The sun rose gently over the Feind region, casting golden warmth on its southern expanse. Despite the light's softness, there was no mistaking the tension that clung to Red Nest City like a shroud.
On that morning, Argon Von Feind departed the manor in full view of the city's citizens—mounted on a sleek black destrier, adorned in ceremonial navy and silver. Behind him followed a formation of one hundred well-armed household guards, veterans of border campaigns and city defense alike. They rode in disciplined ranks, their weapons gleaming and banners bearing the sigil of the dark phoenix fluttering in the breeze.
It was not an army.
But it was a statement.
And all of Red Nest saw it.
Though the city was too vast for one hundred men to completely secure, the presence alone sent ripples of calm and dread alike through the people—criminals quieted, and refugees stood at attention. Something had changed.
The heir had returned. And he walked.
As they neared the southern council hall, Magistrate Roland De Vorn rode beside Argon with an increasingly tight expression. They paused before the estate steps, where banners of the local government hung beside faded emblems of the Empire.
"Magistrate," Argon said evenly, "tell me about the bureaucracy under Governor Hauser."
Roland hesitated. "My Lord… officially, the office functions as expected. Documentation flows, reports are submitted—delayed, perhaps, but present."
"And unofficially?"
A longer pause.
"There have been… whispers. Bribery. Favors exchanged for silence or opportunities. However, no firm evidence has ever been uncovered. Everything's clean on paper."
Argon narrowed his eyes. "And when did this start?"
"Roughly four years ago, my Lord," Roland admitted. "Not long after… after your condition worsened. Governor Dilan Hauser won his post through a bid and popular support from aristocrats and merchants. He's well-connected. Attends every social function. Knows the right people."
Argon nodded, gaze steely. A spider hiding behind paper walls.
He'd seen it before—too many times in too many worlds.
"Then I'll ask this plainly, Roland," Argon said. "Will you work with me to uncover what lies beneath?"
The magistrate straightened. "Without hesitation, my Lord."
Satisfied, Argon gestured toward the towering doors. "Let's begin."
The Council Hall was grand in its own way, a circular chamber with long tables arranged in a star formation. Guards and scribes stood at the edges, while the three refugee faction leaders sat at their respective positions, flanked by their aides.
And at the highest seat, dressed in gilded green and gold, reclined Governor Dilan Hauser.
The room grew still when Argon Von Feind entered. Whispers flared. Some gasped. Others stared in disbelief.
He was supposed to be bedridden. Fragile. Weak.
And yet here he was—his black hair neatly tied back, his sapphire eyes piercing and cold, his stride assured, regal, alive. Hauser's expression faltered only for a moment.
Argon smiled.
A polite, cold smile.
"Gentlemen," he began as he took his seat, "thank you for coming. I know tensions have been high, so let us be clear and direct. You are here because this territory, the Feind Marquessate, is mine. And peace must return to it."
No one dared interrupt.
He first turned to the faction leaders.
Clein Wallace, the dwarf, was broad-shouldered and heavy-browed, his beard braided with red metal bands. He eyed Argon with suspicion, arms crossed over his chest.
Emyr Hafiel, the wood elven leader, looked like a breeze made solid—slim, sharp-featured, his golden hair bound in forest-green silk. He bowed lightly, but his eyes remained unreadable.
Ogudei, the beastkin, was the tallest of them all—a leonine figure with a fur-lined cloak and tribal scars decorating his arms. His golden eyes watched Argon with a calculating gleam.
"You've all had your say in the past," Argon continued, tone still cordial. "But I want to hear it now, together. What stands in the way of peace?"
Clein spoke first, his voice gravel and resentment. "The elves hunted us in the Great War. Burned our mountains. Took our machines. My kin haven't forgotten."
Emyr's voice was low and smooth. "Your machines leveled our cities. Drained rivers. Your steel may be sharp, Wallace, but your memory is selective."
Ogudei let out a low growl. "You fight like your past matters. My people have no past. We were scattered, enslaved, driven from our plains. We fight because it is the only way we are seen."
The room simmered with old blood and blame.
Argon raised a hand. "Enough. I understand you each have pain. But do not mistake this land for your battleground. You were given refuge here by the good will of my House."
"We pay taxes now," Wallace muttered. "We build, trade, contribute. We've earned our place."
"As have we," Hafiel added.
"Yet the peace talks fail," Argon said. "Because your people still fight in the shadows. Skirmishes. Poisonings. Burnings. And none of you admit fault."
The tension shifted as all eyes turned to Governor Hauser, who smiled thinly.
"I've handled the situation the best I can, Lord Argon," he said smoothly. "These people are now taxpayers and, by law, citizens of the empire. Denying them equal protection would be a breach of Imperial Code. I'm sure you understand."
Argon studied him. Smug. Overconfident. Not stupid.
"I understand more than you know, Governor," Argon said calmly. "I understand the law. And I also understand leadership."
He stood.
"As of today, all factions—dwarves, elves, beastkin—will be confined to their designated districts. Temporary, until peace can be negotiated. No exceptions."
Hauser raised a brow. "That may cripple commerce, my Lord."
"A wound heals faster when the bleeding stops," Argon said. "You'll find a way to adapt."
A murmur spread through the room. Hafiel bowed his head in silent agreement. Wallace grumbled, but said nothing. Ogudei simply nodded once.
Hauser looked annoyed—but silent.
He knows he can't oppose me yet, Argon thought. But I'll need to find proof. Something undeniable. And fast.
As the meeting adjourned, Argon stepped toward the wood elven delegation. Emyr Hafiel met his approach with a calm but curious stare.
"You wished to speak?" Hafiel asked.
"I do," Argon said. "But not as a ruler to a refugee. As one leader to another."
The elf raised a brow. "Then lead, young phoenix. Let us see what flame you bear."
As the council room emptied, Argon gestured subtly toward the elven delegation. Emyr Hafiel, poised and silent, followed his signal with a courteous nod. The two walked side by side into the shaded stone corridors that wrapped around the hall, their footsteps softened by the carpet of moss and ivy growing along the pathway.
"Quite a spectacle today," Emyr began, his tone light and smooth as spring wine.
"I needed all of you to understand the gravity of the situation," Argon replied, gaze steady. "This is not a game of displaced tribes. This is a land on the verge of collapse."
The elf gave a noncommittal hum, pausing by a balcony overlooking the southern ward. Smoke curled from a chimney. A child's distant laughter echoed. And beneath it all—the quiet tension of a city barely holding its breath.
"Then I assume," Emyr said softly, "that you didn't ask me here just to share your concerns."
"I didn't," Argon replied. "I want your spies."
The elf's golden brow twitched slightly.
"My spies?" he repeated. "You speak boldly, young Lord."
"I speak realistically," Argon said. "Governor Hauser reeks of shadowed dealings. But I have no proof. And I know your people keep ears on every wall in this region."
The elf chuckled lightly. "How do you know I'm not in his pocket as well?"
Argon turned fully to face him, eyes like tempered steel beneath his black hair. "Because if you were, you'd already be trying to defend him."
Emyr arched a brow. "What if you're wrong about him?"
"Look at him," Argon said simply. "And ask yourself… does that man look like he will live long in my administration?"
The elf stilled. There was no boast in Argon's voice. No threat. Just certainty.
"You should choose your alliances now," Argon continued. "While the board is still setting. Not when the pieces begin to fall."
Emyr's expression remained calm, but the gleam in his eyes sharpened.
"You speak as though you are already a seasoned ruler," he said quietly. "But forgive me—what can a boy barely healed from death hope to accomplish?"
Argon's expression didn't change. But he raised a hand, let the mana swell in his chest, and pulsed.
A controlled wave of raw mana burst out from him—a flicker of true, imperial power. The air snapped around them like a cracking whip. The flowers lining the corridor wilted instantly, and a nearby torch flickered violently. Emyr staggered, his pupils narrowing.
It lasted only a second. But it was enough.
Argon's face was pale. A faint tremor passed through his arm as he dropped it, feeling the strain on his still-healing body. But he showed no weakness in his stance.
Emyr stared, chest rising.
"…You're no boy," he said finally. "Not anymore."
Argon gave a cold smile. "No. And if you value your people, you'll act accordingly."
There was a long silence before the elven leader inclined his head deeply—far more than before.
"You will have my eyes," he said at last. "And I'll see to it that word of this stays between us."
Argon nodded once. "Then