In the far past, before the name Axion carried any weight, this land was nothing more than a verdict.
A verdict passed by the wind.
Those who first arrived came with ordinary expectations—stone, soil, shelter.
They wore common cloth and leather, stitched for calmer regions, for ground that stayed where it was and air that merely passed instead of attacked. They learned quickly how wrong they were.
The wind here did not blow.
It cut.
It tore fabric from bone, flayed skin raw, hurled bodies from cliffs as if the land itself rejected their presence. Cloaks shredded in seconds. Boots were ripped away mid-step. More than one pioneering explorers vanished screaming into the white abyss below, their last mistake being the belief that gravity still obeyed familiar rules.
Survival demanded adaptation.
And so they learned.
They studied the wind's rhythm, its pressure, its shearing currents. They wove fibers that could bend instead of resist, metals thin enough to flex yet strong enough not to snap.
Clothing became less about modesty and more about engineering.
Garments anchored to the body, layers designed to redirect force, seams calculated to disperse stress rather than tear.
In time, the problem of survival was solved.
And once survival was solved, ambition followed.
What began as a desperate settlement hardened into permanence. Stone structures were carved into the land itself. Platforms suspended over nothingness. Bridges that swayed yet never fell. This place, once uninhabitable, was claimed.
Thus, the Axion Kingdom was born.
Power, as it always does, condensed into pillars.
The first was House Ferrante—the discoverers. The ones who first set foot here and refused to leave. They claimed ownership by right of endurance. More importantly, they controlled the mines. Every vein of ore buried beneath Axion's screaming depths belonged to them.
Raw power. Raw wealth. The kingdom's spine.
The second was House Vento, who joined Ferrante not long after.
They did not dig or build, instead they knew of all routes, schedules, whispers.
They mastered transport through the wind itself, learned how to move people and goods where no path should exist.
Information flowed through them. Nothing arrived or departed Axion without their awareness.
And last came House Armani.
The hands that turned ore into purpose.
Where Ferrante possessed and Vento connected, Armani created.
Designs, engines, frameworks, technologies that allowed Axion not merely to exist—but to advance. They engineered the structures that laughed at the wind.
The systems that bent it. The future itself was drafted in Armani ink.
Three pillars. Balanced and necessary as it means to be.
Until fear entered the equation.
10 years ago.
House Ferrante began to fear what it could no longer fully control.
House Vento desired more than influence—they wanted dominion. And so, together, they forged a lie elegant enough to survive scrutiny.
They accused House Armani of constructing a war suit—of plotting to seize Ferrante's authority. The king's authority, they said. A threat not merely to power, but to order itself.
Publicly, no purge was announced.
What the kingdom was told was gentler. Cleaner.
A failed experiment, they said.
A tragic accident.
Factories ignited. Property lost. Knowledge consumed by flame.
The Armani name—extinguished by its own hubris.
Wolf's thoughts slowed there.
That is what was told to the public.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
The truth—known only to one who lived through it—was far uglier.
House Ferrante and House Vento did not waste their times.
They launched a massacre under cover of silence.
No warning. No trial. A coordinated strike meant to erase every living Armani.
Solina Armani survived only because her father chose annihilation over surrender.
Jerald Armani, cornered, bleeding, made a decision sharper than any blade.
He ordered everything burned—every schematic, every archive, every prototype. He destroyed the accumulated knowledge of generations with his own hands, sealing it away in ash.
All of it—except her.
Solina was not spared by chance.
She was left behind.
The key. The memory. The living continuation of House Armani.
Wolf exhaled slowly through his nose.
Therefore, he thought, calm and precise, declaring the Armani name after ten years will force movement.
And in that chaos—I may be able to take to the sky instantly.
Now—
Wolf and Solina sat within the guest room of Moritz's mansion.
Wolf let the silence stretch—not outward, but inward—continuing his thoughts while the guest room breathed around them.
Along the way here…
His eyes had already measured everything.
The chandeliers heavy with ornamentation, glass cut too sharply to be tasteful. Gilded trims along the walls, polished to the point of vanity. Sculptures placed not for balance, but for notice. Everything screamed wealth trying to be seen.
This doesn't fit Moritz at all.
Moritz was a man of angles and restraint. Practical.
Not a peacock who dressed his halls like a parade.
And the servants? Too many.
Maids drifting silently along corridors. Butlers stationed like ceremonial guards.
Every movement rehearsed, excessive, unnecessary.
If Moritz truly lived here alone, this was wasteful beyond reason.
Which means he doesn't.
Wolf reached his conclusion without emotion.
Just one of many houses. Bought. Empty most of the year.
His lips almost twitched.
Hah… that is—if he doesn't still have ties to me.
Because Moritz owed him. Every last coin.
Wolf's gaze shifted sideways.
Solina sat beside him, hands folded neatly on her lap, posture composed but shoulders faintly tense. Her expression was calm—too calm.
There was a thin, invisible wall around her, a distance that did not belong to lovers sitting together.
Without warning, Wolf extended his hand.
His fingers closed over hers—warm, firm, deliberate.
Solina's breath hitched ever so slightly.
He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing hers, and lifted his other hand to cover one side of his mouth. His voice dropped into a whisper, breath grazing her ear.
"Aren't we a couple?" he murmured.
His tone was quiet, controlled—but there was a sharp edge beneath it.
"Don't give off such a strange aura."
His fingers tightened briefly around her hand—not forceful, but grounding.
"Relax," he added, voice shifting again, softer now, almost teasing. "Act like one."
He released her hand only after a beat longer than necessary.
It didn't take long.
Footsteps approached—measured, confident.
Moritz entered the guest room dressed not in a bathrobe or sleepwear, but casual clothes.
A man who had been alert long before they arrived.
He sat across from them with a straight back, movements economical. No wasted gestures.
Moritz lifted a teacup, took a slow sip, then set it back onto the saucer with a faint click.
"Very early for debt collection," he said, voice firm despite his age. "Don't you think?"
His green eyes locked onto Wolf first—then slid to Solina. Assessing. Measuring.
"And the Armanis?" he continued. "What are you even thinking?"
Wolf replied without haste, his tone calm, almost lazy.
"For someone like you," he said lightly, "it should be easy to figure out."
He paused.
Then his voice dropped—lower, colder, threaded with something that crawled beneath the skin.
"This is your chance to pay your debt with something far more beneficial. Not just for me."
A beat.
"But for you as well."
Moritz didn't respond.
Not a blink. Not a shift.
For a split second, it was as though his mind had stepped away from his body.
Then he spoke.
"Prove it," Moritz said, voice unchanged, though a faint hoarseness crept in—the sound of age slipping through discipline. "Prove to me she is really Solina Armani. That little girl from the past."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp, unblinking.
Wolf glanced at Solina for only a fraction of a second.
Then he moved.
His arm lifted and came to rest across her shoulders—possessive, natural, as if it had always belonged there.
When he spoke again, his tone was gentle.
But decisive.
"Look at me, Moritz."
Wolf's gaze held him immovably.
"You think these clothes of mine are something you could buy?"
He turned his head slightly toward Solina, guiding attention without pointing.
"Look at her. Look at her eyes. Her hair. Her face."
A pause.
Then, softly—
"I'm sure you've seen her mother before."
The words sank slowly.
"Tell me," Wolf said, voice barely above a whisper, "how similar they are—through your eyes."
Moritz's hands began to tremble.
Just a little.
His pupils widened. Breath caught.
He lowered his head—not far, just enough to avoid their gaze. The table filled his vision. The floor. Wood grain instead of faces.
For a moment, it was as if time folded inward.
Wolf was about to speak again—
When Moritz lifted his head.
Their eyes met.
"What do you want from me?" Moritz asked.
He brought his hands together beneath his chin, fingers interlaced.
Wolf's demeanor shifted.
He pulled his arm back from Solina and sat forward. Left hand rested on his leg. Right hand pressed flat against the table.
His voice hardened.
"You'll fund Solina Armani," he said evenly, "with two hundred thousand gold every year."
No hesitation.
"Until she is able to create her own House Armani. And restore its glory."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Instead of paying me everything at once," Wolf added, "this seems like a good deal. Don't you think?"
Moritz frowned.
Good deal? This scamming piece of shit.
Aloud, he asked, "How long does this deal last?"
"Ten years," Wolf answered instantly.
Moritz's thoughts churned.
Ten years… I can do that.
But that makes me their ally.
And automatically an enemy to the other houses.
The news would spread. Inevitably. Especially since he had gambled with Wolf before. His name was already adjacent to trouble.
And worse—
I don't even know if this man is truly Armani blood… or just an illegitimate child spinning lies.
Moritz's jaw tightened.
The weight of the choice pressed down on him—heavy, familiar.
The same weight he had felt on battlefields long past.
A decision where survival, loyalty, and betrayal all bled into the same line.
Moritz watched his own hands before he even realized he was doing it.
They were trembling.
Not violently—but enough. Enough that the truth could no longer be ignored.
He drew in a slow, measured breath through his nose, chest rising, shoulders stiff. The air seemed heavier than before, pressing against him as if the room itself had taken a side. He clenched both hands together, fingers interlocking tightly until the trembling dulled into tension.
"…Fine," Moritz said at last.
The word left his mouth heavier than it should have, scraping his throat on the way out.
"I'll take this deal," he continued, voice steadier now, though his jaw was set. "But we will sign a contract."
Without waiting for a response, he reached out and rang the small bell on the table.
The sound was sharp. Clean.
The head butler entered almost immediately, bowing low.
"Bring the contract paper," Moritz instructed, tone clipped. "Now."
"Yes, master."
The head butler straightened and left with brisk, practiced steps. The door closed softly behind him, sealing the decision into the room.
Wolf leaned back slightly in his chair, arms loose, expression unreadable. Solina remained still beside him, eyes lowered but alert, listening to every breath, every shift in the air.
The head butler returned swiftly, carrying a flat case which he opened upon the table, revealing sheets of contract paper inscribed with faint ether-reactive filaments along their edges.
Moritz took the first pen.
He wrote carefully. Each stroke deliberate. Conditions precise. His brow furrowed as he refined clauses, adjusted terms, ensured contingencies. The pen scratched steadily, the only sound in the room.
When he finished, he slid the paper across the table.
Wolf picked up the pen without ceremony.
He wrote faster—but not sloppily. His handwriting was firm, angular, decisive.
No hesitation. No revisions. As if every condition had already been carved into his mind long before the ink touched the page.
When he was done, Wolf lifted the paper and turned slightly, handing it to Solina.
She took it with both hands.
Her eyes moved across the text slowly. Carefully. Her expression did not change, but something subtle shifted behind her gaze—a tightening, a recognition.
When she finished, she gave a single, small nod.
Wolf nodded back once.
Nothing more needed to be said.
He handed the contract back to Moritz.
Moritz read it thoroughly. Line by line. His eyes narrowed at certain sections, paused at others—but in the end, his shoulders eased just a fraction.
He placed the paper flat on the table.
"We'll need to touch it," Moritz said, voice low, "and send our ether at the same time to complete it."
Wolf answered without delay.
"Let's get it over with."
He extended his hand and placed it on the contract without hesitation.
Moritz followed, laying his palm opposite Wolf's.
Their ether poured in.
The paper glowed.
Lines flared to life, symbols igniting one after another, weaving together in a lattice of light.
The glow intensified, heat rippling outward as the contract fulfilled its purpose—then the paper blackened, crumbled, and burned away into fine ash that scattered across the table and vanished.
Silence followed.
Relief settled into the room like a slow exhale.
Moritz leaned back slightly. Solina's shoulders eased almost imperceptibly.
Wolf, however, revealed nothing.
He stood at the same time Moritz did.
Then—
Moritz made a strange expression.
His posture stiffened, lips parting as if caught between decisions.
Wolf noticed immediately.
One eyebrow lifted.
Moritz shifted his weight, gaze sliding awkwardly to the side.
"…I was going to the bathroom," Moritz said dryly. "I, uh… actually haven't showered yet."
Solina said nothing.
She turned her face away, eyes focusing on the far wall as if the conversation no longer existed.
Wolf stared at Moritz for a second.
Then he pressed his palm to his forehead, fingers dragging downward in a tired gesture.
"Just go," Wolf said, waving his hand dismissively. "I'll ask your head butler instead."
Moritz didn't argue.
They all exited the guest room together.
In the hall, Moritz stopped and addressed the staff, his voice regaining authority.
"Treat them as you would treat me," he commanded. "Wolf and Solina hold the same status as I do. Do you understand?"
The servants bowed deeply, one after another.
Wolf turned his head toward the butler who had returned earlier.
"Take me to the treasury room."
The head butler dropped to one knee immediately.
"Yes, master."
His voice was steady. His body did not tremble.
Experience—earned through age and survival—held him firm.
The treasury doors opened soon after.
Gold gleamed.
Wolf grabbed a nearby bag and began filling it without ceremony.
Coins. Ingots. Stacked bars.
He worked efficiently, movements practiced, stopping only when the bag was full.
Meanwhile, Solina spoke quietly to the head butler beside her.
"Show me the empty rooms," she said. "I'll be moving in."
The head butler bowed and gestured for her to follow.
Before the head butler could lead Solina away toward the empty guest wings, Wolf paused.
He stepped back toward Solina. In front of the servants and butlers who stood like long-limbed puppets, Wolf reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead.
The gesture looked tender—intimate, even—but his eyes remained as still and cold as a frozen lake.
"Pick the room you like best," he said, his voice carrying just enough for all the servants to overhear.
"If you need anything, or if Moritz's people fail to attend to you properly... tell me."
He finished by giving her shoulder a firm, brief squeeze—both a grounding anchor and a silent command to maintain the role while he was gone.
Solina gave a single, slight nod, her eyes meeting his with a look that signaled she understood her part perfectly.
And so before he could fully withdraw his hand, Solina reached up, her smaller hand covering his on her shoulder.
It wasn't a tentative touch.
She leaned her head back slightly against him, a move that looked effortlessly intimate to any observer. She looked up at him with a gaze that was soft yet possessed a lingering, calculated intensity.
"Don't be too long..." she said, her voice dropping into a silken, private tone that carried just enough weight to silence the whispering servants.
Wolf's eyes flickered with a brief, dark spark of amusement.
He leaned down, his lips ghosting near her temple in a mock-caress.
"I'll bring back something more interesting than you can ever imagine, then," he murmured for her ears only.
Only after that final, lingering contact did he release her.
Wolf turned away as he continued walking, now addressing an under-butler along the corridor.
"Use this money," Wolf said, handing over a portion of gold, "to hire beggars and mercenaries. I want information on two girls."
He described them in detail. Faces. Hair. Mannerisms.
"One is named Lenmi," he said. "The other—Fah."
The under-butler nodded rapidly, committing every word to memory.
After that, Wolf left the mansion.
The city air greeted him again—sharper, freer.
Following Solina's directions, it didn't take long to find the blacksmith.
The exterior resembled a massive accordion, dark sheets of lustrous iron folded into layered ridges. Heat bled faintly through the seams. The sign above the entrance was shaped like a hammer, folded from a single sheet of metal. Gears embedded within it rotated slowly, clicking in a steady, mechanical rhythm.
Wolf didn't hesitate.
He stepped inside.