Citadel of Magecraft, Swartz Kingdom
Luke Floren stood before the towering gates of the Citadel, sharp eyes tracking the final carriage of the long convoy as it rolled to a stop. His foot tapped against the stone in quiet anticipation. The delivery he had been waiting for had finally arrived.
Several minutes later, as coachmen and escorts began unloading with practiced efficiency, one man separated himself from the group and walked toward him. Luke did not hide his surprise. This was not who he had expected to see.
“Magister,” the man greeted with an easy smile. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”
The man speaking, Samson Morgan, was a brown-haired young man. He may not have been young by most standards, but to Luke the description still fits, especially in comparison to someone as ancient as himself.
Well-fed, Samson looked like the sort of frivolous noble spawned by excess wealth, but that impression rarely survived closer inspection. He was many things besides a fat youth. A merchant, an actual good one. A noble of the so-called New Aristocracy. And above all, he was an entrepreneur in the blooming field that is dungeon harvesting, a status that had brought him into contact with Luke's Citadel in the first place.
“You and your convoy are late,” Luke said without preamble. With the head of the company present, there was no need to waste ink on letters or scold subordinates who bore no fault.
“Aye.”
“Two whole weeks late.”
“Aye, aye, aye. I know.” Samson laughed sheepishly and extended his hand. “My apologies for that. I’m in fact here, just for that.”
Luke stared at the offered hand for a moment longer than politeness demanded before taking it, his annoyance barely restrained. “What happened?”
“Well, Magister, it’s simple. I’ve been too generous for my own good,” Samson said, the merchant in him bleeding into his tone and mannerism. “I noticed a pattern with your orders. Every time my people deliver, you request more the next time. So I thought, why not bring a little extra as a gift? I brought fifteen thousand kilograms of manacyte instead of the thirteen thousand five hundred you asked for. That meant adding two more wagons to my original sixteen.”
“That is generous of you,” Luke replied flatly. “But I fail to see how that caused the delay.”
“It was the harvesting. You want your manacyte top-notch, don’t you?”
Luke frowned. The words stirred a familiar unease. He had dealt with enough merchants like Samson to know better than to take claims at face value. “Can I see what you brought?”
Though unsightly for someone his rank, he intended to inspect the quality himself.
“Of course.”
Samson led him to the nearest wagon, its interior packed tightly with clusters of blue crystal that glimmered strongly in the shade. He selected a shard at random and passed it to Luke. The magister accepted it and immediately activated his skill, Identification.
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[Identification]
[Status]
- Object:
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
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- Origin:
- Age:
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[Expand]
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Manacyte, the crystalline formations that grew on dungeon walls like moss in damp caverns, was among the most prized materials in all of Fiendfell. Harvesting it required seasoned adventurers willing to descend deep into chaotic, monster infested spaces where survival itself was never guaranteed.
“Top quality,” the merchant said proudly. “Harvested by workers on the level of A rank adventurers from the treacherous edge of the Mirrorshade Bastion’s third layer. Down there, even your senses betray you,” the merchant boasted. “Sight, touch, everything. It took immense effort and risk to extract this. That’s why we were delayed. For an additional one thousand five hundred kilograms, I’d say the wait was justified. Don’t you agree?”
“Hm.” Luke’s gaze remained fixed on the merchant, his expression unreadable. “I appreciate the surplus, but I doubt this generosity is entirely unprompted.”
It was suspicious. The excess, yes, but even more so the man’s presence. Luke knew how busy Samson Morgan truly was. A man like him did not personally oversee a delivery unless he had a reason. He would not waste his time without a clear objective.
The merchant clutched his chest theatrically. “Magister. You wound me.”
“I am merely stating the truth. What do you want, Morgan?”
Samson’s grin widened, sharp and unmistakable. It was the smile of a man finally ready to name his price. “Just one thing. I want your people to stop bargaining my prices down.”
“Bargaining?” Luke frowned.
Samson leaned closer, bold enough to rest a hand on Luke’s shoulder. It was an audacity few would risk on this continent. As they moved away from the unloading convoy and deeper into the citadel grounds, Samson Morgan spoke, no longer in his merchant’s voice but in the tone of a business owner. “Magister, I would like you to talk some sense into your colleague. He keeps hounding me about my rates and insists they are unfair. I assure you, my prices are the most reasonable you will find on this continent. Do you have any idea how expensive it is to hire triple-A ranked adventurers to secure our dungeons, or suicidal miners to excavate your manacyte?”
Luke didn’t need much to figure out which colleague the man was referring to. He immediately knew who it was about.
Founded nearly one hundred and fifty years ago by Queen Arianna, the Citadel of Magecraft was governed by the High Magistrate, a council composed of an Archmagister and seven Magisters, each responsible for a vital domain. Internal Affairs was one such domain, overseen by Lord Sirius, who was most likely the man being complained about.
“Talk to him for me,” Samson pressed on. “He doesn’t understand the labor costs of my operations. You know the quality of my manacyte. It’s flawless. Perfect for whatever you do with them.”
Luke regarded him with cool, almost pitying eyes. “You seem to think that being a magister allows me to argue with Syrius.”
“You can’t?”
“I—”
Luke was about to answer that with a sigh when he halted right as the words left his mouth. Something had caught his attention.
In the massive courtyard, normally bustling with white robed attendants, light grey clerks, and green robed stewards, all movement had frozen. Every gaze had turned away from Luke, whose black magister robe usually drew attention wherever he stood, to instead go toward a peculiar sight crossing the open space.
Two young girls were weaving through the courtyard on bicycles.
The contraptions were a recent invention. Two wheels, a slender frame, propelled by the rider’s feet and guided by a swiveling handlebar. A delicate balance of metal, and coordination.
It was novel, yes, but it was not the novelty of the machines that had drawn every eye.
It was the riders.
At first glance, both appeared human, but a sharper look revealed the telltale sign. Long, pointed ears which unmistakably established them as elves.
The younger of the two, with short black hair, was none other than Theta. The scion of the Talulah family, one of the Three Crownlord Families of the Land of Men, and the only heir of Queen Arianna, founder of the Citadel itself.
The other was a silver haired girl, Miss Lee. Officially described as a relative of Lady Theta through her father’s side and a high ranking figure from the elven lands.
As they passed, the young elven girl noticed Luke and waved energetically.
He froze, momentarily caught off guard.
Beside him, even Samson reacted faster, lifting a hand in greeting. Miss Lee did not spare them a glance, her attention fully focused on matching Theta’s pace.
“Who was that little girl?” Samson asked, eyes wide.
“That little girl,” Luke said quietly, reverence heavy in his voice, “is Her Highness, Elven Queen Theta. Archmagister of the Citadel of Magecraft.”
