," Daren said softly, a heavy wave of nostalgia washing over his tired features. "She wore it on the day of our first dance. I want you to wear it."
Anthierin immediately took a step back, shaking her head frantically. "What?! I can't! This is Aunt Heriot's!"
Lexel suddenly popped his head over Daren's shoulder, completely hijacking the sentimental moment. "She would be happy that you're wearing this. At least I would."
Anthierin's lips twitched violently. She shot him a murderous glare. That is absolutely uncle's line, you idiot!
Daren, completely unfazed by the interruption, simply nodded in agreement. "He's right, Rin. She would insist you wear it. During her sick days, she often wondered what you would look like wearing this exact dress."
Anthierin looked back at the beautiful crimson silk, her resolve crumbling under the weight of her uncle's memory. She reached out and gently touched the fabric.
"But..." Anthierin hesitated, her cheeks flushing slightly. "It's too small. Especially the bust."
Daren coughed into his fist, suddenly finding the wooden floorboards incredibly interesting. "I... I guess we never took into account that you would grow like that."
"Well, I'm sorry!" Anthierin snapped, crossing her arms defensively to hide her chest.
"No need to apologize," Lexel chimed in, leaning casually against the wardrobe door frame. "I appreciate your assets."
Anthierin's hand shot out like a viper. She grabbed a fistful of the white towel wrapped around Lexel's hips, her knuckles turning white.
"Another word and I'll crush your balls, Lexel," Anthierin promised, her voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly whisper.
Lexel stiffened, his golden eyes widening a fraction of an inch as he looked down at her iron grip. "O-Okay."
Anthierin held the glare for three more seconds before finally releasing the towel. She let out a massive, exhausted sigh and snatched the crimson dress from the hidden compartment.
"Fine," Anthierin grumbled, marching back toward the washroom to change. "We eat, you get your prize, and we go home."
—
The grand ballroom of the Einjaar estate practically dripped with exorbitant wealth. Massive crystal chandeliers cast a harsh, glittering light over long oak tables groaning under the weight of roasted pheasants, imported fruits, and tiered pastries. Servants in spotless uniforms darted silently through the room, ensuring every guest's goblet remained filled to the brim with vintage red wine.
Despite the lavish display, a suffocating, paranoid tension smothered the entire room.
At the head table, the Baron of Einjaar sat rigidly in a high-backed, velvet-cushioned chair. His extravagant gold-laced doublet felt like a hangman's noose around his thick neck. He ignored the exquisite food piled on his silver plate, his beady eyes staring blankly at the polished mahogany wood.
The math continuously looped in his mind, a relentless drumbeat of absolute financial doom.
Five hundred thousand gold, the Baron thought, a cold bead of sweat rolling down his greasy temple. Half a million.
His spies at the arena had reported back an hour ago. Anthierin had collected her personal eighty thousand gold payout, but the anonymous backer who had placed the staggering fifty-thousand gold wager on Lexel had yet to step forward to claim their winnings. The money was still sitting in the arena's vaults, a ticking time bomb waiting to completely bankrupt his estate.
Who placed that bet? the Baron's mind raced, his thick fingers drumming an erratic rhythm against his armrest. And why haven't they collected it yet? Are they waiting to humiliate me publicly?
He took a deep, shaky gulp of his wine. He needed tonight's trap to work flawlessly.
A few paces away, Kain stood rigidly near a towering marble pillar, surrounded by a tight circle of wealthy merchants and lower-ranking lords. He wore his formal Champion's attire, the crisp white fabric and polished silver medals designed to project absolute authority.
"A bizarre spectacle today, wouldn't you agree, Kain?" an elderly, excessively perfumed silk merchant chuckled, the heavy gold chains around his neck clinking as he swirled his wine glass. "That peasant boy utilizing some foul artifact to catch Klauss off guard. A fluke of the highest order."
Kain's jaw tightened. He forced a stiff, practiced nod.
"Indeed," Kain replied, his voice painfully hollow. "A complete fluke."
He took a sip from his goblet to hide his trembling hands. The merchants and minor nobles around him laughed and mocked the Level 15, entirely blind to the reality of the situation. Kain knew exactly what he had witnessed on that sand. It wasn't an artifact. It wasn't a trick. It was a monster wearing human skin. Every second Kain spent standing in this ballroom felt like waiting for a natural disaster to strike.
Across the room, Mera was actively working a crowd of lesser aristocrats.
"Oh, you flatter me, Lord Ferris," Mera giggled, hiding her face behind a painted silk fan. "The dress was imported directly from the capital."
She played the role of the gracious, untouchable host to perfection. She nodded at compliments, offered delicate smiles, and laughed at terrible jokes. Inside, her stomach churned with venomous anxiety. She had personally invited the beast into her home. If her father's desperate scheme failed, this banquet would be the final grand event the House of Einjaar ever hosted.
The string quartet in the corner played a lively, upbeat melody, entirely failing to mask the underlying dread infecting the room. Hundreds of eyes continuously darted toward the heavy mahogany doors at the entrance.
The rumors had already consumed the city. They were waiting for the anomaly to arrive.
CRACK.
The heavy mahogany doors at the front of the ballroom swung open. The sudden, violent sound sliced through the nervous murmurs like a butcher's knife.
The majordomo stepped forward, striking his staff against the polished marble floor.
"Presenting the victor of the Einjaar Battle Royal," the majordomo called out, his voice wavering slightly. "Lexel Torga. Accompanied by Anthierin."
The entire ballroom went dead silent. The string quartet in the corner abruptly stopped playing. Hundreds of eyes snapped toward the entrance.
Anthierin stepped gracefully into the harsh chandelier light. The deep crimson silk of Aunt Heriot's dress clung perfectly to her figure, the woven gold thread catching the ambient glow. She looked absolutely breathtaking, radiating a fierce, untouchable dignity. Her posture was flawless. She scanned the crowd with the cold, calculating gaze of a master blacksmith appraising cheap iron, completely dominating the room's attention.
Beside her, Lexel stepped through the doors mid-yawn. Uncle Daren had somehow managed to force him into a tailored black formal shirt and dark trousers. The fabric stretched tightly across his broad shoulders and chest, highlighting his monstrous physique. He wore the expensive clothes with the sloppy, relaxed posture of a man walking into a local tavern. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets. He blinked lazily at the blinding crystal chandeliers, completely ignoring the terrified stares of the highest-ranking merchants and lords in the city.
Wow, Lexel thought, his golden eyes locking onto the massive tables of roasted meats. Dad would absolutely love this spread.
The wealthy guests parted like a frightened school of fish. Gasps echoed through the room. They stared at the peasant boy who had shattered the world's absolute laws, completely bewildered by his thoroughly bored expression.
Up at the head table, the Baron of Einjaar stopped drumming his fingers. He gripped his silver goblet so hard the metal groaned. The lion had officially walked into his den. The physical embodiment of his half-million gold debt was strolling casually across his imported rugs.
A few feet away, Mera's painted silk fan snapped shut with a sharp crack. Pure, venomous jealousy flared in her eyes. She had fully expected the blacksmith girl to arrive covered in soot, wearing cheap rags. Instead, Anthierin looked like a highborn queen. The crimson silk gown possessed a profound, elegant history that completely outshone Mera's shallow, imported dress.
But Kain's reaction was the most visceral.
The Champion stood entirely frozen beside the marble pillar. His arrogant blue eyes widened, completely captivated by the woman walking beside the monster. The soot-stained, foul-mouthed blacksmith he had dismissed a hundred times before had completely vanished. In her place stood a radiant, commanding aristocrat.
Anthierin's raw beauty and sheer, unyielding presence completely short-circuited Kain's brain. His throat went bone dry. The wine goblet in his hand tilted dangerously, a few drops of vintage red spilling onto the pristine white fabric of his formal uniform.
Gods above, Kain thought, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs for an entirely different reason. As beautiful as always…
Lexel completely ignored the heavy, complex stares bearing down on them. He nudged Anthierin's shoulder and pointed lazily toward the massive buffet table.
"I'm grabbing a plate," Lexel whispered, stepping forward.
Anthierin's sharp gaze swept across the sea of stunned aristocrats. Her eyes inevitably landed on Kain.
Kain was staring at her, his wine goblet dangerously tilted, his arrogant composure entirely unraveled. Seeing him standing there in his crisp white uniform, surrounded by the wealthy elite he had abandoned her to join, sent a sudden, heavy wave of painful nostalgia crashing against her chest. Memories of a younger Kain—a man who once respected her father's craft before the arena's glory corrupted him—flared brightly in her mind.
Her fists tightened instinctively at her sides.
Whoosh. Spin.
The heavy nostalgia shattered instantly.
Anthierin blinked, pulling her gaze away from Kain. Beside her, Lexel had effortlessly snatched a pristine, gold-rimmed porcelain plate from a passing servant's silver tray. He was currently twirling it, letting the expensive dish spin perfectly balanced on the tip of his index finger like a bored street juggler.
"Buffet time," Lexel announced, a genuine grin finally breaking through his lazy expression.
He strolled forward, flipping the spinning plate down into his hand with practiced ease. He completely bypassed the elaborate displays of imported fruits, artisan breads, and tiered pastries. Carbohydrates held zero appeal to him. He went full carnivore, marching straight to the massive carving stations. He began ruthlessly piling his plate dangerously high with thick slabs of roasted boar, entire legs of pheasant, and dripping cuts of peppered beef.
The ballroom remained suffocatingly quiet. The only sound was the clatter of Lexel's silver tongs against porcelain.
Dozens of wealthy merchants and minor lords stared in absolute, paralyzing horror.
Lexel had committed the ultimate social sin. He had entered a grand banquet and walked straight to the food troughs. He completely disregarded the host. He offered no bow, no formal greeting, and no polite words of gratitude to the Baron of Einjaar sitting rigidly at the head table just a few yards away.
Up at the velvet-cushioned chair, the Baron's face cycled rapidly from ghostly pale to a terrifying, apoplectic shade of purple. The veins in his thick neck bulged against his gold-laced doublet. The boy who had bankrupted him was currently treating his lavish, high-society estate like a cheap roadside tavern.
Mera's jaw dropped, her painted silk fan trembling in her grip. Kain finally managed to snap his mouth shut, his shock at Anthierin's beauty eclipsed entirely by the sheer, unadulterated disrespect Lexel was displaying to the ruling lord.
Anthierin pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a long, exhausted sigh.
He really is going to get us killed over a roasted pheasant, she thought, mentally preparing to fight her way out of the ballroom.