The gathering was a spectacle of wealth and authority. Chandeliers cast golden light over the polished marble floors, and noble banners hung from the high ceilings, each crest a testament to generations of rule. Nobles and wealthy merchants mingled, exchanging pleasantries laced with veiled insults, measuring each other's worth not in gold but in influence.
Fornos Dag stood near a column, his hands resting on the gilded railing of a balcony that overlooked the ballroom floor. He was not enjoying this battlefield of invisible swords, but it was good enough to keep him from boredom. Unlike the nobles, whose words carried hidden edges, Fornos preferred his battles to be fought with strategy, not pointless theatrics.
His eyes shifted to a group near the refreshment tables, where a noble girl, dressed in embroidered silk, whispered to a small gathering of young men. She was offering tidbits of information, fishing for details in return.
"Just how much info is she planning to throw away?" Fornos thought, noting how the exchange was lopsided. She was giving far more than she was receiving. A fool, or perhaps desperate.
The observation amused him, but his amusement did not last long.
A voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the ambient chatter.
"The Dags, mere merchants, are growing too bold in golem investment. That is the domain of nobility, not traders playing warlords."
Silence rippled outward from the words like a stone dropped into still water. Conversations halted. The music, though still playing, seemed distant.
Fornos turned his gaze toward the speaker.
Lord Gratham Ornes.
A veteran aristocrat, clad in ceremonial robes adorned with the sigil of his house—a silver golem hand gripping a scroll. His presence was heavy, his reputation heavier. He was one of the old guards of nobility, a firm believer that golems were the tools of lords, not merchants.
Fornos did not move, but his hands tightened on the railing.
His father, Voss Dag, stepped forward, expression calm, unreadable.
"May I know what is the commotion, my lord?" Voss asked, his tone measured, deferential.
Lord Ornes scoffed, taking a slow sip from his jeweled goblet before responding.
"How long do you plan to play, Dag?" His voice dripped with disdain. "Your trade routes stretch farther each year. Your coffers swell. And now—now you move into golem investments, as if you were a noble house yourself. Do you think wealth grants you the right to tread where only bloodlines belong?"
The accusation was plain. Fornos understood immediately. This was not about trade. This was about power. The nobility controlled golems for warfare, for protection, for control. A merchant house investing in golem combat, even if for self-defense, was a challenge to their dominion.
Voss bowed his head slightly. "My lord, our investments are purely for security. The roads grow dangerous, and Relicts make it impossible for golem engines to operate in every region. Without proper defenses, trade will suffer."
"A noble's protection is more than enough," Ornes countered. "Your golems are a statement. A declaration that you do not trust us. That you do not need us."
The weight of the conversation pressed against the room. Nobles watched with interest, some amused, some waiting to see if the merchant would dare speak against a lord.
"Nothing could be farther from the truth," Voss replied smoothly, but Fornos knew his father. He could hear the tension in his voice, the careful restraint. "We have always respected the nobility's place. We only seek to survive."
Lord Ornes took a step forward. "Then kneel."
The words cut through the air like a blade.
For a brief moment, the room seemed frozen.
Fornos' heartbeat slowed.
Voss did not immediately respond. His expression did not change.
Fornos clenched his fists. He knew what was about to happen. His father had no real choice. To refuse was to challenge the nobility outright. That was suicide.
After a long pause, Voss Dag knelt.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Some smirked, others whispered. To kneel was a submission, an acknowledgment of lower status.
Fornos felt something tighten inside his chest.
Voss kept his head bowed, his posture steady, unbroken. It was an act of survival, not surrender.
Ornes chuckled. "Good. That is how a merchant should behave."
Fornos wanted to move. He wanted to step forward, but he held himself back. His mother, Mary Dag, stood nearby, her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles had turned white. But she, too, said nothing.
Ornes turned his gaze toward Fornos.
The old noble studied him, eyes narrowing.
"You."
Fornos met his gaze without flinching.
Ornes smirked. "Your father understands his place. Do you?"
Silence.
Fornos did not respond. He would not debase himself with empty words.
Ornes sighed, almost disappointed. "I see it in your eyes. Ambition. That dangerous thing."
Before Fornos could react, the noble moved faster than expected for a man of his age.
A hand struck across his face.
Pain flared instantly.
Fornos staggered back a step. His skin burned. He raised a hand to his cheek, feeling warmth—blood.
Ornes' ring—a heavy signet of his house—had cut into his skin.
The noble loomed over him. "Let that be a lesson. Ambition without station is a crime. The next time you forget your place, I will not be so merciful."
Fornos stared at him.
Not in anger. Not in fear.
But in silence.
Because he knew.
He knew this moment was a mistake.
Not for him.
For Ornes.
This moment, the scarring of his face, the kneeling of his father, the laughter of the nobles—
This was the moment his last chains were loosened.
Fornos slowly straightened. He did not touch the wound. He let it bleed.
He wanted them to see it.
Wanted them to remember.
Ornes turned away, dismissing him.
The gathering continued. The nobles resumed their conversations, the spectacle already forgotten to them.
But Fornos did not forget.
He never would.