The Sinclair carriage was a silent, dark bullet speeding through the night. Inside, the atmosphere was one of quiet focus, not sleep. Finn broke the silence, his voice cutting through the low hum of the carriage's enchanted mechanics.

  "Eisen. You can take a break. You've been driving this thing for eight hours straight. It's almost midnight."

  Ultimare glanced at the window, "He's not wrong. We are significantly ahead of schedule. A short respite won't impact our timeline."

  Eisen's voice, slightly filtered, came from the driver's compartment. "The healing and energy potion combination is effective, but a short break would be... optimal. What does the Lord have to say on the matter?"

  Finn waved a dismissive hand. "He's resting. And even if he weren't, he wouldn't concern himself with something so trivial."

  "Then I will take the honor," Eisen replied. The carriage's supernatural momentum bled away into a smooth, silent stop in a darkened stretch of countryside.

  Only a few minutes had passed when Lucien's eyes opened. The faint, silver sheen of his True Perception faded from his irises, he had not been sleeping, but continuously monitoring their route and surroundings for threats or deviations.

  The moment his internal focus shifted, a new presence brushed against their minds.

  Ava's telepathic voice, crisp and clear, rang in the consciousness of every Sinclair present. “Hello? Are you hearing me? Hello?"

  Finn's mental reply was a dry grumble. “Yeah, we can. What’s the honor? It’s not even the next day and you’re already missing us. What did you mess up?”

  "Hah! You're lucky I can't pluck your tongue from here," Ava shot back, her tone laced with familiar irritation. "I haven't messed anything up. I'm just here to ask you something."

  Lucien's thought-voice was a flat, commanding presence. "What is it?"

  "When will you reach your destination?"

  Ultimare answered, "Tomorrow, perhaps. We are making better time than anticipated. Why do you ask?"

  "You will meet our relatives, correct? The other branch of the family?"

  Finn's impatience was palpable. "You know we are. Why are you stretching this out? Get to the point."

  "I am asking," Ava's tone became pointed, "if you have taken any gifts with you, or if you plan to greet them empty-handed."

  Ultimare sighed mentally. "I was personally in favor of sending a formal letter and avoiding the visit altogether. Why must we physically visit these people?"

  "That is called etiquette," Ava retorted, her voice gaining a lecturing edge. "Have you forgotten everything Selena taught you? Speaking of which, she was the one who asked me to ask you."

  The mention of Selena brought a subtle shift in the carriage's atmosphere. Finn relented. "Fine. We will procure some flowers on the way, and perhaps some confectionery. Will that suffice?"

  "No. We are Sinclair. Our reputation is on the line. We must present something thoughtful. This reflects on all of us. What does our Head say on this matter?"

  All the attention turned to Lucien. After a moment of consideration, his thought-voice resonated, calm and decisive. "I will see to it. You need not concern yourself further."

  "Well, alright then," Ava conceded. "Make sure you select something appropriate. Make a good impression." Her presence vanished from their minds as abruptly as it had arrived.

  Lucien turned his head slightly. "Pelta. Provide a summary on our relatives."

  Pelta: "The household consists of one female, Emily Sinclair, approximately seventeen years of age, and one younger male sibling. Should I compile a list of potential gift options based on known financial status?"

  Lucien: “Each of us who are present will give something, and there will be one gift from our family as a whole. Eisen, stop at a city with good facilities for it tomorrow.”

  From the driver's seat, Eisen's voice drifted back, laced with a hint of lazy confidence. "That won't be necessary. Pipra Town itself is a major hub. You will find anything you could desire there."

  Finn leaned forward, a practical frown on his face. "That's convenient. But what do we gift? Gold? Currency? Art? A ceremonial vase?"

  Ultimare interjected, a sly, amused tone in his voice. "Let us discuss what we shall give collectively. But our individual gifts… let's keep those to ourselves."

  Pelta's head tilted. "Why would that be?"

  "Because it is more entertaining," Ultimare explained, a smirk playing on his lips. "It will be a test of the lessons Sister Selena drilled into us. Let us see which of us actually absorbed the principles of noble conduct, and who will make himself the joke of high society."

  A glint of competitive interest showed in Pelta's eyes. "Intriguing."

  "I can't wait to rub my success in your face," Finn said, a rare, genuine grin appearing as he looked at Ultimare. Then his gaze shifted to Lucien, who had already closed his eyes, resuming his mental training. "For some reason," Finn added, "I have a very clear idea who will place last in this little game."

  Lucien gave no indication he had heard, his expression one of detached immersion back into the rhythms of the world outside their carriage.

  The morning sun crept through cracked curtains, thin beams cutting across the small, timeworn room. Emily was already awake, kneeling by the hearth, coaxing a flame to life. The old house groaned faintly around her, as if even the walls had grown tired of standing.

  Dust floated in the air, catching the light like tiny motes of gold. She brushed them away absently as she worked.

  The broom’s rhythm was the same every morning—sweep, shake, sweep again—followed by the steady clatter of dishes, the scrape of a chair, and the smell of porridge simmering on a weak flame.

  By the time she’d finished setting the table, she could already hear footsteps upstairs. “Jim!” she called, voice bright despite her tired eyes. “If you’re not down in three minutes, you won't get any breakfast!”

  In the kitchen, her hands, which were more accustomed to a sewing needle and a scrub brush than a scepter, moved with automatic precision.

  The scent of toasting bread and cheap tea began to permeate the chill air. It was this sound and smell that finally drew her brother, Jim, from his room.

  “You didn’t have to wake me this early.” he mumbled, spooning porridge without enthusiasm, his black hair as messy as it can be. “School doesn’t start for another hour.”

  Emily smiled faintly. “Then you’ll have time to review your lessons.”

  Jim shot her a look, then sighed. "You cleaned the east-wing rooms again," he stated, his voice still thick with sleep but sharp with accusation. It wasn't a question.

  Emily turned. The movement caused a lock of her hair, the color of fresh-fallen snow, to escape its simple tie.

  It was a startling, beautiful contrast against the worn fabric of her nightgown. Her face, with its fine, delicate features and eyes the color of a summer sky, was arranged into a mask of bright optimism.

  She didn’t answer right away, just stirred her tea.

  "Of course I did," she said, her voice a determined chime. "I can't have our guests live in dirty rooms, how bad they will feel."

  Jim’s spoon hit the table. “Guests. You mean them. The exiled relatives we’ve never met, who suddenly want to visit now that Father’s gone?”

  Emily’s tone stayed calm, almost cheerful. “They’re still family, Jim. Besides, you’re overthinking it. And even if things turn out the way you’re imagining, I’ll take care of it. Your sister is not that weak.”

  “Family?” His voice cracked. “They never even wrote to us. They are Heretics, everyone else in the family says that. They'll bring nothing but trouble for us. Just tell them to find an inn.”

  She smiled, patient but firm. “As far as I know, those guys you’re using as a reference don’t say good things about us either, do they? We can’t judge someone based on rumors. I’ll judge them with my own two eyes. As I said, I’ll be careful.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Jim muttered something under his breath and went back to eating. The air between them settled into uneasy silence. After a few minutes, he finished, grabbed his satchel, and headed for the door.

  “Try not to argue with the headmaster again!” she called after him.

  “I’ll try,” he replied, already halfway down the street.

  When the sound of his footsteps faded, Emily exhaled slowly and looked around the small kitchen. Cracked tiles, faded walls, shelves lined with mismatched dishes — yet everything was spotless. She set her hands on her hips and nodded to herself. “That’s better.”

  She dressed in care in her one presentable day dress, its fabric thin from countless mendings, but it complemented her slender frame and made her pale hair seem almost ethereal. Rushing out, she was a vision of misplaced nobility among the waking commerce of Pipra Town.

  The morning market was waking up, a blend of chatter, creaking carts, and the smell of bread baking somewhere close. As she passed the baker’s shop, Mrs. Garnet, with flour on her cheeks, waved from the doorway.

  “Morning, Emily! You’re early again!”

  Emily smiled. “Old habits. I get restless if I stay still too long.”

  Next door, the flower vendor, a bright-eyed lady named Mirin, leaned over her stall. “Have you heard? My boy got accepted into the Academy. Magic Division!”

  Mrs. Garnet chimed in immediately. “Mine too, but he’s joining the Martial Arts branch. Says he’ll be a knight someday.”

  Emily’s eyes softened with genuine warmth. “That’s wonderful. You both must be so proud.”

  The two women beamed, voices spilling over one another as they shared every detail — tuition, uniforms, the worry of sending children off to the city. Emily listened quietly, smiling all the while. There was no trace of envy in her tone, only kindness.

  When the church bell tolled, she gasped. “Oh no—! I’m late again!”

  She sprinted off, weaving through the morning crowd.

  By the time she reached the boutique, the owner was already standing by the door, arms crossed. “You are late, Miss Sinclair.”

  "My most sincere apologies, Madame. It won't happen again," Emily replied, already moving to the storeroom for a duster, her posture straight, a lifetime of maintaining dignity in the face of subtle reproach keeping her spine rigid.

  “You’d better clean everything quickly. It’s almost opening time. After that, stitch those clothes in the boxes near the window, we have to deliver them by six.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  When the other shop girls arrived, she shared quiet, conspiratorial smiles.

  And with that the quiet morning bustle began, bolts of fabric unrolled, measuring tapes snapping, the soft chatter of tailors and seamstresses preparing for customers.

  Emily greeted each of them with the same calm smile. Most nodded back politely, a few didn’t bother.

  The older woman approached as Emily was arranging a display. "Emily, my dear," Elara began, her gaze appraising. "A girl with your… bearing… working like this. It's a shame. My nephew, a clerk for the magistrate, is a very stable prospect. You should meet him."

  “I’ll think about it,” Emily said, though they both knew she wouldn’t.

  And so her day began again, like every other, filled with quiet labor, small conversations, and the fragile balance between exhaustion and endurance.

  Yet, as she worked, her mind drifted home — to the guest rooms she had prepared, the polished silver she had taken from storage, and the faint hope, buried deep, that this time, family might actually mean something.

  The Sinclair carriage cut through the bustling market entrance of Pipra Town like a blade of polished obsidian, its sudden, silent presence immediately snatching the attention of those around it.

  The cacophony of bartering and chatter dipped for a moment, heads turning to watch the imposing vehicle slow its supernatural speed to a mere crawl.

  Inside, the occupants observed the scene through the tinted windows.

  Lucien’s gaze was sweeping over the teeming streets, the multi-storied buildings crammed shoulder-to-shoulder.

  He took in the layers of the narrow alleys folded between stone buildings, the web of markets connecting one square to another, how hundreds of lives crossed paths every second.

  There was beauty in it, raw, accidental beauty born from countless hands shaping a single living structure.

  He studied the intricate, almost claustrophobic network of alleys and thoroughfares. A place where every step is observed.

  Rash action here would create ripples too wide to easily contain. Every move must be calculated.

  "Not bad," Ultimare commented, his voice a low murmur. "Better than what I had hoped for. Though it is certainly filled with people. I would prefer it a little less crowded." He watched a group of laughing apprentices jostle past a Stoic city guard. "We will have to live in this world for quite a while. I suppose I'd better get used to such nuisances." A faint, curious smile touched his lips. "It does hold my interest, however. I think I will explore when I have free time, or when it's needed."

  Finn’s assessment was more practical. "It will get the job done, at least. We are not in some boonies. Personally, I was worrying the town would be like some slum, that would have been a huge problem in every way." His eyes scanned the buildings, judging their structural integrity and the quality of the shopfronts. "I hope we are able to find a clean and good stay here. Though, either way, navigating through this place and accomplishing our objectives will be a huge hassle for sure."

  From the driver's compartment, Eisen's filtered voice offered a veteran's perspective. "It's like most market areas throughout the Empire. Though it's still less than what a true hub or the capital are like. Feels... familiar to see it after so many years." His tone held a note of caution. "I would advise not falling for the exterior too much. A place like this is a giant amalgamation. Rich, poor, powerful, shady, good people, bad people... all kinds stay together. This market is just one side of it."

  Pelta said nothing, but her head moved in minute, precise adjustments, her eyes capturing the flow of crowd traffic, the variety of goods, the social interactions. A rare, almost imperceptible spark of curiosity glimmered in her analytical gaze, a silent desire to step out and experience the chaos.

  Lucien’s voice broke the silence, calm and decisive. "Pelta."

  She turned immediately. "Yes, brother?"

  He had noticed the subtle shift in her focus. "Before we go our way to find the gifts, let’s all have a stroll together. We could even buy the collective gift from the family afterward. Eisen, find a secure location to park the carriage."

  "Acknowledged," Eisen replied, already guiding the dark vehicle toward a quieter side lane, the eyes of the town still following their every move.

  The moment the Sinclairs stepped out of the carriage, the atmosphere in the market lane shifted palpably. It was a mix of raw curiosity and pure awe.

  For a moment, conversations faltered. Hands paused mid-gesture, an unease spread through the crowd. As their eye followed, Those four stepped out of the carriage.

  The town was no stranger to nobility, but townsfolk had never seen such a grand, unfamiliar design, pulled by horses whose sleek coats and imposing posture spoke of breeding far above the stables.

  Even the gossip-loving merchants who knew every noble crest in the region could not place this one. The Sinclairs carried with them a quiet sense of otherness.

  The Sinclairs were like the sun rising at night, or a king standing in line for charity, they felt completely out of place in the ordinary world around them. Again, nobles were not new to this town, but none ever arrived with such a presence.

  They moved as a single, formidable unit. Their clothes were simple in cut but so finely made that most in the crowd could barely imagine affording the fabric, let alone wearing it.

  Finn, as always, stood out most—draped in the most extravagant attire of the four, his garments practically declaring wealth on their own. Just looking at him made people instinctively step aside, the way commoners would part for soldiers or kings.

  Without a word, the crowd made way, forming a corridor through the market. Questions and whispers followed in their wake.

  The four Sinclairs paid no heed to the stares. Each of them walked at a measured pace, scanning the shops and stalls with eyes that made shopkeepers flinch when their gaze landed on them.

  The weak-hearted prayed they wouldn’t stop at their stalls, the veterans, seasoned merchants, silently prayed they would stop, knowing such individuals were not the type to haggle.

  Those with idle time—the gossipers, the curious, the watchers kept staring and whispering, trying to guess their origins, their purpose, their names.

  The unintentional pressure they exuded was palpable. Children tugged at their parents’ sleeves, asking who they were. Few parents dared admit ignorance.

  Parents hushed their curious children with hurried whispers. "They are important people from far away," one mother said, pulling her son close. "Don't talk about them. They are clearly royals," muttered another. "They are people our kind have nothing to do with. Don't bother them."

  A merchant, asked by a regular customer for his opinion, watched them with a shrewd eye. "To carry such an intimidating feeling without even trying... they must belong to a great family. Definitely not from here. Perhaps from the capital itself. To think people of such stature would walk through a common market without a single servant..."

  For a moment, the entire area buzzed with a mix of awe, questions, and a desperate desire to know more. As the four continued their stroll, they drew attention like a magnet, the Sinclairs oblivious or perhaps indifferent toward the whole thing.

  As they explored the market, Pelta's gaze, which had been processing the crowd and architecture, locked onto a small stall selling glasswork. Delicate, crystal-clear animals and birds caught the light, and for a moment, her focus was replaced by simple, silent captivation.

  Finn noticed her halted attention. Without a word, he strode to the shopkeeper, who was stunned into silence by his sudden, imposing presence. "I'll take a full set of those," Finn stated, his tone leaving no room for discussion.

  The shopkeeper simply stammered, "Y-yes, yes. I will pack it."

  Pelta, now beside him, said quietly, "You did not need to."

  Finn handed her the neatly wrapped package. "Come. We are shopping. Let us indulge ourselves a little."

  Hearing this, Ultimare's attention drifted from the crowd to Lucien, who had stopped at a food stall.

  Lucien was looking at a vendor serving a hearty dish. “What is that?”

  The shopkeeper, flustered, described it instead of naming it. "It is... a slice of toasted bread slathered in butter, dipped into kidney beans topped with chopped onions and strips of omelet."

  Lucien nodded. "Give me five of these. Wrap them in a way it can be eaten on the go."

  It wasn't a service they usually offered, but for him, it was done without question. Lucien paid with a large note.

  The vendor began to protest, "But we don't have change—" but Lucien was already walking away with the package.

  Ultimare approached. "What do we have here? It smells decent enough. I can see why you got it."

  Lucien offered the food to everyone.

  As they ate and walked, Lucien's calm voice cut through the lingering novelty of their presence. "Let us begin with the collective gift now, if you are done."

  Finn nodded, swallowing a bite. "Sure. But first, I would like to see the bookstore here."

  Ultimare smiled. "I also find myself wanting to buy something now."

  Pelta, still holding her glass figures, added softly, “If possible, I’d like to visit a few more shops too, mainly of potions, weapons and pharmacies.”