Chapter 14: New encounters

As the iron-train hissed to a gentle halt at the capital station, Ethan stepped onto the platform, immediately noticing the distinct shift in atmosphere compared to Duskmere Manor. The air was thicker here, tinged with a faint scent of something unfamiliar arcane smoke drifting lazily from distant workshops and stalls, mingling with the sharp scent of street food.

Emerging from the bustling station into the Middle District, Ethan's eyes widened with wonder. The streets buzzed with vibrant life vendors enthusiastically advertising their goods from quaint, house-like shops with wide-open windows displaying intricate trinkets, magical wares, and mouthwatering delicacies. Children dashed through crowds, laughing and playing spirited games, while watchful guards patrolled leisurely, ensuring peace amid the lively chaos.

Ethan spun slowly in place, taking it all in. Every corner seemed to pulse with an exciting blend of semi-modern fantasy and arcane charm. He couldn't help but smile, captivated by the energy and uniqueness of this new world unfolding around him.

"Stay close, Ethan," Ceris reminded gently, her voice carrying a hint of amusement at his awe-struck expression. "We need to get to our booked hotel first."

Omen scoffed audibly. "Quit gawking like a tourist. You're embarrassing me," he grumbled, clearly unimpressed by Ethan's amazement.

After a short walk through the animated streets, they reached their destination a striking building named the Arcane Spire Hotel. It stood impressively tall, constructed from polished stone and adorned with glowing runes pulsing gently in rhythmic patterns. Ornate metalwork lined the entryway, hinting at both grandeur and subtle functionality. Inside, warm arcane lights illuminated the spacious lobby, filled with an eclectic mix of antique furniture and intricate mechanical contraptions. The hotel's ambiance embodied an inviting fusion of grandiosity and arcane punk aesthetics, perfectly complementing the capital's lively spirit.

Sylviane approached the reception desk confidently. "We'd like two rooms, please. One single occupancy and one with three beds."

The clerk nodded politely, tapping a few keys on an arcane-powered register. "Certainly. How many days will you be staying with us?"

"Three days tops," Sylviane replied smoothly.

The clerk calculated briefly, then looked up with a welcoming smile. "That will be 5 crowns for the single room, and another 10 crowns for the shared room 15 crowns in total for your three-day stay."

After payment was settled, the clerk signaled a nearby staff member to escort them to their rooms. As they walked, Ethan leaned toward Ceris and asked softly, "So, where are our clothes? Did we leave them behind?"

Ceris shook her head reassuringly. "No worries, Ethan. Our belongings were taken care of by one of the Duskmere Manor staff. They'll be delivered to our rooms shortly." Ethan nodded, feeling slightly sheepish but grateful for the seamless arrangement befitting noble treatment.

Once they reached their floor and parted for their respective rooms, Ceris turned to Ethan again. "By the way, don’t forget your attire still needs to be tailored. Head to the House of Threads. They specialize in noble and formal wear."

Ethan blinked. "Wait, you're not coming with me?"

Sylviane, already inspecting her nails with a look of mild disinterest, chimed in. "Tailoring for men and women is done separately. Besides, we also have hair appointments, nail polishing, facial enchantments you name it. You'll have more free time than we will. Unless, of course, you want to sit for hours and watch us get beautified."

Ethan let out a nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, no thanks. I’ll find my way to the tailoring place. I’m sure Omen would throw a fit if he had to wait through all that."

"You're damn right I would," Omen muttered from his resting spot.

Ethan slipped the key to his room into his pocket, then headed back downstairs. The lobby was quieter now, the lighting a little warmer. He approached the front desk where the same clerk was organizing a set of glowing guest ledgers.

"Excuse me," Ethan asked. "Could you tell me where the House of Threads is?"

The clerk looked up and smiled politely. "Of course. It's just two blocks from here. Turn left once you pass the alchemist's tower you'll see it just before the food market. You can’t miss the sign; it’s enchanted to shimmer when someone approaches."

"Got it, thanks," Ethan said with a small nod.

Omen grumbled, stretching his chain slightly. "Let’s get this over with. I'm starving"

Following the clerk’s directions, Ethan stepped back onto the busy streets, weaving through the colorful crowds and bustling shops. It wasn’t long before he spotted the shimmering sign ahead "The House of Threads" glinting like spun silver above a wide archway lined with elegantly embroidered curtains. The shop’s exterior was modest in size but rich in design: ornate glass panels, arcane threads floating in contained displays, and mannequins that adjusted their own collars in the window.

Pushing open the door, a small bell chimed a soft, harmonious tone that seemed almost magical in nature. Inside, the shop exuded refinement. Bolts of luxurious fabrics hovered gently in the air, guided by unseen hands. Needlework stitched itself in one corner, while enchanted measuring tapes slithered across tabletops like curious snakes.

From the far end of the shop, a distinguished elderly man turned and approached. He was dressed in a crisp formal black ensemble, complete with polished shoes and a chain-link pocket watch. A perfectly styled gentleman's mustache sat beneath his sharp nose, and his white hair was slicked back with not a strand out of place.

“Good day, young man,” the man greeted with a smooth, deep voice, clasping his hands together as he studied Ethan with keen but friendly eyes. “Welcome to the House of Threads. I am Varen Thorne, the owner and master tailor. How may I assist you today?”

“I need an attire for a formal ball,” Ethan said, retrieving a small emblem from his coat pocket and holding it up. The Duskmere crest gleamed faintly in the tailor shop’s soft light.

“Ahh,” Varen murmured with recognition, his eyes lighting up. “The Kingmaker of House Duskmere. I was informed of your arrival.”

Without another word, Varen suddenly stepped forward and gestured for Ethan to follow. Before Ethan could properly react, he found himself gently but firmly guided onto a low platform surrounded by hovering mirrors and floating threads.

“W-Wait,” Ethan stammered as measuring tapes immediately sprang to life around him. “Don’t I get to pick what I’ll wear first?”

Varen halted mid-step, as if the very idea wounded him. He turned slowly, his expression a picture of dignified offense. “My dear boy,” he said, voice as smooth as velvet but lined with iron. “I already know what will suit you. A Kingmaker does not need to choose, he only needs to trust.”

Ethan gulped. “Right. Trust. Got it.”

From the corner, Omen’s chain jiggled with what could only be interpreted as laughter.

After a few minutes of being circled by enchanted tapes and expertly measured by Varen’s keen eyes, the old tailor stepped back with a satisfied nod.

“Measurements are complete,” he declared, brushing his hands together. “The cost for the attire will be one Royal coin.”

Ethan blinked, stunned. “That much?!”

Varen’s expression didn’t falter. In fact, he looked mildly offended as if Ethan had just questioned the value of a masterpiece. “Young man, I craft only the finest garments. To call it ‘clothing’ would be a disservice to my work. A Royal coin is modest for the craftsmanship you are receiving. Frankly, it is an act of generosity.”

Ethan opened his mouth, then closed it again. There was no winning that argument.

Clearing his throat, he gestured toward Omen. “Um, can you also make a scabbard? For my dagger?”

Varen’s eyes shifted to Omen, narrowing slightly. He studied the weapon for a few seconds longer than necessary, his gaze sharp with understanding. “A most... interesting weapon,” he murmured. “It is not fixed in form, is it?”

Ethan’s brows raised. “You can tell?”

“I’ve tailored for weapons far less discreet,” Varen replied with a smirk. “Wait here.”

He disappeared into the back room, and for a moment Ethan glanced around awkwardly, still standing on the measuring platform.

Soon, Varen returned, holding a sleek black scabbard with silver accents. It looked simple, yet refined and undeniably magical.

“This scabbard is made of adaptive threadsteel. It will mold to the weapon’s shape should it grow, shrink, or shift. It will serve your partner, well.”

Ethan took it carefully, awed by the smooth texture and light weight. “How much for it?”

Varen waved a hand. “It’s on the house.”

“Are you sure?” Ethan asked, surprised again.

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Varen said nothing further just gave a quiet, final nod that made it clear the discussion was over.

“Thank you,” Ethan said sincerely.

Varen clasped his hands once more. “Well then. The tailoring will take some time. Return tomorrow and it shall be ready.”

With a graceful gesture, he walked to the door and opened it, bowing ever so slightly. “Have a good day, Kingmaker.”

Ethan stepped out, still holding the scabbard in hand, the weight of the experience lingering as strongly as the tailor’s words. The sleek black holster was unlike any scabbard he’d seen designed to mount across his chest like a shoulder rig, its leather straps seamlessly blending with his form while allowing for a quick draw, the dagger resting comfortably against his ribs.

Omen, coiled lazily around Ethan’s arm, gave a low hum of approval. “Hmph... finally, someone with taste. I like him.”

Ethan raised a brow. “You? Liking someone? Should I be worried?”

Omen shifted slightly, the chain giving a faint clink. “And that chest mount? Stylish and practical. Maybe now you’ll stop jammin me into your belt like a kitchen knife.”

Ethan chuckled. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“You bent my dignity. That’s worse.”

He slithered up slightly, eyeing Ethan’s clothes. “Maybe Varen can fix your fashion next. You still dress like someone who lost a bet to a potato farmer.”

Ethan snorted. “Says the murder-chain wrapped around my arm.”

“A murder-chain with style, thank you very much.” Omen stated.

There was a brief pause before Omen added, voice growing more insistent, “Now, enough flattery and fashion talk. It’s my time.”

Ethan blinked. “Your time?”

“To feast,” Omen declared dramatically. “You promised food. We passed the market on the way here, go with haste! Before I start gnawing on your arm out of principle.”

Ethan sighed with a crooked smile. “Alright, alright. Food market it is. But if you insult any more vendors, I’m pretending I don’t know you.”

“Bold of you to assume you ever had the choice,” Omen said smugly.

As soon as Ethan arrived at the entrance to the food market, the open-air space greeted him like a festival. The warm, mouthwatering scent of roasting meat hit him first followed by an explosion of other aromas: sweet glazes, spicy herbs, and something rich and buttery sizzling on hot stone.

The place was alive with energy. Vendors stood behind carts or magical grills, shouting over the din to endorse their food with practiced flair. “Spiced skewers! Straight from the Ember Isles!” one called. “Glazed fruit buns, fresh from the oven!” another chimed in, holding up a tray that shimmered faintly with a sugary rune.

People moved through the walkways, some nibbling on steaming wraps or enchanted pastries that left glittering crumbs in their wake. Children weaved through the crowd with sticky fingers and big grins, while a trio of bards strummed a lively tune nearby, their voices harmonizing with the gentle clink of coins in their open instrument case.

Ethan couldn’t help but slow his pace, eyes wide. “This is… kind of amazing.”

“Obviously,” Omen said, his tone flat. “Now enough gawking and start eating!"

His gaze locked onto a nearby stall where a thick slab of pork belly rotated slowly over a rune-heated grill. The meat was golden and glistening, its fat sizzling and dripping with every turn. A glossy glaze bubbled over the surface, caramelizing into a rich, amber crust that filled the air with a scent so divine it practically stopped Ethan in his tracks.

“That one,” Omen declared with the authority of a king. “We are getting that.”

Ethan shook his head with a grin and approached the stall.

The cook, a burly man with a singed apron and a towel slung over one shoulder, looked up from basting the meat. “How can I help you, lad?”

“Uh, one of those, please,” Ethan said, pointing at the rotating pork.

“Copy! One Honey-Char Roast comin’ right up!” the cook bellowed, flipping the slab with a practiced twist. A burst of savory smoke curled upward, thick with sweet spice.

Omen practically hummed. “If this tastes even half as good as it smells, I might forgive your existence today.”

The cook, grabbing a fresh wooden plate, glanced at Ethan. “That’s five Copper Crowns, lad.”

“Just a moment,” Ethan said, reaching toward his belt where his coin pouch was clipped.

He blinked, patting the spot again, more urgently this time.

Just then, a figure brushed against him light and quick before disappearing into the crowd. Ethan barely registered it as more than a passing bump, instinctively muttering, “Oh, sorry—”

Then he froze.

His pouch was gone.

Panic set in. “No, no, no…” he whispered, checking the rest of his belt.

Ceris is going to kill me.

“I HAD ONE THING!,” Omen suddenly roared, voice sharp with fury. “ONE. THING. THAT BRAT, he took it!”

Ethan looked around, confused. “Wait, what?”

“That pickpocket swiped your pouch!” Omen snarled, chain rattling with agitation. “And he stole my lunch!”

Before Ethan could even react, Omen’s chain coiled swiftly around his dominant arm, pulsing with a sting of resonance.

“Go after him,” Omen growled. “NOW!”

Ethan didn’t hesitate. His legs kicked into motion as he pushed off the stall, weaving straight into the crowd.

“Thief!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the bustling market noise.

The boy who bumped into him now clearly the culprit glanced back just once. Then he bolted, vanishing between carts and startled shoppers.

Despite the crowded chaos, Ethan moved with surprising grace. He ducked past a woman holding a fruit basket, spun around a group of laughing kids, and vaulted over a low crate of spice jars without missing a beat.

“Whoa,” Ethan muttered to himself. “My movement... It’s actually working. All that training…”

“Don’t get sentimental now!” Omen barked. “Faster! My lunch is getting away!”

They chased the thief through a maze of tight alleys and between vendors cursing at the blur rushing past. Ethan’s reflexes were sharper than ever his body responding almost instinctively as the energy from Omen's resonance flowed through his limbs.

Up ahead, the boy darted into a narrow passage lined with drying laundry and hanging herbs, glancing back in frustration.

“He’s good,” Ethan muttered, teeth clenched. “But I’m not letting him go.”

The kid zigzagged and tried to lose him in a group of performers gathering a crowd but Ethan was right behind, relentless.

Omen’s voice echoed in his mind, smug and hungry. “He’s fast, I’ll give him that but you’re faster. Don’t lose him, Ethan. That roast was perfect.”

Just as Ethan closed in on the thief, a stack of crates toppled suddenly into his path shoved over by the kid in a last-ditch attempt to block him off. Ethan skidded to a halt, stumbling as a few rolling apples nearly took him out. He cursed under his breath, vaulting over the mess with a huff.

From a short distance ahead, the kid glanced back with a cocky grin. “So long, old man!” he called out before disappearing into the alleyways.

Thinking the chase was over, the boy finally slowed and ducked into a hidden alcove. Out of sight and out of breath, he fished the stolen pouch from his coat with quick fingers.

When he peeked inside and saw the shimmer of coins, copper crowns and Crowns, his eyes gleamed.

“Jackpot,” he whispered, breathless with excitement. “Sis and I can eat for months with this…”

Pocketing the pouch, he turned, ready to slip back to his usual rooftop hideout.

That’s when he heard it.

A scream.

His body froze. He knew that voice. It was shrill, terrified and unmistakably his sister’s.

Heart pounding, he sprinted toward the sound, weaving through the side streets until he reached a dim alleyway.

There she was his twin her hands being tied by three rough-looking men. One held her down while another pulled the rope taut with practiced cruelty. The third stood a few paces away, acting as a lookout, eyes scanning the alley's mouth for any interruptions.

“HEY!” the boy screamed, rage and fear surging all at once. He charged in without hesitation.

He didn’t get far.

One of the thugs turned and met his momentum with a heavy punch to the gut, dropping him to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

“Stupid brat,” the man grunted, kicking him hard in the ribs.

The boy curled up instinctively, pain blooming across his body as the shadows of the alley loomed darker around them.

“Forget the brat,” one of the thugs grunted. “Tuck the girl into the cart. We’ll move now before someone hears.”

Two of them reached for her, yanking her roughly to her feet.

Just as their hands grasped her shoulders, the lookout suddenly straightened, eyes narrowing at the far end of the alley. “Someone’s coming,” he hissed.

Too late.

A blur shot into the alley like a charging beast.

Ethan.

With Omen coiled around his arm and resonance humming through his veins, he slammed his fist straight into the lookout’s gut. The impact sent the man flying backward several steps before collapsing in a heap, completely unconscious.

The two other thugs froze.

Ethan stood at the alley entrance, chest rising and falling, his expression locked in a hard glare.

The two thugs looked at each other, clearly rattled but still bristling with bravado.

"What's this guy's deal?" one of them muttered.

Before Ethan could speak, Omen’s voice rang out cold and loud, echoing off the alley walls. “Stop wasting your breath on trash. Just kill them already.”

The air seemed to tighten around Ethan, his gaze flickering with hesitation for the briefest moment at Omen's words.

He exhaled sharply, steadying himself. He could feel the fatigue in his limbs; his run had drained him more than he realized. Fighting now would be reckless.

Instead, he reached into his coat and retrieved the Duskmere crest, holding it high with firm authority.

“I am a Kingmaker of House Duskmere,” Ethan declared, voice sharp and unwavering. “These children are under Duskmere’s protection as servants of the House. Lay another hand on them, and you won’t just be answering to me. You’ll be declaring war on Duskmere itself.”

One of the thugs paled, stepping back slightly. “H-He’s a Kingmaker, man! Those guys technically don’t die. Let’s get out of here!”

The second thug, however, scoffed, squinting suspiciously. “Yeah? Then why would a noble house take in street rats like them?”

Ethan didn’t flinch. His tone sharpened like a blade. “Don’t make me repeat myself. Leave now or answer the consequences.”

That was enough.

The two thugs exchanged a nervous glance, then wordlessly moved to grab their unconscious companion. With a final glare, they retreated into the shadows, leaving the kids and Ethan behind.