Malaca's eyes narrowed, and I saw her take a step forward. Zomeia clenched her fists, tense.
— Did you kill someone to get that? — Malaca's voice cut through the air like a cold blade.
It was a more serious question than it seemed. She hadn't handed over that scroll. And knowing the pride and cowardice of the young noble, it was unlikely he had given it willingly to a stranger—or stolen it from some adventurer.
Marcoriel didn't seem offended. He merely lowered his eyes for a moment, thoughtful, before answering.
— No. I... saved someone. From something you might never want to come close to. And in the middle of it, I found a singular story. — He raised the scroll again. — A bard, of pitiful level, with a casting and amplification capacity far above the norm. A power that doesn't match his stats.
He looked at us directly now. His gaze pierced like the cold light of a full moon.
— Imagine my surprise when I found out he was so close. — He took a step forward. The room seemed to shrink. — I'm not here to fight. I'm willing to pay, negotiate, whatever it takes. But I need to be heard.
His eyes swept the room until they rested… on me.
And that was the moment I understood.
What he was looking for.
Was me.
The sincerity in Marcoriel's voice, combined with the calm clarity of his tone and the impeccable diction of someone trained to lead, ended up disarming Malaca.
Not in the literal sense—her fists were still clenched, and the energy around her body still fluctuated with restrained combat impulse—but in her mind, the battlefield no longer made sense. The man wasn't threatening. He wasn't demanding. He was asking. With gold, with words, and with respect.
And that, in a world where nearly everyone tries to force their way through, was more unsettling than if he had simply drawn his longsword.
Malaca let out a rough sigh. Her shoulders relaxed by a fraction, and her eyes closed briefly, as if mentally arranging the pieces on the board. When she opened them again, her gaze was no longer on Marcoriel—but on the young noble beside him.
— He must've paid you well... — she said, with controlled coldness — … to be here today.
The accusation wasn't shouted, nor was it cruel. It was a simple sentence, but it hung in the air like lead. Like a sheathed blade that still threatens to cut.
The young noble froze.
His forced smile, which had until then masked his nervousness, vanished in an instant. He stumbled over his own words without even uttering them, like a child caught stealing a sweet at a royal banquet. He looked around for support—from the elders, from Marcoriel, from anyone—but no one moved.
Because everyone already knew.
And he knew, too, that denying it would be worse than admitting it.
— I... I had nothing to do with this, actually, it was...
As the boy babbled, ready to make some kind of confession, he was suddenly interrupted.
— I think everyone here has already crossed lines that shouldn't have been crossed. — said the bearded man at last, his deep voice echoing with firmness between the cold walls of the place. — But we are in this venture together. Unless we're seeking blood instead of coin, I propose we finish this as quickly as possible. We all have matters to attend to and places we should be.
His presence was like a pillar in the midst of chaos. From the moment I first heard his voice, I realized he was the most grounded of that suspicious group. Even now, as the tension still vibrated in the air like a wire about to snap, he managed to keep his composure—and that gave me a strange feeling of unease.
But the truth was harsh: if things fell apart here, with my current level, I wouldn't stand a chance. I'd be annihilated before I could even react.
— I agree with him. — my voice came out firmer than I expected. — I don't know exactly what's going on, but I think we can all at least hear what Marcoriel has to say.
Malaca finally seemed to retreat. Her shoulders relaxed, but the fire in her eyes still burned. The discomfort was visible — as if every second there was a silent torture.
— Let's go to my office. — she said curtly. — I don't want anyone seeing me speaking with a Malok, let alone negotiating.
Her words cut through the air like blades. There was venom in every syllable. Instinctively, I turned to see Marcoriel's reaction.
But to my surprise, he didn't show even a shadow of irritation. His expression was calm. Serene. Almost indifferent. As if he were deaf to the insults — or above them.
A few minutes later, we were back in the circular hall of dark stone, where nearly a month earlier our fates had begun to intertwine.
The torches on the walls flickered, casting dancing shadows as the conversation resumed.
The discussion didn't seem relevant enough to justify my presence, but I sensed I was some kind of assurance the wealthy wanted to keep close. After a few minutes of debate over how we would proceed, the conversation finally seemed to be moving toward a satisfactory conclusion.
— Lady Malaca — said one of the men, his voice formal, his gaze steady —, we will honor the agreed payment. The incursion is set for tomorrow. Is there anything we should know about the Bard?
All eyes turned to me.
Malaca studied me as if searching for signs of weakness... or hesitation. I began to imagine this was the moment they needed certainty — confirmation that nothing would stray from the plan. So I simply clenched my jaw and met Malaca's gaze with conviction. She understood instantly: I was ready.
— On our side, everything is in order — she replied, with a rehearsed neutrality. — As for the Malok... will he be going with you?
The man who had remained silent until then raised his eyes and spoke before anyone else could.
— No — he said, firm but without aggression. — I am here on other business. However, I will pay as though I were going as well, and await the outcome before making my request. I will not interfere, nor be a hindrance to your efforts.
With a controlled gesture, he pulled a small leather pouch from his cloak and tossed it onto the table. The muffled, metallic sound it made was different — almost musical. The leather looked soft, expertly treated. And when the pouch opened against the wood, revealing its contents, a curious silence fell over the room.
Inside lay several golden coins, oddly shaped.
— That's... Imperial currency... — Zomeia, who like me had remained silent throughout the conversation, finally murmured, almost breathless.
— Look how many... — whispered one of the elders, voice hoarse with disbelief.
The gold gleamed under the flickering torchlight. It was more than an offering — it was a demonstration of power. And in that moment, I realized that man, the Malok, was buying something. He was buying presence. Respect. And maybe... time.
The elders' reaction was immediate. No words — just the heavy silence of those who had just witnessed something rare.
The shine of the golden coins, each stamped with the imperial seal, seemed to reflect more than monetary value. It was influence. It was power.
— You do realize this... — Malaca began, her voice as sharp as steel — ...is far more than the agreed amount.
The coins still jingled faintly as she spoke, as if the gold itself had an opinion.
— Part of it is for the mission. — the man replied, with a calmness that bordered on offensive. — The majority... is to be heard.
Malaca narrowed her eyes.
— I hope you understand you're paying only to speak. Not to command.
The man simply shrugged, like someone tossing stones into a river, unconcerned with the ripples they create. The gesture said it all: the value was irrelevant.
The tables around us gleamed with hungry eyes. But Malaca was quick. She snatched the pouch like a protective mother and hid it beneath the folds of her cloak, clutching it to her chest.
— You people really have a thing for money... — she muttered, more to herself than to anyone else.
The gold vanished from sight, and as if a spell had broken, the nobles came back to their senses.
— Very well. — said the Bearded Man, adjusting his cloak. — As we've already discussed, I've secured alliances with the city's major guilds. But... — he looked directly at me — ...I'd like a clearer idea of what the boy can offer us tomorrow.
All the faces turned at once, as if my name had been summoned by some invisible force. It was my turn to speak.
I swallowed hard.
— Yes... of course. — My voice came out low at first, but quickly found firmness. — The power I may manifest is still uncertain. But after weeks of study and attempts... I believe I can list a few possibilities.
I could feel my heart beating in my throat. I didn't have definitive answers, but the pieces were starting to come together — even if the picture remained incomplete.
— I believe... you'll see something related to time manipulation. Perhaps stopping it... or at least slowing it down.
For a moment, I thought I'd made an impact. But the silence that followed was icy. No expressions of awe. No exclamations. Just confusion. And that unsettled me more than any shout could have.
— Wait... — said one of the elders, frowning. — Are you saying you can... mess with time?
The murmur spread. Doubts, skepticism — and something else. Something I couldn't name at the time.
Malaca then raised her hand like a teacher calling for silence.
— I've already explained: he doesn't control what's going to manifest. He merely connects with that strange gift. But whatever it is... — she paused, meeting the gaze of everyone present — ...you'll like it.
She then turned and declared:
— The meeting is over. See you tomorrow.
Voices rose in protest, confusion, and frustration, but Malaca gave them no room. She pulled me by the sleeve as if time itself were working against us.
As we crossed the doorway, I instinctively looked back. The hall still pulsed with unanswered questions. But one figure caught my attention.
The man with the angelic face — Malok — was watching me intently.
His eyes, a clear and unnatural amber, seemed to pierce through my flesh, laying bare thoughts I barely admitted to myself. It was the same calm gaze as before… but now, something had changed.
A smile was forming — slow and precise, like the glide of a blade over skin. He didn't show his teeth, but something in his serenity made me shiver. It was the kind of smile that comes before the abyss. That whispers without words: "You've already lost."
It wasn't a friendly gesture.
It was a warning.
A harbinger.
The entire hall — once full of metallic echoes, tense voices, and the rustling of cloaks — seemed to fall silent around him. As if even time hesitated in Malok's presence.
And in that instant, I understood:
Of all the threats gathered there — the drawn swords, the watchful spellcasters, the looming tension — none equaled that gaze.
None were as cold.
As certain.
As final.
At least... that's what I thought.
How could I have been so naïve?