Velmora Ambitions
As Victor considered the proposal, he swirled his goblet, his eyes narrowing with interest.
Charles set his goblet down, its base clicking softly on the obsidian-inlaid table. The scent of fennel-glazed wyvern ribs lingered in the air, mixing with the subtle fragrance of violet wine and roast stardust lotus.
"Simple," Charles said. "Fifty thousand gold coins. Five branches. One vision. We begin in Velmora—close enough to monitor, far enough to test scale. I propose that a scout team leave this week to secure property, handle permits, test local suppliers, and quietly recruit. My aim is to create a prototype branch as a flagship—not a replica, but a tribute. Sleek, reverent, and clearly Tre Sorelle. This is where we see if our vision stands up in the wild."
Micah blinked. "Fifty thousand gold? Up front?"
Charles nodded. "In full. No loans. No strings."
Victor's mouth twitched. "That's either the boldest bluff I've heard this year—or the most promising gamble."
"It's a gamble," Charles replied, grinning. "But I calculate, not bluff."
He leaned forward, resting his forearms lightly on the table. "In three days, my assistant will send you the full business framework. This will show my commitment and vision: architectural overlays, brand uniform guidelines, menu standardization protocols, revenue channel models, and a five-year expansion arc with clear performance metrics. I'm demonstrating that I've calculated every step and want your partnership in it."
Micah whistled. "So you just have a restaurant franchise plan on standby?"
Charles shrugged. "What can I say? Some people collect swords. I collect scalable business models."
Victor chuckled, the sound rumbling deep from his chest. "And here I thought you came to Duranth for a meal and a show."
"I did," Charles quipped. "Then your daughter surprised me with starlit chi cuisine. Hard not to stay for dessert."
Micah squinted. "One more compliment and I'll charge for it."
Charles replied, "Fair. Let's put that in the training handbook: compliments optional."
Victor swirled his goblet around as he thought about it, his eyes narrowing with interest.
Micah blinked. "You want me... to lead it?"
"I want you," he said plainly, meeting her gaze, "to be the fire that carries Trelyse Sorelle's dream forward. I don't intend to overshadow you; I'll provide the spark so you lead its blaze."
Silence followed—profound, heavy, vibrating with hope and fear in equal measure.
Then Victor stood and extended a hand across the table.
"We begin in Velmora."
Charles rose and took the hand in a firm shake. "The flames will spread."
For a moment, Victor's grip got tighter. "But not crazy."
Charles smiled. "No. Polished. Like tea. Or tiger ribs."
Micah smiled. "Okay, Masked Mystery. One shot to wow us. If Velmora works, we go kingdom-wide."
Charles bowed halfway. "And if it doesn't work—"
"It won't," Micah grinned. "Because otherwise, I'll roast you in hot honey as a seasonal dish."
"Noted," Charles said. "That's brand synergy."
They laughed together. In that moment, the burdens felt lighter. Under Tre Sorelle's purple lights, the deal was not written down but sealed in spirit.
Charles didn't just leave the table that night with a deal.
He had fire in his veins, a vision in his heart, and two Sorelles by his side.
Velmora was there.
And with it, the next part of a legacy that is coming back to life.
Truth Served Hotter Than Wyvern Ribs
The last dish—an absurdly tender wyvern steak lacquered in starfire glaze—was cleared. Opulence faded into charged stillness, the conversation's warmth dimmed, and laughter grew quiet. Even the enchanted lanterns flickered lower, as if the room itself held its breath.
Victor Sorelle leaned forward, fingers gently tapping the rim of his now-empty wine goblet. Each tap rang out like the chime of a war drum, soft but laden with purpose.
"Charles," he said slowly, no longer a genial host nor a canny businessman. His tone was older now. Sterner. It carried weight. "Before we embark on this partnership, there is one thing we must address."
Charles didn't move, but he did straighten his shoulders. His hand stopped just before it got to his goblet, and his instincts got sharper. "And what would that be, Sir Victor?"
Victor's amber eyes stayed the same. He said, "Trust." A single word. Easy. But it hit like a blood oath.
Micah's eyes widened with shock, then flicked to Charles as dawn broke across her expression. Her fork, once forgotten midair, now trembled slightly before lowering to her plate.
Charles's fingers slowly released the goblet. He didn't move, didn't blink. Then—very deliberately—he leaned back, inhaled deeply, and let out a breath laced with quiet thunder, his composure revealing he was ready for a serious conversation about his real motives.
"How long have you known?" he asked, voice calm but coiled.
Victor's expression didn't change. No mockery, no triumph. Just understanding.
"Since the auction," he replied. "Well, technically, the confirmation came afterward. But I suspected the moment you smiled when the bidding passed four thousand gold."
Micah's fork clinked quietly against her plate.
Charles raised an eyebrow. "I do have expensive taste."
Victor chuckled. "You have CEO taste. There's a difference."
Charles let out a quiet sigh, then reached up. With a slow, reverent motion, he removed the mask—revealing not just a face, but years of hidden scars, loss, and iron-willed resolve.
"I didn't come here to deceive," he said. "Only to grow. To rise on my own terms. Away from the shadows that name carries."
Victor inclined his head. "And you have. What I saw wasn't a disgraced noble's son groveling for scraps. I saw fire. Controlled. Calculated. A young man building something not out of arrogance—but defiance."
Charles held his gaze, then broke into a dry, bitter grin. "Defiance is the only thing that's ever listened to me."
Victor leaned back, folding his hands. "Then let me explain how your mask fell—quietly and bureaucratically, of course."
He gestured toward the flickering mana lanterns above. "The moment you activated your Stellar Bank VIP card, your chi signature pulsed through the Stellar Matrix. That system is bound to the Arcana Empire's Central Registry. When you were five, during your Awakening Rite, your chi was recorded by a crystalline orb embedded with imperial runes. Think of it like a soulprint—unique. Eternal."
Charles's expression tightened. "So when I linked my chi to the bank... it matched me."
Victor nodded. "Instantly. And since Stellar Bank is one of the few entities granted access by the Arcana Imperial Council, your identity became visible to authorized individuals."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"Marquis Lucien—head of the Duranth Merchant Guild and this region's Stellar Bank director—was obligated to verify your registration before approving your VIP upgrade. I was cc'd as your endorser. When the name 'Charlemagne Ziglar' flashed across the document..."
Micah whispered, "He knew."
Victor nodded. "And I kept it to myself. Because I wanted to see who you were without your name propping you up—or dragging you down."
Charles leaned forward, elbows planted, his eyes burning brighter—resolve overcoming fear as the truth hung between them.
"So that's it, then," he said. "You saw the name. But chose to judge the man."
Victor raised his glass. "And I judged him worthy."
Micah finally spoke, her voice low but firm. "Why didn't you tell me, Father?"
Victor gave her a sidelong glance. "Because I wanted to see if your instincts matched mine. They did."
Charles tilted his head at her. "Surprised?"
Micah gave him a crooked smile. "Mildly. But I figured you were either a rogue prince or a mad genius with a charm addiction. Turns out it's both."
He laughed. Genuinely, this time. A deep, unburdened laugh. "Well, I do multitask well."
Victor set his glass down and stood, stepping around the table. "This empire has rules. But it's men like us who redefine them. So let us move forward—without illusions. Without pretense."
Charles rose to meet him, their hands clasping in a new kind of handshake—not a deal, but a recognition. A reckoning.
"No masks, then," Charles said.
Victor nodded. "Only plans."
Charles grinned. "In that case, you should know—I plan to conquer Velmora first, then every city with a road and a hungry noble."
Victor raised a brow. "Ambitious."
Micah added, "Just make sure the food doesn't suck."
Charles stated, "I would rather be stabbed by a Cloudfang Tiger than ruin Tre Sorelle's name. Now that I know what it means."
Micah smiled a little. "Good. If you do, I'll have you wash dishes with your qi sealed."
Charles smiled. "That's a very specific thing. I'm presuming that someone has done it before?"
Victor laughed quite loudly. "Ralfe, her cousin. Don't ask."
Charles put his mask back on the table. "Then let's make something that the whole world will notice."
Victor smiled, pride shining through. "Then let's begin."
And in that flickering lanternlight, where names no longer hid and masks no longer mattered, the true foundation was laid—not of business.
But of legacy.
Charles let out a gentle sigh as the last course left and the waiters disappeared behind velvet curtains. He leaned back, smiling, as the obsidian-inlaid table still sparkled from the feast and the wine lingered on their tongues like a secret they were happy to keep.
But he wasn't finished.
Charles remarked, "I have one last thing to ask before we leave tonight." His voice was light, but his tone was keen with purpose.
Victor leaned in and offered a tiny nod. "You really know how to make an impression that lasts. What else do you have for us, friend?"
Charles retrieved his sleek Stellar Bank card, crystalline and humming faintly with layered qi sigils. He held it between his fingers with the nonchalance of a man who was about to fund a revolution.
"For the coming banquet," he said, "I would like to place a special order. One thousand bottles of Eclipsethorn Reserve."
Victor blinked.
Micah nearly spat out her wine. "One… thousand?"
Charles simply nodded. "Each bottle, served in ceremonial pours, will suffice for five. Five thousand guests are expected across noble, merchant, military, and arcane factions. The wine won't just be for drinking—it will be for remembering."
Victor exhaled slowly. "You're not hosting a banquet. You're launching a campaign."
"I intend to," Charles said, and there was something dangerous and magnetic behind his grin.
Victor chuckled, shoulders relaxing. "Tre Sorelle's reserves will suffice. What else?"
Charles didn't miss a beat. "One thousand individually packaged canisters of Mindveil Ascendant Brew. Sealed with stasis runes and spiritglass. Each with a hand-inscribed calligraphy strip by a certified tea monk."
Micah's brow arched. "What will it say?"
Charles smiled faintly. "Stillness sharpens the blade."
Victor let out a low whistle. "Subtle. I like it."
Then Charles added, "And… I would also like to formally request a special catering team from Tre Sorelle for the banquet."
Victor blinked again. "Catering?"
Micah tilted her head. "What... is catering?"
Charles looked at them, eyes twinkling like a magician about to unveil a new spell.
"It's a service model," he began smoothly, "wherein a kitchen team, ideally Tre Sorelle's best, would prepare and serve selected signature dishes—right within my manor kitchen. Live cooking, coordinated plating, flavor timing. Food is brought directly to the guests with the ambiance and elegance of Tre Sorelle, without requiring them to leave their seats. Think of it as… mobile luxury dining."
Victor and Micah stared at him as if he had just invented indoor thunder.
"Wait," Micah said slowly. "You're saying… You want our chefs… to cook outside Tre Sorelle?"
Charles nodded. "Exactly. Not just cook—but perform. Create an immersive experience at the manor that captures the heart of your brand."
Victor folded his arms, clearly intrigued now. "And people pay for this?"
"Oh, quite handsomely," Charles said, his voice like velvet laced with fire. "It's scalable, profitable, and deeply personal. And once we launch the franchise branches, catering becomes an additional revenue stream for elite events. You're not just serving dishes—you're exporting prestige."
Micah's eyes lit up. "That actually sounds... incredible."
Victor rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "This… catering model. It could work. Especially for nobility who want Tre Sorelle flavor without leaving their fortresses."
Charles inclined his head. "It allows the Tre Sorelle brand to become a status symbol not only in location, but by invitation."
Victor raised his goblet again, this time with an appreciative grin. "You're redefining how we think about food. I'll speak to our chefs tonight. You'll have a team."
"Thank you," Charles said, raising his card to the glowing merchant plate.
[Transaction Processing…]
[1,000 bottles Eclipsethorn Reserve – 5,000 gold coins]
[1,000 Mindveil Ascendant Brew canisters – 5,000 gold coins]
[Full-service catering request – Complimentary under partnership agreement]
[Total Authorized: 10,000 gold coins – Confirmed.]
The glyph shimmered and vanished.
"I'll have the deliveries sent three days before the banquet," Victor confirmed. "Your estate kitchen will be coordinated with our executive chef."
"And I'll have the calligraphy strips penned by monks from Snowveil Monastery," Micah added. "I know a few."
Charles nodded. "Perfect. I'll send over the full banquet schematic, seating charts, and kitchen requirements by the day after tomorrow. My assistant will handle the logistics with your head steward."
Victor leaned back, smiling. "You're quite the orchestrator, Charles."
Charles's grin returned, just a touch wicked. "A good performance is half cuisine, half theater."
And with that, the night ended—but the legend of the banquet had just begun.