The viscount offered a mild bow of the head. “A pleasure. I’ve heard good things.”
She returned it with measured, appropriate grace. “Likewise, Viscount.”
Beside him, the small, soft-featured girl peeked out from behind her father’s coat. She had wide eyes, full of caution and curiosity. Veronica met her gaze, offered a faint smile, and dipped her chin.
“Hello there.”
Claire blinked. Then, after a moment’s pause, she gave a polite curtsey—dainty and thoroughly practiced—before promptly tucking herself back into her father’s shadow, fingers clutched tightly.
Leopold smiled. “She’s shy around new people. Takes after her mother in that regard.”
His attention flicked back to Veronica. His eyes moved slowly; his gaze wasn’t one of arrogance from a man appraising, but the sharpness of a man who was cataloguing.
“Your attire is certainly striking,” he said with a note of amusement. “Though I don’t think my mere visit is deserving of such extravagance. You look as though you’re here to attend a royal wedding.”
Veronica shook her head lightly, lips curving with faint humor. “You’re generous with your words, Viscount. But no, it just so happens to be the most comfortable outfit I have at the moment. I ran into some trouble recently. Bandits, actually. My previous set was… unsalvageable.”
“Bandits, huh?” Leopold’s tone remained casual, but his gaze flicked briefly toward Baron Welterman. A passing glance, harmless on the surface. The baron, however, didn’t react.
“Not surprising,” Leopold continued. “There are always rats in the corners. Even my own lands have a few that chew through the grain when no one’s looking.”
“Indeed,” Welterman added, smoothing his lapel. “We do what we can, of course. But if the world were so simple that the law could remove every danger, we’d all be living in paradise.”
Veronica made a polite sound of agreement, though she doubted either of them were particularly troubled by rodents of any kind—human or otherwise.
Still, Leopold wasn’t finished. “But really, that is your regular wear?” he asked, gesturing faintly to her ensemble. “It’s a bit much for a mining town, wouldn’t you say? It’s very alluring.”
She opened her mouth to answer, but Claire struck first—her small fist thudding gently into her father’s thigh.
“Ow.” Leopold winced dramatically. “Betrayed by my own blood. Right to the core.”
He placed a hand over the spot, as if mortally wounded. “Of course, my wife is the most beautiful woman alive. I mean no offense with my words. I simply have a… wandering eye for exotic patterns. A businessman’s eye, I assure you. Nothing more.”
Veronica let out a quiet laugh. “You’re lucky she isn’t here to hear that.”
“I’m lucky she lets me breathe,” he replied dryly. Then, more thoughtful, he added, “What I meant by alluring is, is that your outfit is unusual in style. Not one commonly seen in Vitian. Is it dark elven? Or perhaps something Sylphian? My house does quite a lot of trade in fabrics, so that’s where my curiosity comes.”
Veronica arched a brow. “Dark elven, yes. A tailor here in town originally prepared it for trade with the dark elves, but the exchange never happened. She couldn’t find a buyer, so I took it off her hands. Would’ve been a shame to let it gather dust. Her words.”
His gaze lingered a beat longer than necessary. As did the baron’s. They weren’t admiring the stitching.
They were searching her face. More specifically, the curve of her ear.
With an inward sigh, Veronica brushed aside a few strands of hair, revealing the subtle taper of her ear—barely pointed, but enough to mark it true.
“I do have some dark elven blood,” she said simply.
Leopold gave a slow nod. “Apologies for the rude stare. It’s rare to see dark elves outside their groves. Even rarer to see one so comfortable here in human territory. You don’t look full-blooded, but still. The dark elves are… enigmatic. The kind of people you hear about more than you meet.”
“Yes. I know what you mean,” Veronica said. “My own parents weren’t connected with them too closely. I grew up mostly in human society unlike my peers. Even I don’t know much about the dark elves.”
That, of course, was a lie.
She had lived among them until the age of eight and had learned their language. Knew the scent of the everroot trees and the haunting tone of their wind harps that were strung between branches.
The world believed the elves to be caretakers of Yggdrasil—the world tree, the sacred boughs that reached both heaven and underworld. But they rarely mentioned the darker kind. The ones who lived beneath the roots instead of among the leaves.
Dark elves were misunderstood. Feared in some regions, while hated in others. Even the high elves rejected them, as if proximity to the underworld made them impure.
But what the world didn’t know was that the roots of the World Tree grew endlessly. And if left untamed, they would devour the world from below, entrapping everything in an endlessly growing forest. It was a source of vitality and life—but too much of a good thing, wasn’t always safe.
The Dark Elves worshipped and cared for Nidhogg, an ancient dragon God that kept the World Tree in check. This meant that the roots of Yggdrasil had to die, eaten and consumed. Almost like cutting a person’s hair.
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The dark elves were not rejected because they were purposeless. They were hated because their purpose was necessary.
Nidhogg had fallen in her previous life. In this lifetime—she had to save them. Because when her God fell, the world tree had, too. She had to prevent this at all costs.
Leopold’s eyes lingered for a moment longer, but then he smiled again, this time with more warmth than curiosity. “Well, it suits you,” he said. “And it is good to see Greystone attracting such interesting people. Maybe we’ve finally outgrown our reputation as a forgotten corner.”
Veronica nodded her head politely.
The conversation drifted, like leaves carried downstream, shifting toward lighter things—the quality of the food, the talent of the musicians, the clear skies above. Claire offered a few shy comments about the sugary pears a townsperson had whipped up. Even Steward Hadrian chimed in with a quip about the flower arrangements.
She commented here and there, but the conversations were more courteous than substantial. There wasn’t much to talk about for long.
“Well,” the viscount said, glancing toward the long dining table. “I believe we’ve drawn enough attention for now. Don’t want to be the reason anyone skips the smoked boar.”
Welterman chuckled and clapped him on the back. “Then let’s indulge. My chef nearly lost a finger trying to prepare that beast. The least we can do is make it worth the wound.”
With that, the group eased apart, and the tension in Veronica’s shoulders drifted with them. She gave Claire a small wave, which the girl returned—shyly, and with a smile—before Veronica turned toward the growing clamor.
She drifted near the edge of the square, sipping slowly from a new glass of juice. Children darted between chairs and ankles. Miners clapped each other on the back, already drunk. Even Steward Hadrian was tapping his foot to the beat. She kept an eye on the viscount, to ensure no problems arose. Occasionally, her attention turned to someone else.
Finn had spent the better part of the afternoon behaving like a starved gremlin let loose in a bakery. At one point, she spotted him sprinting laps around a fruit stall, a half-eaten skewer dangling from his mouth while two other boys chased after him, their fingers sticky and teeth stained purple from too many candied grapes.
She kept half an eye on him. It wasn’t worry, exactly—more of a quiet reflex she hadn’t shaken off. And when it became clear he was far too busy shoving pastries into his mouth to notice anything else, she let him be. He deserved a moment of reckless joy.
In hindsight, she should’ve known better.
Eventually, the baron and viscount departed with their retinue, returning to Welterman’s estate. The festival didn’t end with them—it simply softened and relaxed. Laughter grew quieter. Conversations slowed. The celebration eased into a gentle gathering.
There wasn’t a good reason Veronica could come up with to barge into the mansion, unannounced. Still, she kept the estate within her line of sight. Whatever the cultists wanted to do, it involved the viscount in some way. While she could have followed those suspicious figures that left the gathering early, it was probably best that Viscount Leopold interrupted her.
The cultists were most likely tracking her location. Assassins who knew where she lived, and cultists arriving at the ruins an hour later after she had checked them the day before, made it seem obvious.
While she could have waited at the ritual site, she needed to keep close tabs on the viscount. Leaving Greystone and heading to the ritual site also meant leaving the town and the envoy unprotected. Any deaths would be on her hands for not dutifully watching over everyone. Especially if there were any cultists intermingled in with regular townspeople.
So instead, she spent time with the locals, feeling the peacefulness of their lives, prepared to act in case anything happened.
But she felt engrossed in it.
No burning skies. No screams. No blood staining the ground.
Just people living.
This was what she wanted to protect. More accurately—she didn’t want what the demons brought. Death and destruction.
Her fingers curled against the edge of table she leaned at—not from tension, but resolve. Peace like this didn’t last on its own. Someone had to prepare the world for what was coming.
That someone would be her, whether she liked it or not. There was a personal feeling of obligation now. Veronica simply knew too much. Could prevent so many things. It’d be irresponsible to do nothing.
Stopping the Fall outright would be ideal. But if she couldn’t, then the world needed to be strong enough to survive it. Even a Tier-10 mage had limits. She knew that better than anyone.
She’d never thought of herself as a prodigy. Twin mana cores—or a cursed blessing—depending on perspective, were the only thing that truly set her apart, and they’d nearly killed her more than once. But she’d survived.
She didn’t need to be the strongest anymore. She just needed to help others become strong too.
By now, the crowd had thinned. Some people drifted home, others back to the mines. Guards lounged near the long tables, enjoying the last of the food. Several hours had passed, yet nothing of substance had happened. Perhaps the cultists would strike at night, and not now.
Veronica had spent the past hour chatting with Sena and Hadrian, but with the festival winding down, her thoughts were clear again.
Today would be the last day she took things slow.
From now on, strength meant responsibility—and time would only grow scarcer as she climbed higher.
Veronica had never taken an apprentice before. Her studies—and Medusa’s curse—had made that impossible. Now, neither excuse remained. Maybe it was time. One student. Maybe a small group, before she eventually met Maeve in Annesheim.
Not here, though.
Finn was enthusiastic but unfocused. Elise had no drive for magic at all and seemed more interested in her work as a maid. Greystone simply wasn’t the place.
Once the cultists were dealt with, she’d need the baron’s kassal oil. It was the simplest path to Tier-3—and with luck, maybe secure enough to push even further.
Veronica was about to leave when something in her periphery drew her attention. Just past a row of stacked crates, where the lamps had flickered and shadows clung a little too tightly, a tiny figure moved through the gap.
Her eyes squinted. Then she frowned.
It was Finn.
She didn’t have to guess who it was; he had a slight lean in his steps, like a boy caught between playing and sneaking. Her body didn’t tense, but her focus narrowed. Her thoughts turned sharp.
Earlier, there were figures just like that vanishing into alleys; all of their hoods were drawn, faces hidden. She’d dismissed them then, forced to put on a smile and greet nobility, but that unease never left her. And now, with the day nearing its end, Finn was slipping away into the dark.
“What in the world is that kid doing...” she murmured, already shuffling away from the square. Her pace was steady, eyes alert for anyone spying on her. When no one was around, she moved quicker.
She wasn’t about to let that reckless brat throw himself into danger—especially not tonight. She’d drag him back by the collar if that was what was needed.
The town disappeared behind her as she left. The direction she headed was directly toward the ruins.
Was Finn going back just to check up on the ruins and wait? Or did something happen to alert him? The day was almost over, and it was too dangerous to stay out here. But… if he did pick up on something, then it might be best to strike at the cultists before anything happened.
The viscount hadn’t given off any clear signs of him working with the demon summoners. While she was out here, the town guards, both Greystone’s and the viscount’s own entourage, would be enough to protect them or stall any attacks.
She’d be back in time unless something happened.
After a couple of minutes, she heard a mental ping in her mind.
[A demon has been detected 500 meters ahead.]
Path of Sculpting and Path of Latency
Path of Sculpting and the Path of Latency specialize in reactive magical architecture. They design environments that remain inert until specific conditions are met, at which point the terrain itself changes all at once. These mages are commonly used in the construction of intricate vaults, automated estates, and large fortified structures.
Guess who the next immediate person to die in the story is!
