Sudrath Manor, Sol-Regis Capital. Dining Room – Morning.
Breakfast, usually a time for light banter, felt more like a court-martial this morning. Duchess Aurelia sat rigidly at the head of the mahogany table. Before her lay not just a plate of whole-wheat bread, but a mountain of colorful envelopes so high they nearly obscured her face.
"Roland. Rhea. Rianor." Aurelia called their names in a low, vibrating tone.
The three children currently in the Capital froze, their spoons suspended mid-air. Gulp. Roland swallowed his bread with great effort. They knew that tone—it was the warning sign that the Matriarch of the house was in "no-compromise" mode.
"I have a headache," Aurelia massaged her temples slowly before letting out a long, weary sigh. "Riven just sent a telegraph from Northreach. He claims to be busy twenty-four-seven managing the factory expansion and training new recruits. He wrote: 'Mother, I'd rather wrestle a frost bear than look for a wife.'"
Aurelia sighed again, her shoulders slumping. "My eldest son... why is he so difficult when it comes to romance? He's thirty-two, yet he still acts like a common street brawler."
"Well, that's just Riven for you, Mother," Rhea remarked casually, deftly twirling her fork. "I think he's decided to marry his battle-axe."
"And you're no better, Rhea!" Aurelia snapped, her gaze sharpening as it landed on her daughter. "I received fifteen marriage proposals for you this week. You rejected every single one with the most absurd excuse: 'He's too weak.' Are you looking for a life partner or a punching bag?"
"Both," Rhea replied logically, without a shred of guilt. "If he can't even parry my strikes, how is he supposed to protect our family when the storm comes?"
Aurelia looked defeated by her two eldest, stubborn children. Her gaze shifted, locking onto the final target remaining at the table. Sir Rianor, who had been trying to hide behind the Aethelgard Financial Times, felt a cold shiver race down his spine. Slowly, he lowered the paper, revealing a nervous expression.
"Rianor," Aurelia called. Her voice was soft, but far too sweet to be safe.
"Y-yes, Mother?" Rianor adjusted his slightly slipping glasses.
"You are twenty-two. Brilliant. Handsome. And our family is now incredibly wealthy. Statistically speaking, you are currently the most coveted 'prime real estate' in the Capital's marriage market."
Rianor swallowed hard. "Mother, I'm focused on—"
"Don't you dare say you're focused on work!" Aurelia cut him off before the excuse could even escape his lips. "All you do is lock yourself in the lab with Elara. I know she's a genius, but is your relationship even healthy? Is it all just formulas and mana circuits?"
"It is a highly productive professional relationship, Mother," Rianor defended. "We are currently developing—"
"Boring!" Aurelia snatched an exclusive-looking gold envelope from the pile. "Listen to me. We need strong commercial ties in the Capital to counter Morvath's embargo. And as it happens, there's a dinner invitation from Countess Vanessa."
Rianor frowned. "Vanessa? You mean Lady Vanessa, the Shipping Count's daughter? The girl famous for being incredibly extravagant and whose voice is loud enough to rupture eardrums?"
"Don't judge a book by its cover," Aurelia offered a triumphant smile. "Her father owns the largest merchant fleet in the South. If you can win her heart, we could secure shipping discounts for life."
Aurelia placed the letter directly onto Rianor's plate. "Tonight, seven o'clock at Le Petit Jardin. Wear the suit I've prepared. And no glasses—let her see your eyes clearly."
"And for heaven's sake, Rianor..." Aurelia looked at her son with absolute gravity. "Do not bring up Macroeconomics or Mana Theory at the dinner table! Talk about her dress! Compliment her eyes! Put her on a pedestal!"
Roland and Rhea struggled to contain their laughter, their faces turning a violent shade of red. "You're doomed, brother," Roland whispered through his giggles. "Vanessa is a handful. Good luck."
Rianor felt the life drain out of him. He felt far better prepared for a royal tax audit than this blind date.
Midday – Sol-Regis Academy. The Great Library.
While Rianor suffered through the thought of his date, Roland was conducting a diplomatic mission of his own. Princess Seraphina, the girl from Draconia, sat alone in the most secluded corner of the library. She looked intensely focused on a thick volume of ancient history. The chill she radiated kept all other students at a strict five-meter radius.
Roland took a deep breath, straightened his blazer, and stepped forward. Stay cool, Roland. You have the face and the silver tongue. You can do this.
Without asking, Roland pulled out the chair opposite Seraphina and sat down. She didn't even look up.
"You again. Here to offer soap or mirrors?" Seraphina asked in her usual frigid tone.
"Neither," Roland replied, his voice shifting into a serious register. "I'm here to offer... Information."
Seraphina finally looked up from her book. Her crimson eyes locked onto Roland. "What information could a low-tier noble like you possibly possess that would interest me?"
Roland placed a slip of paper on the table. It was a copy of a secret transaction between Morvath and a smuggling syndicate—data Rianor had hacked from the bank the previous night.
"I know you despise the Morvath family," Roland whispered, his voice barely a breath in the library's silence. "And I know the real reason Draconia sent its Crown Princess to an enemy school. You're looking for 'The Ancient Heart', aren't you?"
Seraphina's red eyes narrowed. The tension between them instantly became thick enough to choke on. "How could you possibly know about that?"
"My family has a hobby of digging up things that were meant to stay buried," Roland offered a mysterious smile. "So... how about an Alliance? We help topple the Morvath faction, and you help shield us from the palace's political attacks?"
Seraphina stared at Roland for a long time, as if dissecting his soul for a trace of a lie. Finally, she extended a pale hand.
"Alliance accepted, Roland Sudrath. But remember... if you dare betray me, I will personally incinerate you."
Roland shook the hand—which felt as cold as ice—with a firm grip. "Duly noted, Princess."
Late Afternoon – Sudrath Manor. Living Room.
Rianor stood before a large mirror, looking utterly tormented. Aurelia and Roland watched him like judges at a high-end fashion show.
He had been forced into a navy-blue, slim-fit suit that hugged his frame perfectly. His usually messy hair was slicked back, and most shocking of all: no glasses. Rianor's face, usually hidden, was now fully revealed; he had a sharp jawline and a gaze that was cold, intelligent, and captivating. He looked like a high-powered, icy young executive.
"Incredible! Look at my brother!" Roland exclaimed in awe. "You're stunning, Rianor! Honestly, if I were a woman, I'd be falling for you right now."
"Hmph... I feel naked without my glasses," Rianor complained, squinting slightly as he adjusted to a world without frames. He patted his jacket pockets restlessly.
"Wait, what are you carrying? Why are your pockets bulging?" Rhea asked suspiciously.
Rianor slowly pulled out the contents: a Stun Pen (capable of delivering fifty thousand volts), a mini smoke bomb, and an emergency flare.
"Hey!" Rhea glared. "Are you going on a date or conducting a Black Ops mission?!"
"Preemptive measures, sister. Preemptive," Rianor replied flatly, stuffing his 'gear' back into his pockets. "I have a bad feeling. Morvath is still targeting us. Better to have a flare before a storm... or a stunner before an ambush."
"Whatever," Aurelia sighed, straightening Rianor's tie. "Just remember your manners. Smiles. Pay for the meal. Don't be stingy."
"Yes, Mother."
Rianor walked toward the carriage with heavy steps, looking as if he were headed for the gallows. Meanwhile, on the manor's roof, Elara sat leaning back with a pair of binoculars, watching Rianor's departure.
"Hmph. A date," Elara muttered, her voice dripping with annoyance. Crack. She bit her lollipop into pieces. "He better not breathe a word of our research to that girl."
That night, the Strategist of House Sudrath was about to face a battlefield that no mathematical formula could solve: A Materialistic Woman.