The East Wing Awakens
The sky over the Ziglar estate was a pale sheet of early morning light. Gray mist streaked its surface, touched by silver fire. Charles returned—not as a shadow, but as a rising storm.
The high-tier carriage rolled silently through the iron-barred gates. Two majestic storm elk pulled it, their hooves shimmering with wind sigils. The entrance guards—elite cultivators in dusksteel armor—tensed at the sight of the emblem on the carriage's door.
The sigil of the Duranth Merchant Guild.
It shimmered like liquid gold against the lacquered surface—luxurious, powerful, foreign.
A Ziglar noble had returned: unannounced. He was alone—riding in the transport of a high-tier guild?
There would be whispers before the hour struck noon. But Charles no longer lived in fear of whispers; instead, a weary sense of defiance had settled in his chest, steadying him for whatever rumors would come.
Let them gossip.
The guards stepped forward to intercept—and stopped cold when they saw who emerged.
A tall young man with raven-black hair, a midnight-blue cloak trimmed in silver, and the lion crest of the North Duchy stitched across his back.
He didn't need an escort. He was the escort.
The noble stepped down from the carriage with a calm precision that carried the weight of both aristocracy and something far more dangerous—intent.
One of the guards breathed, "Lord Charlemagne…"
"No fanfare," Charles said evenly. "No announcement. No questions."
The guards bowed low. "Understood, my lord."
The two-hour ride from Duranth had passed in odd silence. With every mile, Charles felt sharper. The storm elk's graceful pace, the hum of warded wood, the frost-sigil insulation—it all felt like a baptismal return. With it, the mask he had worn was wiped away.
He had removed it halfway home. No longer Charles, the masked merchant.
He was Charlemagne Ziglar again.
And the Ziglar heir no longer walked with bent shoulders.
Only three people in the manor had known he was gone. Anya. Wendy. Elmer.
He'd left a single note: a scrap of parchment, written in a precise hand and placed atop his desk before he left the night before. It was a risk, but a calculated one.
Anya had fretted, of course. She always did—his second conscience wrapped in silk and fire. Wendy had buried herself in cultivation drills—methodical, obsessive, and brilliant. And Elmer…
Elmer? He had gone full war-demon in Charles's absence.
The courtyard rumbled—distant shouts, the sharp crack of palm against flesh. Elmer's voice echoed across the training grounds.
"Again! If you faint, you crawl! If you vomit, you eat it and keep going!"
A crash of bodies followed.
Then, absolute silence.
Groaning carried through the air.
More shouting erupted, rolling across the yard.
Charles allowed himself a faint smirk. Hell-day and Hell-night, Elmer-style. The new recruits would hate him. Good. They were supposed to.
He turned the final corner into the East Wing foyer.
Anya was already there—standing on the steps in a sea-green robe, her arms crossed tightly. Her face was unreadable at first, but her eyes shimmered with shock, flickering to exasperation, before finally settling on obvious, overwhelming relief.
"My lord," she whispered, half a reprimand, half a prayer. "You're alive."
Charles approached and handed her a small bundle wrapped in lacquered silk. She opened it.
Inside were three elegant bottles—black, rune-etched glass sealed with golden stoppers. Qi-reinforcement pills. Grade-two.
She stared, stunned. "Three bottles?"
"One for you. One for Wendy. One for Elmer," Charles said, brushing dust from his cloak. "No strings attached."
"These are… worth a fortune," she murmured. "How—where did you—?"
"I have… connections," Charles replied, a teasing glint in his eye. "Spent the night in Duranth. Took care of business. Made some friends."
Anya stared at him, her eyes narrowing as she tried to read between the lines, uncertainty and concern silently warring with her curiosity.
"You've changed," she observed at last.
He gave her a smile—but it didn't quite reach his eyes; something guarded, tired, and distant lingered there, betraying everything unspoken beneath the surface.
"I've remembered who I am."
Beyond the foyer, Wendy was just emerging from the garden, her boots damp with dew, her posture perfect as always. She froze mid-step when she saw him.
"Charles!"
He tossed her the second bottle. She caught it with the grace of a seasoned fighter.
"A gift," he said. "You've earned it."
She turned the bottle in her hand, eyes widening. "Qi-reinforcement. Grade-three?"
"I don't give trash," Charles said with a wink. "And you're close to breaking through, aren't you?"
She nodded slowly. "Very close. Elmer has been drilling us every morning like we're cursed gladiators."
"Excellent."
"And you?" she asked quietly. "You disappeared. Left a note. Then nothing."
Charles waved a hand. "Details. I'll brief everyone later. Right now, I need to speak with Elmer."
At the far end of the courtyard, the screams of recruits continued.
"Think he'll be happy to see me?" Charles asked, eyes glinting.
Wendy snorted. "He's Elmer. He'll probably insult you. Then bow. Then punch a wall."
"That's fair."
Charles walked across the stone-tiled path, passing the fountain where he had once watched the stars in lonely silence. Now it felt smaller—less like a cage, and more like the courtyard of something greater.
The East Wing.
His base of power.
His home.
He stepped into the roar of Elmer's voice and the echo of wooden staves cracking against each other.
The storm had returned—and its name was Charlemagne Ziglar.
The Banquet Reimagined
Together in the East Wing's war room, Charles, Elmer, Anya, and Wendy stood under an enchanted ceiling that reflected the weather outside. They stared down at the banquet proposal scroll spread across the polished obsidian table.
It was thick with noble wax seals and formal endorsements—Seneschal Dalton and Chamberlain Elisa's work. Their best attempt, no doubt.
Respectable.
Formal.
Utterly lifeless.
Charles leaned back in his chair, folding his arms as he scanned the document with mild contempt. "I've seen auction manifests with more soul than this."
Elmer grunted, arms crossed, clearly unimpressed. "It'll pass for a duke's son, barely. Looks like it was recycled from Lord Garrick's coming-of-age and slapped with a new date."
Wendy was more polite, but her mouth twitched like she'd bitten a sour plum. "Well… the paper quality is exquisite."
Only Anya said nothing. Her posture remained poised, but her tightly clenched jaw and the burning focus in her eyes made her frustration—bordering on determination—impossible to miss.
"No," Charles said finally, rolling the scroll back up. "We're not doing this."
Anya arched a brow. "You plan to reject the entire outline? It was approved by the household's senior council."
"Then let them choke on their parchment," Charles replied coolly. "We're rewriting this. Imagine the scent of silk runners. Picture the seasoning on the Drake's flank. One month. That's more than enough time to upset a few crusty traditions."
Elmer's grin slowly widened. "Oh, I was hoping you'd say that."
With a flick of his wrist, Charles summoned SIGMA's private display rune and began dictating.
"The Hall of Ziglar," he said, "will be transformed. Enchanted bluegold silk drapery veils the walls. Lanterns of moonlight bound with fire spirits will float overhead, suspended on invisible wind threads. I want warmth runes etched into the pillars—nothing garish, just enough to make the nobles feel wrapped in prestige."
Wendy was already scribbling furiously.
"The banquet," Charles continued, "will be divided into four tiers—yes, four."
They all paused.
"Four?" Anya asked, blinking.
"Yes. The first three are standard: Noble Platters, the Warrior's Board, and the Arcane Table. Each will have tailored menus to match their function."
He began listing dishes aloud as if reading a bard's poem:
Noble Platters
Seared Lava Drake Flank with Chasm Salt Glaze Crystalwing Goose in Moonberry Glaze Everleaf Goldcap Soup with Spiritbone Dumplings Stardrop Custard Bloom Eclipsethorn Reserve, a vintage so rare even noble lips hesitate to sip
Warrior's Board
Direhorn Boar Ribs with Ember Root Rub Basilisk Blood Sausage over Ironseed Barley Wyvern Bone Broth Stew with Ashleaf and Fang Mushroom Honeyfire Embercake Forged Root Ale
Arcane Table
Aether Squid Tartlets in Arcane Mint Oil Moonscale Trout on Floating Lotus Cradle Medu of the Siren Depths Soup Glacial Bloom Sorbet Elunara's Whisper Tea, steeped with dreamshade
"And the fourth," Charles said softly, "is called The Hearthborn Table."
He looked up from the projection, and all three froze.
"For the commoners," he clarified. "The estate workers. Blacksmiths, cleaners, stablehands. The men and women who bleed for this house quietly and are never acknowledged."
Anya looked stunned, her hand rising unconsciously to her mouth. Elmer actually dropped his ink quill, eyes widening in utter disbelief.
"No noble has ever done that," Wendy whispered. "Not… not in history. At best, they get leftovers two days later."
Charles shrugged. "Then let this be the first. They'll have their own dishes—good food, not scraps. No cast-offs. They'll drink from proper glassware and sit beneath real lanterns. They'll taste the Mindveil Ascendant Brew—the same celestial blend served to dignitaries. Every guest, highborn or low, will be offered a sip of Eclipsethorn Reserve. Not as equals—yet—but as witnesses. That matters."
He let that settle, watching as the implications sank in. This wasn't just a banquet now. It was legacy-building.
It was a rebellion by hospitality.
"Anya," he continued, "begin grooming Maddie for chambermaid vice. You've seen her potential."
Anya gave a quiet nod, her voice warming. "She's bright. Fiercely loyal. A bit clumsy, but I can polish her."
"I need you, too," Charles said, meeting her gaze. "You were the head lady-in-waiting for Duchess Evelyne. You have a mind for logistics, diplomacy, and taste. I want your hand in every thread of this event."
Anya inhaled sharply. She hadn't expected that. "Yes, my lord."
"Elmer," Charles said, turning. "Your task is to secure the grounds. I want five hundred new recruits—some for exclusive contracts under my banner, others as short-term hires. Mercenaries, guards, retired cultivators with something left in their bones. I don't care if they're from Ziglar lands or Duranth's underground—if they can swing steel and follow orders, get them. Wendy works with the House Guard payroll division. We'll raise the budget if needed."
"Already drafting the requests," Elmer replied. "And I have contacts in the Iron Merc Guild who owe me favors."
"Good. And the food?" Charles said, glancing toward Wendy.
"I'll contact Head Chef Albrin immediately," she said. "And I'll pull the best ingredients from our incoming Azure Isles shipment. Fresh magical beast meat, high-grade spices, exotic herbs—I'll move it all to the estate kitchen within the week."
"If the Twilight Court musicians are unavailable," Charles added, "find their rivals. No roadside bards, I want enchantments woven into the performances."
"And the dishes?" Wendy asked. "How will we keep everything warm and enchanted without ruining flavor?"
"Elemental feast warmers," Charles said. "Subtle fire and wind arrays under each table. And I want runes layered into the plates themselves—call Lorrik from the Enchanter's Circle. Tell him I'll double his usual fee."
Anya smiled faintly. "The estate hasn't seen this level of planning since the late Duchess's final diplomatic banquet."
"It won't just be remembered," Charles said, rising. "It will be studied."
He walked toward the tall window, gazing over the frost-tipped trees that rimmed the estate. He didn't say the rest aloud, but they all felt it:
This was the beginning. Of a new Ziglar. Of a new kind of nobility.
One that did not need to flaunt power, because power would be the structure upon which others built.
"Three days," Charles said. "I'll give you full authority over your teams. We move with speed, style, and fire. The banquet is no longer just a ceremony. It's our first war dance."