The afternoon sun loomed overhead, casting gentle warmth over Casimir. The Galitzine Grand Duchy was nestled near the forbidden region of Frigoria, the land of eternal still, causing it to sustain a rather frigid climate than most regions.

  Casimir stepped into his assigned driftveil, stationed just beyond the west wing. The moment he stepped inside, warmth flooded his body—a testament to the in-built heating system standard to the driftveils of this calibre.

  The Galitzine Grand Duchy was home to the highest number of pyro-aether affinity bearers, a fact that positioned it as a major contributor to the invention of the driftveil. Many pyro-aether engineers involved in its development were bestowed high-ranking positions within the main castle. His Grace’s own aide, Julian Steward, is a Magister Technis specializing in pyro-aether manipulation.

  Casimir drew the curtains the moment the footman shut the driftveil’s door. Then, as if on cue, a sharp stench of sulfur seeped into the cabin, signalling the appearance of a blurry Misham.

  Misham’s hazy eyes looked around, his blurry face full of awe. “For living in such an old era, you people are quite advanced.”

  A slight frown made its way onto Casimir’s face, ‘Old era…?’

  Without giving Casimir a chance to inquire, Misham continued. “Hey, how does this carriage work?” his gaze landing on the heating vent. “It seems very different from the Victorian-style carriages I’ve read about.”

  Casimir blinked, “You wish to know how it works?”

  “Why, am I not allowed to ask?”

  “My apologies, that isn’t quite what I meant.” he said quickly. “The driftveil is a type of carriage that operates without wheels or horses. Its underside is flat and coated with a thick layer of Vectolyte.”

  Misham raised an eyebrow. “Vectolyte?”

  “Vectolyte is a type of metal with a naturally high magnetizing capacity. Specific roadbeds made from the same metal are laid out exclusively for driftveils,” Casimir explained.

  Casimir paused. For a moment, he saw Misham’s ever-blurred face light up, his lips curling into a genuine, bright smile—not the usual taunting and cheeky smirk.

  “Fascinating.” Misham leaned forward , curiosity coloring his unfocused eyes, “Is the Vectolyte on both layers charged with the same polarity? How did they manage that?”

  Casimir regained his composure. ‘I wouldn’t have taken him for the studious type, how surprising,’ he thought, before responding to Misham. “That is correct—the repulsion from the same polarity causes it to float off the ground. Magnetarchs, researchers who excel in controlling magneto-aether, played a very large part in the creation of the driftveil.”

  “Magneto-aether, huh? I’m guessing it’s like some kind of superpower,” Misham remarked, a sneer replacing his previously radiant smile. “How convenient.”

  ‘Convenient? What is that supposed to mean?’ Casimir thought, feeling irked by Misham’s bitter tone.

  The rest of the journey passed in an uneasy silence, only the gentle hum of the heating unit remained.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Misham swirled out of sight just as the footman opened the door, “Young Master Casimir, we have arrived.”

  Casimir simply nodded and stepped out, a faint scent of sulfur still lingering around him.

  A total of nine nobles were on the list given to him by The Grand Duke, the first being Duke Reinboldt. The Duchy of Reinboldt lay in the far south of the continent—completely opposite to The Galitzine Grand Duchy, which resided in the north. The forbidden region of Cindros, the land of everlasting heat, bordered The Reinboldt Duchy, resulting in a perpetually scorching climate in those parts.

  Keeping this information and Duke Anton’s preferences in mind, he entered a renowned artificer's store, Millard trailing quietly behind.

  Duke Anton was an avid collector of rare coins and other forms of extinct currency; this artifact shop, Elarune, had long been on Casimir’s personal radar. Though, this was his first time visiting in person.

  The person at the front desk, a woman in her early twenties, bowed respectfully as she recognized him.

  “Young Master Casimir,” her voice courteous and poised. “What may I procure for you today?”

  “A cooling artifact,” Casimir said, “With an essence of the north—specifically in the form of a coin. Something antique. And rare.”

  The woman thought for a while before responding, “Young Master, we do carry cooling artifacts but none fashioned in the form of a coin.” She hesitated briefly, then added, “However, we can have one custom made to your specifications.”

  “Certainly,” he nodded. “How soon will it be ready?”

  “You shall be able to collect it in two hours.”

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  “Perfect,” Casimir said, then gestured towards Millard. “He will be coming to retrieve it.”

  “Understood.” The woman replied before adding, “What else would you like to see, Young Master?”

  The next on the list was Count Metaxas, a renowned music enthusiast. Not only had he opened the famous concert hall, The Virelleum, which introduced Aion’s first ever Resonarch—he was also a pioneer in the world of music, both magical and mundane, across all of Aion.

  “Miss Vesa,” Casimir replied, glancing at the woman’s name tag. “I would like a custom-made music stand, preferably high quality cherrywood.”

  Vesa jotted down the request on a small notepad. “And what mystical enhancements would you prefer, Young Master?”

  “An aether-infused stand that reflects notes in the air.” He paused before adding, “Have the reflections alert the user when a mistake is made.”

  “Understood, Young Master,” Vesa set down the quill in her hand. “The item will be ready for collection alongside the cooling device.”

  “Relay the bill to my butler,” Casimir said as he turned away. “That will be all.”

  Vesa bowed as Casimir stepped out, “Please come again.”

  Casimir recalled the list and mentally crossed out Duke Reinboldt and Count Metaxas, ‘Seven left.’ He watched the market for a while before making his way towards the next store.

  The sky was beginning to darken as the clock tower struck six, Casimir was nearly done with the list. He glanced at Millard and gave an order. “Millard, go to Elarune.”

  Millard bowed in silent confirmation and departed.

  Left alone, Casimir sat on a bench and watched the city. Vandemar was the largest commercial city in the Grand Duchy of Galitzine. The current head had raised it from the ground himself, a feat Casimir found very respectable.

  His eyes grew distant as his hands fidgeted, his nails scraping at the skin on his fingers in uneasy repetition.

  Drip.

  A small cut appeared, and blood pooled on his fingertip. His thumbnail moved to another finger, continuing the mindless action.

  The haze in his eyes finally lifted as something scruffy crashed onto his lap. Casimir flinched, then instinctively lifted the unknown assailant—only to find a pair of glistening, woody eyes staring at him.

  It was a child. On the verge of tears, at that.

  Misham whistled. “Oh, you got chosen by the child distribution system.”

  Whatever that meant. Casimir sighed, ‘when did he even appear?’

  A man’s voice rang out a moment later, “You thief!” he shouted between gasps. “Quit running—I swear, when I catch you..!”

  All color drained from the man’s face the moment he saw Casimir. He quickly lowered his gaze and cried out, “Greetings to the Young Master!”

  Casimir gave a small wave, gesturing for the man to stand straight. “What is going on here?”

  The man instinctively raised his head at the order, only to meet Casimir’s eyes. Struck with sudden fear, he lowered his gaze again.

  Misham watched the exchange with amusement. “Why is this guy looking at you like you killed his entire family in front of him?”

  Casimir remained silent.

  The man’s eyes shifted to the child beside him, and suddenly, he yelled, “Ah! T-that thief!” He quickly explained, “Young Master, this child stole from my store!”

  Struck by the accusation, the child raised its head, and retorted, “I did not!”

  The man’s pale face was slowly starting to stain red, “You, you! Get away from the Young Master, you’re spoiling his clothes!”

  Even if Casimir was a hated member of society, the fact he was the son of a Grand Duke remained unchanged. No matter how much anyone disliked him, if they were beneath him in social standing, they had no choice but to treat him with respect.

  Casimir was indeed annoyed that his clothes had gotten dirty—but he couldn’t very well have an outburst now, could he?

  “It’s quite fine. Explain the situation to me.”

  The man kept his eyes lowered, “This kid is an outlier, My Lord!”

  Misham swirled in the air behind Casimir, “Oooh, an outlier?”

  “And?”

  Outliers were, in truth, fairly common—contrary to popular belief. Any person in the possession of a functional artifact from the past, no matter strong or weak, could be classified as one.

  “She can walk through walls,” the man glared at the child. “I saw her coming out the back of my store, through the wall.”

  Unexpectedly, Misham appeared next to the child. “Hey, take in this kid,” he urged.

  A faint frown appeared on Casimir’s face. ‘What?’

  “Just do as I say,” Misham added. “It’ll be good for you.”

  Casimir sighed and asked the man, “What did she steal?”

  “Young Master, I don’t know what she stole. But,” the man huffed, “this runt definitely took something!”

  “What?” Casimir was at a loss. “So, you have no actual evidence?”

  “But, My Lord!” the man argued. “Why else would a stray like her come out of my store?”

  Casimir turned and met the child’s eyes, “Well?”

  “All I did was hide from some kids who were chasing me!” The child cried, furrowing her brows, “I swear, I didn’t take anything!”

  Casimir thought for a moment, and asked the man, “What do you sell?”

  “Huh—ah, yes!” He blurted out, flustered by the unexpected question. “I sell baked goods, My Lord!”

  Casimir took out a handful of coins and handed them to the man, “This much should be enough to let the child go, right?”

  Both the man, and the child spoke at the same time, “Huh?”

  “Take these and let the child go.” Casimir repeated, his voice firm.

  The man glanced between the child and Casimir, clearly torn. After a moment, he reluctantly took the coins, “Thank you, My Lord!” he said, bowing his head.

  “You can go now,” Casimir instructed the man, his tone dismissive.

  “Yes, Young Master.” The man bowed once more and hurried off.

  An awkward silence hung between Casimir and the child. He sighed, breaking the stillness. “What’s your name?”

  “Uh, I don’t have a name,” taken aback, the child replied hesitantly. “The people on the streets just call me whatever they like.”

  “Oh, I see.” The awkwardness lingered, thick in the air.

  “Wow,’ Misham commented. “You’re terrible at this.”

  Casimir stared into the horizon, ‘What am I even doing…?’