Morning in the merchant district never arrived quietly.
The wooden shutters creaked open one by one. People were getting ready for the day. Cart wheels made a lot of noise as they rolled over the stone roads. The roads were still wet from the dew that fell during the night. People were. Discussing prices. They were trying to agree on how much things should cost. The sun was not fully up yet.
This was not the nobility's quarter.
Nor was it the slums.
It was the beating heart of trade, where wealth was earned through wit, timing, and trust rather than bloodlines.
And near its center stood the Arcelion household.
The building itself reflected its owners perfectly—stone walls reinforced with polished wood, a wide ground floor for storage and meetings, and a second story where life happened away from contracts and coin.
Warm.
Lived-in.
Balanced.
The front door opened with a familiar creak.
Lucien Arcelion stepped inside, wooden sword slung casually over his shoulder.
The moment he crossed the threshold—
"Lucien! Breakfast is getting cold!"
The voice cut through the house like a thrown dagger—sharp, precise, impossible to ignore.
He barely had time to slip his boots off before footsteps approached.
Seris Arcelion stood at the edge of the dining room, hands planted firmly on her hips.
She was nineteen—two years older than Lucien—and it showed not in age, but in authority.
Chestnut hair tied back in a practical knot. Sleeves rolled to the elbows. A ledger tucked beneath one arm, already marked with ink. Her posture was straight, her gaze calculating, eyes constantly scanning for inefficiency.
She looked less like a merchant's daughter and more like a commander overseeing logistics.
"You train too early," she said, clicking her tongue.
Despite the complaint, a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
"You'll turn into an icicle before you ever become a swordsman."
Lucien laughed, rubbing the back of his head.
"It's not that cold."
Seris narrowed her eyes.
She reached down, pinched a breadcrumb from the table, and flicked it directly at his forehead.
It hit dead center.
"Your magic literally freezes the air."
Lucien blinked, then sighed.
"That's exaggerating."
"Is it?" she shot back.
Lucien opened his mouth to argue—.
"Sword practice again?"
The new voice carried weight.
Not loud.
Not commanding.
Just… steady.
Lucien turned instantly.
"Father!"
Darius Arcelion stood near the storage doorway, one arm wrapped around a heavy crate filled with sealed goods. He carried it with the ease of a man who had once hauled weapons, supplies, and wounded comrades across battlefields.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. His black hair was streaked with gray now, and faint lines marked his face—laugh lines, worry lines, memories etched deep into skin..
"Good."
His eyes flicked briefly to the wooden sword on Lucien's back.
"Discipline builds a man more than talent."
Lucien straightened unconsciously.
"Thanks, Father."
Darius's lips twitched.
"Just don't break another wooden sword."
Lucien froze.
Seris burst out laughing.
Lucien nearly choked on air."That was an accident!"
"You snapped it clean in half," Seris said cheerfully. "Again."
"It was defective!"
Darius shook his head, amusement clear in his eyes as he turned away.
Before Lucien could defend himself further, the sound of gentle footsteps approached from the kitchen.
The atmosphere shifted.
Not heavier.
Sharper.
Elena Arcelion entered carrying a steaming pot.
She moved with measured grace, dark hair braided neatly down her back. Her eyes—cool, perceptive—missed nothing. Every detail, every expression, every unfinished thought was catalogued behind that composed exterior.
She placed the pot at the center of the table.
"Sit," she said simply.
Lucien obeyed immediately.
Seris smirked.
Elena's gaze flicked toward her daughter.
"You too."
Seris sat.
Elena nodded once, satisfied.
"Eat first," she continued, serving portions with practiced efficiency. "Then help your sister with inventory. The caravan leaves before noon."
Lucien nodded. "Yes, Mother."
"A strong body is good," Elena added, her eyes briefly meeting his. "But so is a balanced life."
Lucien smiled softly.
The Arcelions were not nobles.
They had no ancestral land, no titled protection.
What they had instead was reputation.
The Arcelion trading house dealt in mid-to-high value goods—enchanted tools, rare materials, stabilized relic fragments recovered by adventurers. They did not gamble recklessly, nor did they hoard.
They balanced risk and return, forging long-term partnerships rather than short-term profit.
That balance was their shield.
Seris handled logistics and pricing.Elena managed negotiations and contracts.Darius oversaw security and transport routes.
Above the hearth, catching the morning light, hung the Arcelion family crest.
A polished wooden plaque carved with care.
A silver lion at its center.
Framed by two interlocking snowflakes, curved as if shaped by wind.
Lucien's eyes lingered.
Stories from passing adventurers who stayed the night before caravans departed. Tales Darius once told quietly over dinner, voice low, eyes distant. Whispers exchanged between merchants about those who had climbed and never returned.
All of them shared a single name.
The Tower of the Last Wish.
Lucien didn't dream of it because it was glorious.
He dreamed of it because it was there—looming over the world like a question no one could ignore forever.
That was why he trained before dawn.
Not because anyone demanded it.
Not because he wanted to prove something to others.
But because, one day, he wanted to stand at the Tower's entrance without fear of being turned away.
He wanted to be ready.
Breakfast passed easily after that.
Plates emptied. Plans were exchanged. Seris spoke about inventory routes while Elena corrected her numbers with quiet precision. Darius listened, offering the occasional insight from experience.
It was ordinary.
Comfortably so.
Then—
BANG.
The sound shattered the morning.
A violent knock slammed against the front door.
Once.
Twice.
Then again—harder.
"PLEASE—OPEN UP!"
The voice outside was hoarse.
Panicked.
Fear-strangled.
Lucien stood instantly.
Seris's smile vanished.
Darius's hand moved subtly toward the dagger at his belt.
Elena's eyes sharpened, already calculating consequences.
Another knock struck the door, frantic enough to splinter wood.
"They're coming—!"
The house held its breath.
Lucien reached for the door.
And pulled it open.