Location: The Royal Palace, Capital City of Oland.
Event: The Feast of Swords.
The sun set over the Capital, but the Royal Palace burned brighter than the day.
Thousands of Mana-Lanterns floated above the Grand Courtyard, tethered by invisible threads of magic. They cast a golden glow over the long line of carriages snaking their way toward the marble steps.
Inside the Thorne carriage (the rented black one with silver trim), Livia was hyperventilating.
She smoothed the skirt of her Midnight Blue Silk dress for the hundredth time.
"Rian," she whispered, her hands trembling in her lap. "I can't do this. Look at them. That's Countess Eliza. That's Duke Ironwood. They will eat me alive."
Rian sat opposite her, calm as a frozen lake. He adjusted his white cravat.
Beside him sat a wooden crate, polished and branded with the Snowflake emblem. Inside was not a weapon of mass destruction, but twelve bottles of "White Wolf" Spirit—triple-distilled, 80-proof vodka infused with Northern glacial water.
A luxury. A pleasure. But not a threat.
"They won't eat you, Livia," Rian said, his voice steady. "They are not wolves. They are peacocks. They only peck at things that look weak."
"Chin up. Shoulders back. You are a Thorne. Tonight, you are not the girl in the attic. You are the Lady of the North."
The carriage jolted to a stop.
A footman in royal livery opened the door.
"Arriving: The Party of Viscount Thorne!"
The Walk of Judgment
Rian stepped out. The flash of the mana-lanterns hit his sharp, military-cut coat.
He extended a hand to Livia.
She took it. She stepped down, the silver embroidery of her dress catching the light like stardust.
A hush fell over the immediate crowd of minor nobles waiting on the stairs.
They knew the Thorne family. They knew the Duke (a war hero). They knew Cassius (a spender).
But who was this?
"Is that... Rian?" a minor Baron whispered to his wife. "The sickly one? I thought he died in the Wasteland."
"He looks... tall," the Baroness murmured, eyeing the cut of his coat. "And that fabric. Is that Shadow-Weave?"
Rian ignored them. He led Livia up the marble stairs, past the Royal Guards whose armor was polished to a mirror sheen.
They entered the Grand Hall.
It was a cavern of gold and velvet. The ceiling was painted with the history of the Kingdom. Five hundred tables were set with silver plates. The air smelled of roasted boar, spiced wine, and expensive perfume.
The Royal Herald—not the one who visited the North, but the Chief Herald—slammed his staff on the floor.
"Announcing!"
"The Viscount of Blackiron, Rian Thorne!"
"And the Lady Livia Thorne!"
The names echoed.
Heads turned.
Cassius Thorne, standing near the front with Duchess Lydia, choked on his wine. He stared at Rian, then at Livia's dress. The dress he had refused to buy her for years.
Lydia's eyes narrowed into slits. He actually came. And he brought the girl.
The Envy of the Small
Rian steered Livia toward a table reserved for "Border Lords"—a mid-tier spot, respectable but not near the King.
As they walked, the whisper network came alive.
Baron Kael, a minor noble from the fertile Riverlands, leaned over to his neighbor.
"Viscount? Since when is he a Viscount?"
"Since his father banished him," the neighbor sneered. "Daddy probably bought him the title to keep him from starving. Look at him. He struts like he conquered the North."
"I heard the North is a frozen hell," Kael muttered, sipping his wine. "How does he afford silk like that? The Duke must be sending him gold secretly."
"Nepotism," a young Knight from a cadet branch scoffed. "He has no Qi. No Magic. He survives because he has the name Thorne. If I had a Duke for a father, I'd be a Viscount too."
Rian heard them. His [Enhanced Hearing]—a perk from his System stats—picked up the word "Nepotism" clearly.
He smiled.
Good, Rian thought. Let them think I am a leech. A leech is annoying. A competitor is dangerous.
He wanted their envy, not their fear. Envy made them careless.
The Circle of Vultures
As they sat, a shadow fell over their table.
It was Viscount Joffrey, a man known for owning the copper mines in the West. He was heavy, draped in red velvet, and wore rings on every finger.
He looked down at Rian with a greasy smile.
"So," Joffrey boomed, loud enough for the surrounding tables to hear. "The Exile returns. We all placed bets on how long you'd last, boy. I wagered six months."
Livia shrank back, intimidated by the man's size.
Rian didn't flinch. He poured a glass of water for his sister.
"You lost your wager, Joffrey. I hope you didn't bet the copper mine."
Joffrey's smile twitched. "Sharp tongue. Tell me, how is the 'City' of Blackiron? Still just a few huts and a pile of snow?"
The surrounding nobles tittered. They loved seeing a Thorne humbled.
"It is... cozy," Rian lied smoothly. "Simple. Quiet. We have enough firewood to keep warm."
"Firewood?" Joffrey laughed, slapping his thigh. "Hear that? The Viscount burns wood! While we use Mana-Coal in the Capital. How quaint. Do you rub sticks together to start it?"
"Something like that," Rian sipped his water.
"And your 'Industry'?" Joffrey pressed, sensing blood. "I heard rumors you were selling... what was it? Glass bottles? Perfume?"
Joffrey leaned in, mocking. "Becoming a merchant, Thorne? A shopkeep?"
The table went silent. For a Noble to engage in "trade" was seen as vulgar. They owned land; they didn't make things.
Rian looked at Joffrey.
"I merely dabble," Rian said, playing the part of the bored, lucky son. "The North is boring. A man needs a hobby. Some men collect copper coins. I collect... snowflakes."
Joffrey scoffed, dismissing him. "A hobby. Well, enjoy your 'hobby' while your father pays the bills. Just don't forget your place when the real Lords are talking."
Joffrey waddled away, satisfied that he had put the "Exile" in his place.
Rian watched him go.
Joffrey owns the Copper Mines, Rian noted mentally. Copper is essential for electricity. I'll need to buy him out eventually. Or bankrupt him.
The King's Entrance
Suddenly, the trumpets blared.
The massive double doors at the head of the hall swung open.
The crowd rose as one.
King Aric the Iron-Handed.
He was a giant of a man, wearing armor of gold and steel even at a feast. His beard was braided, and his eyes were like flint.
Beside him walked the Queen, and behind them... Princess Isabella.
Isabella wore a gown of silver and violet. She scanned the room.
Her eyes locked onto Rian's table.
She didn't wave. She didn't smile. She gave a barely perceptible nod.
I see you, the nod said. You survived.
Rian bowed low with the rest of the room.
"That is the King," Livia whispered, awestruck.
"He is just a man, Livia," Rian whispered back. "A man who needs a better sword."
The Gift Ceremony
The feast began. Servants brought out endless trays of pheasant, venison, and exotic fruits.
Then came the Presentation of Gifts.
This was the contest. Every Noble tried to outdo the other to gain the King's favor.
"From Duke Ironwood: A crate of Dragon-Scales!"
The crowd gasped. The King nodded appreciatively.
"From Count Blackwood: A Mana-Engine Carriage prototype!"
The King looked interested.
Then, the Herald called:
"From Viscount Rian Thorne!"
The room went quiet. The "Exile" was giving a gift?
Rian stood up. He signaled a servant to bring the wooden crate forward.
He didn't walk up himself. He stayed at his table, keeping his profile low.
The servant opened the crate.
Inside were twelve bottles of clear liquid.
"What is it?" someone whispered. "Water?"
"Northern Spirit," the Herald announced, reading the card. "White Wolf Reserve. Distilled from the glacial ice."
The King, who had been looking bored by piles of gold and silk, perked up. He was a warrior. He liked strong drink.
He waved a hand. A servant poured a shot.
The King drank it.
He paused.
The room held its breath.
"Smooth," the King grunted, his voice booming. "Like swallowing a frozen flame. Good."
He gestured for the servant to leave the bottle on the Royal Table.
That was it. "Good."
No knighthood. No grand declaration.
But he kept the bottle.
The minor nobles sneered.
"Alcohol?" Baron Kael whispered. "That's his gift? A bottle of booze? How common."
"He really is broke," Joffrey laughed softly. "He probably brewed it in his bathtub."
Rian sat back down, satisfied.
He hadn't shown the Star-Metal. He hadn't shown the Steam Engine.
He had given the King a drink.
He was now officially "The harmless noble with the good liquor."
"Perfect," Rian whispered to Livia, who was eating a tart.
"They think I'm a bartender. Let them think it."
"While they fight over who has the shiniest armor, we are going to own the supply lines."
But across the room, Duchess Lydia was not laughing.
She was staring at Rian. She saw the confidence in his posture. She saw the dress Livia wore.
He is hiding something, she thought, her nails digging into her palm. A man doesn't walk into a Lion's den with a bottle of vodka unless he has a dagger in his other hand.
End of Chapter 66