Reinhard moved through the hall like a whisper of shadow, gliding between the swirling dancers, his gaze drinking in all within his sight. Beneath his fingernails, the spells cracked and crumbled, the sting of magic biting each time a lesser or cloaked soul brushed near. Yet tonight, his eyes were fixed elsewhere.
Miguel Waltz.
He stood there, half-hidden, almost woven into the very fabric of the evening, a ghost pressed against the cold embrace of the marble columns. But Reinhard needed no more than a single glance to see the truth. This man was no mere smith.
He was a master, a soul whose fate had been veiled in layer upon layer of scorn and deceit.
None paid him any mind. To them, Miguel was but another invisible wretch, forgotten in a world where even the air seemed heavy with politics and gilded decay.
But Reinhard knew.
He knew that this man could become precisely what he needed. And he would not allow such a soul to break beneath the weight of the weak and the complacent.
He watched as the noble vultures, led by Pavel, began to mock Miguel. Their laughter was like sand—shifting, unstable, the foundation of crumbling castles. Pavel, true son of arrogance, mocked him openly, dragging Miguel's pride through the dirt before all eyes. He was the predator, reveling in the torment of his prey.
And Miguel remained silent. Silent as a mouse that, despite its hidden strength, dared not raise its voice.
It was humiliation.
It was agony.
Reinhard stepped closer, ignoring Pavel's existence as one might a buzzing fly. His face was cold as ice, but his eyes burned with a savage light.
"You seem to have forgotten what happened today," he said, his voice heavy, suffocating the air like a closing fist.
Pavel turned, startled. For a moment he did not recognize Reinhard, but pride quickly returned to stiffen his posture. A mocking laugh slipped from his lips.
"And what concern is it of yours?" he sneered, puffing out his chest as if to challenge the inevitable.
Reinhard did not answer him.
He walked straight to Miguel, his gaze sharp, measuring him like a hunter studying prey.
He stood before him, his presence a blade at Miguel's throat.
"Do you enjoy this?" he asked, voice low, each syllable a verdict.
"The way your friends treat you?"
Miguel could not answer.
Despair choked his eyes, and each breath he drew seemed a final one.
He did not know what to do.
He had lived too long under the yoke of silent humiliation.
"If you hate it," Reinhard continued, voice like molten iron, "then you have two choices. Fight—and your home will surely be razed.
Or serve me.
I will bind you to my House, and punish Pavel for daring to slight a member of Deir's bloodline."
Miguel froze, his heart a frantic drum within his chest.
His hand reached for the key that hung around his neck—the symbol of his craftsmanship, his pride.
How much longer could he endure such shame?
A spark ignited in his eyes.
He realized then that fate, for once, had offered him a hand.
Miguel fell to one knee, arm extended, offering Reinhard the key—the symbol of his loyalty, the surrender of his skills and soul.
Reinhard took the key without a word.
Miguel had become his creature at that moment—his strength, his brilliance now a blade for Reinhard to wield.
Slowly, Reinhard turned to face Pavel, whose expression twisted between astonishment and smoldering hatred.
"Since you dared to touch one of mine," Reinhard said, no longer veiling the frost of his cruelty,
"I am now bound to punish you."
Pavel stumbled back, grasping for justification.
"What madness is this? He became your vassal mere seconds ago! And you think this grants you right over me?!"
But Reinhard had no more patience for insects.
He cast down his glove, the leather snapping against the marble floor.
"I challenge you to a duel, Pavel Romanov," he declared, his voice ringing through the hall, cold and absolute.
It was no request.
It was a sentence.
Pavel's face drained of color.
He had believed he could wound Miguel without consequence.
He had been wrong.