The Merchant Quarter of Manhattan was a different world from the polished halls of the academy. Here, the air smelled of spices, leather, and the subtle tang of enchanted goods. Street vendors hawked everything from low-grade mana crystals to questionable "authentic" relics, while wealthy merchants in silk robes negotiated deals in shadowed doorways.Marco walked through the crowded thoroughfare with Vargas at his back, the A-rank bodyguard's presence parting the crowd like a ship's bow through water. The morning sun had barely cleared the rooftops, but the quarter was already alive with commerce."You've never been here before," Vargas observed. It wasn't a question."My previous financial situation didn't exactly allow for shopping," Marco replied, his eyes scanning the storefronts. "What's the best place for information?""The Dancing Coin." Vargas nodded toward a three-story building at the end of the street, its sign depicting a gold coin balanced on its edge. "But Fiora runs the

The Merchant Guild's private auction room was smaller than the Grand Auction Hall, but no less opulent. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light across velvet-draped walls, and the twenty attendees—each representing a noble house or merchant consortium—sat in high-backed chairs arranged in a semicircle around a raised podium. The air smelled of expensive perfume and older, more dangerous things: ambition, desperation, and the quiet hunger of people who wanted what they couldn't have.Marco sat in the third row, Vargas standing against the wall behind him. Fiora had insisted on attending despite his protests, and now she sat to his left, her green eyes cataloging every attendee, every whisper, every nervous twitch."Dominic's not here," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "But his people are. The woman in the blue dress? That's Lady Mira Santoro, his cousin. She handles the family's acquisitions."Marco's gaze flicked to the woman in question. She was beautiful in the way a blade was be

The morning sun had barely cleared the academy's eastern spires when Marco found himself standing before a massive oak door, its surface carved with the crest of the Royal Tax Collection Bureau. Vargas stood behind him, his massive frame casting a shadow that swallowed the corridor's torchlight."You're sure about this?" the bodyguard asked."I'm sure about nothing," Marco replied. "But I'm certain about one thing—the Vancour family thinks they can bleed me dry through taxes. I intend to prove them wrong."He pushed open the door.The office beyond was lavish by bureaucratic standards—polished mahogany desks, enchanted lighting crystals, and thick carpets that muffled footsteps. A dozen clerks worked at scattered stations, their quills scratching across parchment with practiced efficiency. At the far end, behind a desk larger than most beds, sat a man who radiated self-importance like a furnace radiated heat.Treasurer Aldric Vancour. Cousin to the prince who would later cause trouble

"You broke my thugs."Marco looked up from the fortress blueprints spread across his desk. Vargas stood in the doorway, but behind him, filling the frame with barely contained rage, was Dominic Santoro. His face was purple—not with embarrassment this time, but with genuine, incandescent fury."I didn't break them," Marco said calmly, setting down his quill. "My employees did. There's a difference."Dominic shoved past Vargas and stormed into the room. His designer coat was rumpled, his perfect hair disheveled, and his hands shook as he pointed at Marco. "Eight men. Eight of my best fighters. They can't walk straight. Three of them have broken ribs. One has a concussion so bad he doesn't remember his own name.""Sounds like they chose the wrong profession.""You son of a—" Dominic lunged forward.Vargas caught him mid-step, one massive hand clamping down on the noble's shoulder. "I wouldn't," the bodyguard said quietly.Dominic froze. His chest heaved. His eyes darted between Marco and

Marco found Isabella in the training yard. She stood motionless at its center, her white hair loose around her shoulders, her ice-blue eyes fixed on something only she could see. A practice sword hung loosely in her right hand, its edge gleaming with frost."You're up early," Marco said, stepping into the yard."I never slept." She didn't turn to face him. "Dominic's betrayal changes everything. Lord Vincent knows about your system now. He knows about our alliance. Sunset tonight, he expects me to deliver you to his estate.""And if you don't?""Then he tells my father about my 'treason.'" Her voice was flat, emotionless. "The Duke will summon me home. He'll lock me in the estate and throw away the key. The Watchers' Legion will dissolve before it's even begun."Marco walked to the weapon rack and selected a practice blade. The weight felt familiar now—six days of training with Seraphina had seen to that. "Then we have until sunset to change the game."Isabella finally turned. Her exp