Obinai takes a few steps beyond the gate—then stops...
"Vale said Eldoria was stuck in the third epoch… before the tech revolution or something that Amrosia went through…"
But this...
This was beyond anything he could have ever pictured.
His gaze sweeps over the town.
The structures are stacked upon each other, their walls a fusion of weathered stone, burnished copper, and intricate glasswork. Bridges and walkways stretch between them, forming a maze of elevated paths, some enclosed in steel-and-glass corridors, others open-air with decorative railings.
From above, thick cables and twisting pipes crisscross between rooftops, veins of metal pulsing with stored energy. Every so often, a hiss of steam escapes a vent near the street corners, momentarily clouding the air with white vapor before vanishing.
The scent in the air is foreign—burning coal and rich spices, overlaid with the sharp metallic tang of heated gears and something faintly floral.
The distant hum of machinery underpins everything...
Obinai takes another step, his boots clicking against the cobbled stone path, but his focus is immediately torn away as the marketplace stretches out before him.
Rows of stalls line both sides of a wide avenue, shaded by sprawling canopies of deep crimson, midnight blue, and shimmering emerald. The stalls themselves are piled high with goods—but half of what he sees, he can't even begin to recognize...
To his left, a squat goblin stands behind a cluttered booth, its surface covered in rows of shimmering silver-rimmed lenses. His vest—tailored to fit his short, wiry frame—is buttoned up neatly, each brass fastener polished to a mirror sheen. A pair of thick work gloves encase his clawed fingers as he meticulously adjusts one of the lenses, twisting a small dial on the side. The glass shifts between opaque and clear, warping and refracting the world around it.
Obinai stares for a second longer than he should.
"Wait… but that elf girl back in Eldoria said goblins weren't intelligent enough to be considered part of the hierarchy…"
His brow furrows, his gaze flicking back to the goblin. The creature doesn't acknowledge him, too focused on his work.
Then what the hell was she talking about?
He exhales sharply and keeps walking.
A deep-blue-skinned orc stands over a different stall, his broad frame draped in a heavy leather overcoat, its sleeves reinforced with riveted metal plating. His booth is stacked with intricate clockwork devices, each ticking in perfect synchronization. He holds one up—a cubical mechanism covered in tiny etched runes—and gives it a sharp twist.
The device clicks, whirs… then unfolds.
Obinai watches as thin mechanical arms extend outward, forming a delicate frame that suspends a glowing core in midair. The energy within pulses, flickering a deep violet.
Before he can linger on it—
"I don't have money, dumbass."
He grits his teeth, shoving his hands into the folds of his cloak.
"Damn it, Vale. You could've left me at least a couple of coins..."
Pushing the thought aside, he cuts through the market, heading for the main road...
...into a plaza. Less chaotic, but no less intimidating.
His eyes drift upward, catching sight of a monument of brass and stone standing at the plaza's center. A statue, massive and imposing, depicting a figure with multiple arms, each holding a different tool—a hammer, a quill, a sword, and at the highest point, a delicately suspended gear resting between two fingers.
He doesn't know who this person was supposed to be. A ruler? A god? A craftsman?
Or all three?
He's about to step closer when movement to his right draws his attention.
Guards...
"The report mentioned disturbances near the ley lines again. Third time this month."
Obinai keeps walking, shoulders slightly hunched, keeping his pace steady. The guards move in tight formation, their presence unmistakable. Their armor—polished segmented chest plates, reinforced with flexible leather straps—hum faintly. Each of them carries a weapon unique to their expertise, from shock-laced spears to crossbows reinforced with mechanical enhancements.
"Tch. If it's those damned vagrants trying to siphon mana from the conduits again, we'll have to make an example out of them."
One figure stands out immediately.
A towering orc, easily a foot taller than the others. His armor is bulkier, modified with thick pauldrons lined with exposed metal tubing, glowing faintly with something reactive coursing through them. His gauntlets, reinforced with a framework of embedded plates, emit the occasional crackle of stored energy.
"The magistrate won't like that. Too much attention. If we act, it has to be quiet."
Obinai tenses instinctively.
That guy could fold me in half without trying.
His fingers tighten around the envelope in his pocket, and he veers slightly away, giving them a wide berth. As he moves past them, he releases a slow breath.
"Great. I'd rather not get thrown into a jail cell within the first five minutes."
Just as he thinks he's clear, a strange pressure settles over him. His spine stiffens—something's watching him.
He glances to the side.
The massive orc's piercing amber eyes flick toward him—just for a moment.
A slow, calculating stare.
Then—the orc looks away, muttering to one of the guards before moving along.
Obinai lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
"Yeah. Definitely not picking a fight with that guy."
Obinai steps into another open space.
Here, the air is warmer, richer...
The scent of roasted meats and baked bread weaves through the streets, carried by the light breeze. He spots a fountain in the middle of the plaza, but instead of a traditional basin, it's a cascading display of shifting stone, carved and layered, allowing the water to flow over them in an endless cycle. The pieces turn slowly, reset, and turn again, powered by the force of the running water itself.
Obinai watches the mesmerizing motion for a second before his focus is pulled elsewhere.
To his right, a group of avian beastkin perches atop the wide stone steps of an elevated building, their clawed feet gripping the worn edges. Their feathers—a mix of dull browns, deep grays, and streaks of white—ruffle in the occasional breeze.
Their clothing is worn but functional, a mix of layered tunics with reinforced stitching, and patched leather overcoats. A few wear goggles pushed up onto their feathered brows, the lenses smudged with dust. Their garments are tinged with grime, as if they'd spent the day in workshops.
They speak in sharp, clicking tones, their beaks parting and snapping shut with each word, hands moving in quick, gestured emphasis.
"They're driving the damn rates up again," one grumbles, adjusting the straps of his vest. His feathers are speckled with soot, his talons flexing idly against the stone.
"They always do before festival season," another replies, arms crossed over his chest. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing corded muscles beneath coarse, soot-streaked feathers. His beak clicks in irritation. "Dock fees were bad enough last cycle. Now they're forcing us to go through 'new inspections' before we can even trade?"
"Bureaucratic thievery, that's what it is," a third chimes in, shaking his head. His coat—patchy, frayed at the edges, but still sturdy—shifts as he leans forward. "The nobles and merchants stuff their pockets while the rest of us get squeezed dry."
"It's not just the nobles," the first one scoffs. "Did you hear about the latest 'adjustments' to the trade routes? They're favoring sky-bound shipments over ground transports. We're stuck paying extra just to move goods between the lower districts."
The second one huffs, muttering under his breath. "Damn sky-riders always get priority. Just because they can afford levitation cores, they think they own the entire damn city."
Then, after a beat, the third beastkin lets out a dry chuckle. "Which is ironic, really—considering we can literally fly."
There's a pause. Then, they all snort in amusement, shaking their heads.
"Right? You'd think that'd count for something," the first one quips.
"Maybe if we had gilded feathers and mana-charged wings, they'd let us bypass inspections," the second one jests.
"Hah! Maybe if we stopped flapping and just 'soared on the winds of commerce' like the damn Exalted, we'd get free passage, too," the first one adds, voice mockingly grand.
They laugh again—not with joy though...
Obinai keeps moving. He doesn't know the full context, but the frustration in their voices is palpable.
Sky-bound shipments? Trade restrictions? Something to keep in mind.
Just as he's about to round the corner, the first beastkin flicks a glance his way...
Obinai keeps his head down, adjusting his hood. No need to draw unnecessary attention.
"Damn Exalted types don't even pretend to notice us," the beastkin mutters, his voice just loud enough for Obinai to catch.
"They never have," another agrees.
Obinai presses forward...
One thing's for sure—this city has layers.
Obinai exhales sharply.
"Okay, focus. Where's that damn spire thingy?"
Then—he sees it.
A shimmering blue crystal, embedded into the heart of a soaring tower.
"That's gotta be it. Azure Spire… I think."
He picks up his pace, slipping past a small crowd.
And there it is.
The station is massive, built into a multi-tiered structure lined with glowing cables that extend into the sky. Wide platforms jut out at various levels, where air gondolas—large, rounded vessels with metal framework and suspended propulsion rings humming with blue light—dock and depart in carefully timed intervals.
The station bustles with movement, but the flow is orderly. Signs, written in a mix of scripted glyphs and standard lettering, direct passengers to their designated platforms.
Obinai moves closer, weaving through a crowd of travelers. A towering elf in a regal, high-collared coat strides past him, followed by what appears to be an assistant—a short goblin wearing a tight-fitted vest over a ruffled blouse, clutching a device that clicks as they press various buttons.
A cluster of dwarves dressed in heavy dust-coated overalls adjust large, gear-laden crates onto a moving platform, barking orders at a floating drone-like construct that whirs and hisses as it lifts a smaller package with precise movements.
Obinai swallows hard, suddenly feeling very out of place. Alright, play it cool.
Spotting a ticketing booth, he pushes forward, coming to stand before a gnome perched on a tall counter, small round glasses balancing on the edge of his nose. His uniform is a fitted navy-blue vest over a white tunic with bronze buttons gleaming under the station's lighting.
The gnome barely glances at him, scoffing as he continues scribbling into a thick ledger.
Obinai clears his throat. "Uh… excuse me?"
Nothing.
His eye twitches. He inhales sharply. This. This right here. This is exactly why I kept getting into fights.
He forces himself to relax, instead lifting the envelope, waving it in front of the gnome's face.
The gnome swats at it irritably—then stops. His small eyes narrow at the silver seal.
He squints at Obinai, taking in the hooded cloak, the slight shadow obscuring his face. Then back at the seal.
The gnome hums thoughtfully, adjusting his glasses with a practiced flick of his fingers. His voice is crisp, overly articulate...
"Hmph. The seal appears to possess an air of authenticity—lamentably so.**"
Obinai's brow twitches. "What?"
The gnome waves a dismissive hand, barely sparing him a glance. "Yet another aspiring scholar intent on siphoning the academy's benefactions under the guise of merit, no doubt. How utterly pedestrian.**"
Obinai's face goes blank. The hell did he just say?
The gnome exhales theatrically, rifling through his ledger before retrieving a small brass token. He slides it across the counter with deliberate disinterest.
"Regardless, protocol dictates compliance." He adjusts his glasses, peering down at Obinai with a look of mild exasperation. "Here is your designated carriage token. Do try to conduct yourself with the requisite decorum. And for the love of propriety, remain unobtrusive."
Breathe. Not worth it. Just take the damn token.
With a sharp motion, he snatches it from the counter.
Without another word, he turns on his heel, striding toward the boarding platform before his temper gets the better of him.
Obinai steps onto the platform, glancing around with an uneasy mix of curiosity and frustration. The station is a sprawling network of towering brass pillars and intricate walkways, lanterns glowing with soft blue flames hanging from coiled metal arms. Steam vents hiss intermittently, and overhead, the massive gondola rails stretch across the sky, weaving between the floating islands above like veins in an enormous, living machine.
He moves forward, dodging past a group of dwarves clad in thick leather vests, their goggles resting atop their foreheads, their voices rough as they debate loudly over shipment logistics. A tall, reptilian beastkin with iridescent scales strides past him, his long coat fastened with mechanical clasps, the faint whirring of hidden gears in his gauntlets catching Obinai's ears as he passes.
"Okay… where the hell am I supposed to go?"
His eyes scan the terminal, searching for any kind of marker. The platforms are segmented, and each one leads to a different line of gondolas, the air buzzing with energy as docked carriages hover in place. Signs overhead are etched with shifting runes, changing every few seconds, likely displaying route details—but he can't read it.
Obinai clicks his teeth in irritation, his gaze snapping back to the glowing runes overhead. The hell? I should be able to read that.
He squints, watching as the script shifts fluidly between symbols—curved glyphs morphing into sharp, angular characters, then rearranging into something even more obscure. The patterns are strange, erratic, unlike the standard runic language he had studied before.
His fingers twitch at his side. Runic script is supposed to be universally readable with Translation—so why can't I understand any of it?
Different dialect? Different origin?
Frustration coils in his gut, but before he can dwell on it, he takes a step forward—and nearly walks straight into a wall of solid muscle.
A sharp grunt rumbles above him.
Obinai stumbles back, his hood shifting slightly as his gaze snaps up.
A gruff-looking orc guard stands before him, broad and towering, draped in a high-collared coat reinforced with dark metal plating. The coat's shoulders are adorned with thick rivets.
But the most concerning part?
The double-barreled rifle slung across his back—massive, the barrels thick with engravings, its frame reinforced with what looks like an essence-conducting alloy.
The orc scowls down at him, adjusting the strap across his chest with an air of mild annoyance.
Obinai's pulse jumps, but he schools his face into forced neutrality.
"Smooth. Real smooth," he mutters internally.
Obinai quickly pivots in the opposite direction, nearly stumbling over his own feet. He pushes forward, weaving through the throng of passengers—a regal-looking elf with an elaborate brass chest plate, a gnome adjusting the dials on a floating drone-like contraption, a trio of horned fae adorned in iridescent cloaks—until finally, he spots it.
A gondola cart, its frame composed of polished brass and reinforced glass panels sits docked on the leftmost platform. And inside, slouched in one of the seats, is a tiefling dressed in a black-embroidered uniform —his head tilted back, arms lazily spread across the seat, one boot propped up on the opposite bench.
Obinai exhales in relief. That's gotta be it.
He moves toward the cart, stepping inside just as a burst of laughter draws his attention to the left.
A group of elves gathers near the wide-paneled windows. Some sit, legs crossed, hands folded neatly in their laps, while others stand nearby, their postures relaxed.
Their uniforms—midnight-black with intricate silver embroidery—are crisp and impeccably tailored, fitting to their lean, angular frames. Each uniform features a high-collared jacket, fastened with brass clasps shaped like interwoven laurels, the academy's phoenix crest displayed subtly on the left breast. Beneath the coats, some wear slim-cut trousers tucked into polished boots, while others opt for layered skirts with ornate trimming, fastened at the waist with gilded belts lined with delicate sigils.
Their faces are sharp, almost unnatural in their beauty. High cheekbones, arched brows, and pointed chins. Their hair—a mixture of deep auburn, and golden hues—is styled in elegant braids or left to flow freely. Eyes that gleam like polished gemstones—some an icy blue, others a molten gold—dart across the station lazily, scanning the surrounding passengers with mild amusement.
Then, one of them laughs softly, a melodic sound, light and airy—mocking.
One of the female elves leans back elegantly, adjusting the silver cufflinks on her sleeves with meticulous precision. Her lips curve into a smirk, the light catching on the delicate gold chains woven into the fabric of her uniform.
"It's honestly laughable, mingling with them down here," she muses. "Though I suppose it's an amusing novelty, watching them scramble about. Like a game, really."
"A rather dull one," another elf sighs, reclining against the window frame. His long fingers tap lazily against the glass, his expression one of bored indulgence. He gestures toward a pair of beastkin outside, their conversation growing animated as they barter with a merchant. His smirk deepens, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. "Though I will admit, they are entertaining. Crude, but in their own way, endearing."
"Endearing?" A third scoffs, shaking his head. "That's generous. I personally find it exhausting. The headmaster's insistence on pushing that ridiculous initiative has done nothing but stir unrest where there was none." He folds his arms, tugging his cuffs into place as though shaking off the very thought. "I hear the court is already deliberating on whether to overturn it."
The fourth elf, a young woman with silken, deep-auburn hair meticulously braided over one shoulder, exhales...
"They ought to." She tilts her head, a single, gold-tipped finger tracing idly along the hem of her sleeve. "I mean, just look at them." Her gaze flickers toward the bustling platform, scanning the mixed crowd of beastkin, gnomes, and other non-elves moving about. "Doesn't it feel rather unseemly? To think that any of them might presume to hold station among us."
"It's a shame, truly," the first elf says, examining her nails idly. "But I suppose some allowances must be made. It would be cruel to deny them their moment of hope, wouldn't it?"
A ripple of light laughter follows, hushed and knowing...
"Indeed," the male elf by the window drawls, his smirk widening. "Hope is such a fleeting thing, after all."
Obinai's fingers twitch at his sides.
His heartbeat thuds a little harder against his ribs.
Just keep moving.
He exhales through his nose, releasing the tension as best he can. Not my problem...yet.
Spotting an empty seat, he moves toward it, lowering himself with a quiet sigh—directly next to the slouched-over tiefling.
The tiefling stirs slightly, shifting his position with a lazy roll of his shoulders. His horns, dark as obsidian, curve back smoothly, peeking from beneath disheveled, deep black hair that falls over his forehead. His uniform is the same as the elves', though less meticulously kept, the sleeves slightly crumpled, the brass clasps left undone at the collar.
For a moment, he seems as though he'll sit up, but then—he exhales, muttering something unintelligible, before settling back into his previous position, one leg stretched out, arms loosely crossed.
Obinai watches him for a beat before turning away, pulling his hood down just a bit more.
His hands rest on his knees, fingers drumming absently against the fabric of his cloak.
"Get to the headmaster. Figure out what' to do next."
He keeps his eyes low, staring at his hands, but his mind is anything but quiet...
"Hello."
The voice is smooth, articulate, yet firm.
Obinai blinks, looking up—
And pauses.
Before him stands an elf, but not like the others. Her skin is a deep, shadowy gray, her long silver hair cascading over her shoulders in soft waves. Her eyes—deep, piercing blue, glowing faintly—regard him with cold precision. She's wearing the same black-embroidered uniform, but something about the way she carries herself—poised...
She tilts her head.
"Again—hello."
Damn, she's tall.
His brain scrambles for a response.
He barely opens his mouth before she speaks again.
"Do you understand where you are sitting?"
Obinai exhales slowly, trying to rein in his irritation. "No."
The girl's expression doesn't change. "Lessers never do."
Obinai's eye twitches.
"Lessers?"
She crosses her arms. "I am extending you a courtesy by informing you rather than removing you myself. This section is reserved for dark elf nobility and royalty."
Obinai bites the inside of his cheek, every fiber of his being screaming to say something. But he doesn't. He clenches his fists, exhales sharply, and stands.
Not worth it. Just move.
He turns to step away, his hood still casting a shadow over his face.
"Excellent," she says, her voice laced with finality. "Make sure you remember to respect your betters."
Obinai freezes mid-step.
The laughter from the elves in the corner quiets slightly.
A familiar feeling rises in his chest. Something hot. Bitter.
He scoffs under his breath, rubbing a hand down his face. "Terrific."
Obinai barely gets the word out before a hand clamps down on his shoulder, yanking him around with a force that nearly makes him stumble.
He catches himself just in time, straightening, only to find himself face to face with the dark elf girl.
Her luminous blue eyes bore into his, sharp as glass, brimming with something cold and vaguely irritated.
And gods, she's taller than he thought.
Obinai clicks his teeth, biting back his irritation. Great. He'd always been decently proud of his height, standing at a solid 5'10", but here? He's starting to feel dwarfed.
Her lips press into a thin line, chin tilted slightly upward as she assesses him.
"Did I just detect sarcasm?" Her tone is clipped, poised, and faintly amused—though the amusement feels more like a test than anything else.
Obinai nearly laughs. But he catches himself. Something about the way she's looking at him tells him she'd take it as a challenge.
Instead, he keeps his voice level, indifferent. "No."
Her gaze narrows slightly.
Obinai clears his throat. "No, ma'am."
That seems to satisfy her. She regards him for a beat longer before releasing her grip.
"Good. At least you can be taught."
And just like that, she turns away, her silver-lined uniform flowing behind her.
Obinai exhales through his nose, forcing himself not to react.
Right. Breathe. Don't give them a reason.
He moves to another seat, settling into it with a quiet sigh.
But something feels off.
He glances back at her, expecting her to take the seat she'd just reclaimed from him—
Instead, she pulls a soft cloth from her coat and meticulously wipes the area where he had been sitting.
Then—she doesn't sit.
She simply stands, composed and unreadable, her hands folded neatly in front of her, watching.
Obinai leans back against the seat.
"So this is what I've been sent to," he thinks bitterly. Fantastic.
A few minutes tick by, and Obinai sinks further into his seat his body relaxing slightly, but his mind...slightly overwhelmed.
There's got to be some kind of enchantment on this cloak.
An obscuring spell, maybe?
It's the only thing that makes sense. He's literally wearing a hood that covers most of his face, but no one's giving him a second glance. Not the guards, not the citizens, not even the other students in this cart.
His fingers brush the fabric, feeling the weave beneath his fingertips—thicker than it looks, sturdy yet impossibly light. The crescent moon clasp at his collar still gleams silver, untouched by whatever magic is shifting the rest of it to pitch black.
Adaptive camouflage?
He clicks his tongue, shaking his head.
"Damn you, Vale. Always leaving out the fine details."
Obinai inhales sharply, dropping his hands into his lap. But the irritation doesn't fade. Because that's not the only thing bothering him.
His gaze flickers across the cabin, taking in the variety of figures around him.
The tiefling from earlier still slouches in the corner. His coat is thrown open, revealing a sleek silver chain disappearing into the folds of his uniform.
Obinai's attention shifts.
The elves are still snickering amongst themselves, occasionally darting glances his way. Their boots tap rhythmically against the polished floor.
What the hell was that...lizard thingy?
Not a Dragonkin. From what he read, the head is rougher, with horns or ridges.
Another race Vale never mentioned?
Obinai clicks his teeth, rolling his shoulders.
"So, not only am I in a place I barely understand, but apparently, I'm also missing a whole history lesson on the races that even exist?"
He sighs, running a hand down his face.
And then there's the sign.
Why couldn't he read it? Runic language is supposed to be readable, at least to anyone who understands the base format. But those letters—they weren't right.
Was it the dialect? The origin?
Or was there something deliberately off about it?
And then there's the guard from earlier.
Obinai's fingers tap against his knee. His uniform—it was different.
Most of the city guards had been in segmented chest plates reinforced with leather and runic circuitry, but the orc had worn something...
It wasn't the same as the rest.
Obinai exhales, his fingers curling into his palm.
So that means there's another faction of guards? Or another level? A higher rank?
If he had more time, he'd have stared longer. But right now?
What have I actually been taught?
The question gnaws at him. Really think about it.
He's learned spells, sure. Combat techniques. Theory about Essence, Ki, Aura, and the damn fundamentals of magic. But the world itself? Its history, its politics, the truth about what happened to humans?
Nothing.
Not really.
A few cryptic explanations here and there. Just enough to survive, but never enough to understand.
Vale taught him a lot—but also not enough.
If he didn't have this letter, if he wasn't carrying this seal, how different would all of this have been?
Would I even be allowed in? Or would I have already been dragged off the street and thrown into a cell?
His fingers tighten around the envelope in his pocket.
His priority is getting to the headmaster.
And not getting taken before then.
Because let's be honest—will they just capture me? Or kill me?
He shakes his head, exhaling through his nose.
"Great. So not only do I have to figure out where I stand in all this, but I also have to make sure I don't end up dead before I even set foot in this damn academy."
He leans back into his seat, fingers idly tracing the crescent moon clasp of his cloak.
Then—
The dark elf girl stiffens.
Obinai's brow furrows as his eyes flicker toward the cabin entrance.
A young man steps in, effortlessly commanding attention the moment he enters. His dark gray skin bears a regal, almost polished sheen beneath the soft glow of the cabin lights. His glowing silver eyes, faintly luminescent, sweep across the space. His hair, thick locs woven with delicate silver chains and rings, cascades neatly past his shoulders, each adornment catching the light subtly with his every movement.
He wears the same black academy uniform, though his version is far from standard. A high-collared dress coat, drapes over his frame, its buttons etched with celestial motifs—small, intricate constellations carved in deep metallic inlays. Beneath the coat, his tailored trousers are pressed to an immaculate line, and his gloves, fastened by delicate metallic clasps, gleam faintly with their own embellishments. Even the way he moves exudes deliberate refinement—his back straight, his chin lifted slightly, radiating an air of effortless superiority.
Behind him stand several figures—tall, faceless. No eyes. No mouths.
Just smooth, featureless obsidian-like visages, faint wisps of darkness drifting from their heads like mist.
Obinai stares.
What the hell are those?
The boy halts just inside the entrance, adjusting one of the rings woven into his locs, then exhales as if burdened by an unbearable inconvenience.
"Ah… how unfortunate," he muses, his tone languid, slow, as if drawing out each syllable for the sake of his own amusement. "To have my namesake tested so soon after my birthday. Now, I may carry it forward, but the burden weighs heavy on me."
He sighs, dramatically, before turning toward the faceless figures. "I wish you could accompany me. The gods know that devoted servitude is a necessity."
The shadowy beings bow in unison, their movements unsettling in their eerie precision.
Then—one of them speaks.
Its voice is smooth yet distant, as though spoken through water, layered and distorted.
"Apologies, Lord Heir. The Headmaster disapproves. He believes the young must venture forth on their own, unburdened by the comforts of their station. In matters of academia, guidance must be earned, not carried."
The boy's lip curls slightly. The expression is small, but there. Sharp. Cold.
"A fool, he is," he states, his voice dropping just a fraction. Then, sharper:
"Lessers will believe themselves equals in that regard—even the low-favored nobility."
The shift in the cabin is instant.
The dark elf girl stiffens almost imperceptibly, her posture locking into place.
Obinai notices...
His gaze flicks between them, observing the way her hands flex once, before settling rigidly at her sides.
Interesting.
The boy waves a hand, already dismissing the subject. "Very well. Begone, then. Tell Father I've arrived."
The shadowed figures bow once more, their departure eerily synchronized—silent, controlled, unnatural.
The boy lingers a moment, his expression composed yet indulgent, as if he enjoys the act of being seen. His glowing silver eyes trail across the room—then land on the girl.
Obinai feels his stomach churn slightly.
They're the same height.
Seriously?
The boy steps forward, measured and deliberate.
"Andiia," he says, her name rolling off his tongue, "have my belongings been transported already?"
Her posture remains flawless, her tone perfectly even.
"Yes, Lord Heir," she replies, her voice clipped, neutral. Too neutral.
But Obinai catches it—the way her fingers, ever so slightly, tighten around the hem of her coat.
The boy's smirk deepens....
Obinai leans back in his seat.
Obinai's mind races. Lord Heir? That title alone raises a million questions. He thought there was a royal court—were there multiple? Kings? Lords? A hierarchy? He files it away for later.
The boy simply nods in satisfaction before moving toward his seat. With deliberate ease, he settles in, one leg crossing over the other, fingers steepling in his lap.
Then—his eyes flick to Andiia, who remains standing, rigid.
His lips twitch in faint amusement.
"You may sit."
Her shoulders loosen—just barely. She nods and lowers herself into the seat beside him.
Obinai glances at the regular elves in the corner. They've gone quiet, their previous laughter now reduced to hushed whispers. Their expressions are mixed—some entertained, some wary, some visibly calculating.
Alright. So, this guy is important.
Why me?
Obinai drags a hand through his hair, sighing under his breath.
Then—
A sharp hiss pierces the air.
The entrance seals shut.
A second passes. Then another.
The soft churn of steaming machinery hums through the floor beneath him.
And then—the cabin lurches.
Obinai grabs the edge of his seat, startled.
The gondola begins to rise.
The sudden shift in altitude sends a rush of pressure to his ears. He adjusts quickly, inhaling through his nose as he turns toward the window...