Chapter 3: Strangers at the Table

  The Crimson Moon Inn was a pocket of tranquil luxury amidst the sprawling opulence of Glory City.

  The three-story structure wasn't towering, but it was crafted from meticulously polished white stone. Its eaves curved upward like the wings of a crane, and the window frames were inlaid with flowing, iridescent glass that caught the setting sun. Most distinctive was the small courtyard encircling the building—a labyrinth of winding stone paths and lush greenery where tea tables were scattered near ancient stone wells.

  At twilight, the courtyard was still dotted with wealthy merchants and minor nobles engaged in quiet conversation. The water in the wells mirrored both the fading sky and the warm glow of magical lanterns, lending the air a sense of refined stillness.

  Ronen and Wolf led their horses to the stables before approaching the main entrance. Stepping inside was like crossing a threshold into another realm. Deep crimson wooden pillars supported a ceiling that seemed miles high, while the floor was paved with pale blue, gold-flecked crystals. Walking across it felt like treading upon a captured galaxy; every step sent ripples of light dancing beneath their boots. The walls were a mosaic of gold brick and jade tile, lit by lamps holding "Ever-flicker" flames. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and expensive wine.

  But Ronen was no longer the wide-eyed boy who had first entered the city gates. His gaze was steady, his pace measured. Though a thrill of excitement still hummed in his chest, he had forced himself into a professional headspace. From the moment he dismounted, he knew: the trial had begun.

  Wolf's eyes scanned the lobby, casually dismissing a hovering servant as he leaned closer to Ronen. "Open recruitment means we aren't the only ones who took the bait," he whispered.

  "The participants could be scholars, mages, or even quill-pushers who couldn't swing a sword to save their lives. That's why I picked this for you. It looks simple, but it tests the 'Whole Package'—conversation, observation, judgment, and adaptability." He paused, a glint of expectation in his eyes. "Besides, I wanted you to see what people are like outside the Warband."

  Ronen nodded, the lingering awe from the Cenotaph of the Fallen Legends still coloring his thoughts. "Uncle... do you think we'll meet a legend? Someone like the heroes carved on the stone?"

  Wolf let out a soft, weary chuckle, his expression softening with affection. "Still dreaming of heroes, kid?" He shook his head. "Listen, we've taken an investigation contract. These are usually just the 'scouting' phase—reconnaissance. We find the facts, report to the client, and they decide if it’s worth a full subjugation or deep-dive mission. Real high-tier experts rarely bother with the groundwork."

  He stopped before a heavy, carved wooden door. A plaque on the frame read: The Scarlet Suite.

  "Relax, but don't get sloppy," Wolf said, clapping Ronen on the shoulder before pushing the door open.

  Inside was a spacious private suite. A massive mahogany table sat at the center, its surface gleaming under the warm radiance of a crystal chandelier. The aroma of a lavish feast filled the room.

  But Ronen's attention was immediately seized by the six people already seated around the table.

  Of the two men, one wore robes of exquisite silk, a gold-rimmed monocle perched on his nose. He carried the air of a gentleman-scholar. The other man looked haggard and out of place; his long hair was matted, and his worn overcoat was stained with the dust of the road, a stark contrast to the surrounding luxury.

  The four women were equally varied. Some wore mage robes, others wore short swords, their expressions ranging from casual to hyper-vigilant. As Ronen and Wolf entered, all eyes snapped toward them.

  "Seems we're the latecomers," Wolf said effortlessly, stepping into the room with practiced confidence.

  "Your timing is adequate; we have only just arrived," a smooth, cultured voice replied. The man with the monocle rose, offering a graceful, measured bow. "I presume you are also here for the Lapsus Merchant Circle's commission? Allow me to introduce myself—Ethan Wyll, a Water-element Archmage from the White Star Tower. And..."

  He adjusted his monocle, his gaze shifting toward the other end of the table. His expression soured slightly, his tone turning cold.

  Ronen followed Ethan's gaze to two girls who looked to be around his own age. They were dressed in identical, standardized apprentice robes. Ronen recognized the style; several mages in the Warband owned similar sets, though they often mocked them as "youthful relics," preferring more practical, rugged gear.

  On these two, however, the robes looked anything but old.

  One girl had vibrant, short pink hair and an aura of restless energy. She had modified her robes—the hem was shortened into a skirt, and the sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, revealing slender arms decorated with colorful trinkets.

  The other was her polar opposite: raven-haired, quiet, and clutching a heavy tome to her chest. Her robes were worn exactly as prescribed—prim, proper, and buttoned to the chin. She watched Ronen and Wolf with wide, curious eyes, but as soon as her gaze met Ethan's, she flinched and looked away.

  "Mary, come and show some manners," Ethan commanded with a sharp edge of authority.

  The black-haired girl shivered, grabbing her companion's sleeve as she hurried forward. "Hello... I am Mary Valentine, from the White Star Tower. A magic apprentice," she whispered, bowing so deeply her long hair swept the floor.

  The pink-haired girl just waved a hand casually, her grin bright. "Hey! I'm Zoe Johnson, also an apprentice from White Star. Just call me Zoe!" She winked at Ronen, treating the high-stakes meeting like a tavern social.

  Ethan's brow furrowed in visible annoyance at Zoe's lack of decorum. He cleared his throat. "Mary is my student. As for Miss Zoe... she is here merely as Mary's traveling companion."

  "Oh, don't be so stiff, Instructor Ethan! We aren't in the Tower now," Zoe chirped, unfazed. She reached back and pulled the dusty, middle-aged man into the light. "Actually, I'm mostly here to look after my uncle."

  The man gave a small, weary nod. "Mark Johnson. I am a mage as well. I specialize in Magic Theory... specifically Energy Ether dynamics."

  Ethan's eyebrow arched. Behind the monocle, his eye glimmered with a predatory sort of curiosity. "Oh? A fellow mage? Zoe hadn't mentioned. Tell me, under which Master did you study? Which Tower holds your records?"

  Mark's eyelids flickered. His face darkened. After a long silence, he spoke in a low, gravelly voice. "I... am not affiliated with a Tower. I have no formal Master. My research has been... independent."

  The warmth vanished from Ethan's face. A thin, mocking smile touched his lips. "I see. I had assumed that all who pursued the Higher Arts took pride in the Guild's recognition." He spoke softly, but the words cut like glass. "A 'self-proclaimed' mage... how rare."

  "Hey! You Tower types stay cooped up all day," Zoe jumped in, defending her uncle. "Not every mage needs a piece of paper to prove they can cast! The Demon Queen is widely considered the greatest mage alive, and I don't see her carrying a Guild ID!"

  "A fair point, I suppose," Ethan replied, his contempt now blatant. "Then I look forward to seeing how your 'theoretical research' holds up when things get messy."

  The air in the room turned brittle. The tension between Ethan and Mark was nearly physical.

  Just as the silence became unbearable, a woman with a sharp, disciplined aura stepped forward from the other side of the table. Her brown hair was pulled back into a practical ponytail, and her light armor, while unadorned, bore the dull sheen of equipment that had seen years of actual combat.

  "Vivian Isabella. Formerly of the Dragonshield Legion."

  Wolf's eyes lit up. He seized the opening to steer the conversation away from the mages. "A frontline veteran! I noticed the plate—standard Glory City armor doesn't have those reinforced joints."

  "The Dragonshield values utility over decoration," Vivian said, a small, tough smile tugging at her lips. "On the border, efficiency is what keeps you alive."

  Wolf nodded in approval, though his curiosity remained. "What brings a border-vanguard so deep into the Empire's heart?"

  "Even soldiers need a holiday," Vivian said, her tone relaxing slightly. "I've always wanted to see the Cenotaph of the Fallen Legends—it's a pilgrimage for any warrior. I saw the request at the Mercenary Association and, since I was heading north anyway, figured I'd earn some travel gold."

  As she finished, the group's collective gaze turned to the final woman, who had remained a silent shadow until now.

  She also wore light armor, though hers was even more minimalist. What drew the eye was the fresh, jagged scar across her cheek—a wound that had only recently scabbed over, marring an otherwise delicate face.

  She gave a curt nod. "Emma Sophia. Glory City Enforcement Division."

  Wolf blinked, surprised. "Enforcement? That's unexpected. Why would an officer of the law take a mercenary contract?"

  Emma's eyes were like still water—cold and unreadable. "Private business. I need access to that specific Mage Tower to investigate a lead."

  Wolf looked at the scar on her face for a second too long. "Begging your pardon... but that injury? You're fit for the field?"

  Emma touched the scar lightly. A flash of something complex—anger, perhaps, or grief—flickered in her eyes before vanishing. "It won't interfere with the mission."

  Wolf nodded, taking the hint. In this business, everyone had secrets. As long as they didn't get you killed, asking too much was a quick way to find trouble.

  "Well then, it seems the two of us are the only career mercenaries in the room," Wolf laughed, his booming voice finally shattering the last of the awkwardness. "I'm Wolf Magel, the 'Grey Wolf.' From the White Tiger's Fang."

  He clapped Ronen on the back. The young mercenary, still in his travel-stained tunic and leather gambeson, stepped forward, his voice steady and respectful.

  "Ronen Frost-Snow. Also of the White Tiger's Fang. It's an honor to walk the path with you all."