...

  Alexander returned to the magic board after his brief conversation with Isabella, who still looked baffled. He didn't want to elaborate on the situation with Bartholomew and her Father, as he wouldn't know what the Silver-Tail Lord could do other than invite Pomerean for tea and discuss it. He adjusted the final piece into place with a swift ripple of his mana, the arcs of light shimmering in response to his subtle gesture. His lips curled into a slight, satisfied smirk.

  He turned to face the room, examining the attendance. 'Almost everyone here.' The last guests had settled into their seats, some on plush sofas, others perched at the edges of high-backed chairs, and others simply sat on the floor.

  While the room was cramped, he made sure to heighten their mood. They'd all enjoyed a lavish breakfast earlier—pastries filled with tart fruit compote, fluffy bread, smoked fish, and the kind of honeyed tea that made one's tongue tingle—relaxation tea, dosed higher than usual. He hoped the meal's comfort might balance the upcoming problems he expected.

  His siblings were here, excluding Janina and Lorient, as were the young nobles. From the Southern side, Matilda of the Cold-Snout House had arrived, excused from her studies, and three representatives of Nine-Fire—Yvonne and Clara—sat close together, whispering and giggling under their breath. Their subdued laughter was a welcome sound, a relaxing note amid the heavy planning. Though absent in person, Bartholomew had sent a letter wishing them all luck, not wanting to send any representative. It was a symbolic gesture, but it carried a hint of humor—an odd grace note that still brought a small smile to Alexander's face, especially as Nila, the soon-to-be fianceé, was probably in his name here.

  On the far side of the room, Makol stood stiffly, representing the Strip of Hope. He was still shamefaced over the fiasco with William and Klepto. After initial anger, Alexander let the matter slide; he'd posted a bounty of ten thousand large gold coins on each of their heads. That bounty, backed by Alexander's personal fortune, had sent ripples through the Underworld's shadowy corners, turning rogues and mercenaries into eager hunters. Good. It served as a reminder that betraying Alexander was not without consequences. Makol looked as if he wanted to sink into the floor whenever their eyes met, but Alexander made a point to acknowledge him with a slight nod. They had bigger worries now, and old grudges would only stand in the way.

  Then there was Lila, a fire-djinn who lingered near the group's rear. Alexander resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He had hoped to leverage her connections with the Eros Alliance, but lately, she seemed more an ornamental piece than a helpful agent. 'Lila, damn it.' He tried to remember when her presence had actively helped rather than just decorated the margins of his plans. Still, after Lavafist's declaration, he lost all power inside her clan, wholly relying on Alexander.

  The newcomers mostly talked between each other: The Heart-Fire triplets, Styx, Persephone, and Lethe, sitting all on one couch and enjoying the buffet, their tone quite jovial, betraying the actual reason for this gathering.

  Persephone was nibbling on some dish, "Oh, isn't that our recipe? Hm! How did he recreate the sauce well?"

  Styx took her spoon and tasted it, too. "Hm, it's spicier," he shrugged, taking another spoonful. "It's the South; what do you expect?"

  The Iron-Claw siblings, Freya and Bjoern, shoveled the colorful mush he had made specifically for the students into them. It was incredibly calorically dense and seemingly to their liking as they ate it while chatting—not the best manners one could display.

  However, Isabella, still in deep thought, sat down beside Zafiro, whose focus solely lay on the magical illusions on the magic board. The youth's eyes glowed every time a piece rearranged itself or a new line was drawn.

  'How fun,' Alexander mused as he looked to the far back, where all the personal guards were standing and enjoying some food themselves. But one thing caught his focus. 'Now, this is interesting,' his smile widened, but he decided to wait with it after the gathering.

  Alexander clapped once, the sound crisp and authoritative. Every conversation tapered off. Even Yvonne and Clara paused mid-whisper, and Zafiro turned, eyes widening with quiet anticipation.

  Alexander stepped forward, the soft slap of his linen slippers against the floor drawing immediate attention. His attire—light linen pants, casual slippers, and a v-cut shirt—made him look more like a relaxed traveler than a lord about to launch a multifaceted operation. That was intentional. Standing rigid in armor or lavish robes would put everyone too much on edge. Right now, they needed calm and clarity, not pomp and intimidation.

  "Now," he said, offering a faint, reassuring smile. "I trust you all slept well? Enjoyed the food?" He let a beat pass, scanning the room. He could taste their mixed emotions: some were anxious, some excited, and a few were suspicious. Good. A healthy mix. It meant no one was falling asleep on this job. "We're going to begin our initial planning session. I hope everyone has come somewhat prepared because this is where we set the course for the weeks ahead."

  The assembled crowd gave him a variety of reactions: some nodded politely, while others continued chewing, sipping, or adjusting their clothing with feigned nonchalance. Theoretically, they were here to grant him goodwill and assist with his first foray into military command. In practice, Alexander was painfully aware that not all believed in his leadership because of his age, but the spar against Freya would at least grant him some grace.

  With a snap of his fingers, the magic board responded, projecting a topographic outline of the island they aimed to invade. The island's shape glowed before them, divided into three distinct zones of influence. "This is a rough representation, which you'll also find in the pamphlets I provided," he said, opening his arms wide as if welcoming them to a grand stage. His tone carried a certain forced joviality—after all, he was putting on a performance. "As you can see, the island is split into three main parts." The glow of the board bathed everyone's faces in soft blues and greens.

  As the island's image shifted, he noted that Isabella still lingered near the back, arms folded, brow furrowed. The idealistic streak in her made him cautious: she'd balk at overly brutal tactics, and he needed to maintain her trust. He tried not to dwell on it too much, focusing instead on presenting the situation at hand.

  "My guess," Alexander continued, "is that the Eros Alliance will try to keep control of more than their fair share. But these divisions are here to show the complexity of the upcoming operation—"

  Freya of the Iron-Claw household interrupted, leaning back casually on a velvety couch, a plate heaped with savory mush balanced on her knee. Her chestnut hair shimmered as she shrugged. "Complexity? Hah. Why not just crush 'em and be done?"

  Alexander sighed, letting his shoulders rise and fall slowly. He tried not to sound condescending—Freya was formidable in her own right. "I wish it were that easy," he said, and with a wave, the display shifted to dense jungle imagery—depicted as vectors. Vines and towering foliage wove together, concealing countless threats. "The enemy has entrenched themselves. It's not open terrain, and any charge forward would likely devolve into chaos and unnecessary deaths."

  Narsiz, seated opposite Alexander, leaned in. He carried himself with a refined grace contrasting with Alexander's more direct manner. "We have reports that their traps are well-positioned. They've taken out scouts and prepared fortifications in key choke points. Charging headlong would be costly."

  Zafiro, the Count's son, lounged beside Narsiz, popping a last piece of food into his mouth before speaking. He offered Alexander a crooked smile. "So, no glorious head-on charge. I suppose subtlety and strategy are on the menu," he stopped himself, chuckling in embarrassment while turning to Alexander. "Is what you wanted to say too, right, Alexander?"

  Alexander returned the smile with a calm nod, though he felt tension in his chest. He reached into his spatial pouch and retrieved a small metal case. "It's fine," he said, taking out the metal case. "Right now, this is not a strategy sitting in a formal sense," he popped a black candy into his mouth, biting it. "This is a simple introduction and first accommodations of roles."

  Zafiro chuckled. "Hm," his smile widened. "How overwhelmingly relaxed."

  "I guess," Alexander continued with a shrug, deciding to stop the explanation and let them present first. "Everything else you will find in the pamphlet, and I hope it's clear that I don't want anyone else to see it."

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He surveyed the room: Sarah, Freya, and a few others used the pamphlets as makeshift coasters, setting their drinks or plates atop them. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 'Ten small gold coins, at least,' he lamented internally. But these were minor slights he could tolerate. He was here to observe who naturally gravitated toward command and who seemed content to provide logistic support. This gathering reminded him of past experiences in the military—everyone posturing, trying to stake out a position of influence or prove their value.

  With a subtle gesture, Alexander stepped aside, allowing Narsiz to present next. His brother tapped a small feather against a strange calculator-like device, causing numbers to flicker across the magical display.

  Narsiz bowed his head slightly, voice carrying a smooth, almost musical lilt. "I am Narsiz K. Leonandra, Alexander's older brother. My focus will be on intelligence and strategy. None of us are seasoned in large-scale invasions, so I welcome your insights. We each bring something unique to the table."

  Alexander watched how the guests responded to Narsiz. His brother's humility—likely calculated—was working. Narsiz had a gift for making others feel included while subtly guiding them to his preferred outcome. Alexander took another piece of candy to keep himself busy. He knew Narsiz well enough to see the manipulation at work: a careful performance to prevent anyone else from seizing authority too boldly.

  "As for what the Leonandra household contributes," Narsiz continued, "we have a respectable war chest—though not immense. We're talking 1,000 average gold coins designated to hire reliable sellswords and a potentially far larger emergency fund. We can't field a massive standing army but can provide equipment, logistics, and mercenary support. Weapons, armor, provisions—you name it, we'll secure it. I'll let the exact figures speak for themselves."

  Some listeners perked up at that. Budgetary details were less romantic than heroic speeches, but gold often mattered more in war than bravado. Alexander reflected on their emergency arsenal: potent explosives and devices that could level entire blocks. Narsiz wisely left those out for now. Alexander knew that, in a worst-case scenario, they could 'nuke' the island—though doing so would cost him dearly in reputation, especially with Isabella's more humanitarian stance.

  Narsiz gestured grandly. "Of course, logistics are just one piece. Let's consider our close allies." He stepped aside, smiling broadly at Makol, who approached the front of the gathering.

  Makol, a night-elf representative of the newly formed Strip of Hope, stood tall and somewhat stiff, unsure how to stand under so many eyes—especially not of his own kin. Darkish-blue skin with a tinge of purple, three pupils as roundish triangles wandering in his eyes, long ears, and a relatively large, lanky body. He lacked the ethereal grace of elves in fairy tales from Earth, but there was a proud earnestness about him.

  "My name is Makol," he began, his voice steady, if a bit formal. "I represent the Strip of Hope. We're providing 3,000 fighters and 10,000 supporters. Many have recently trained, improving under Alexander the Saint—" he paused when Zafiro let out a mocking snicker.

  "I deeply apologize, dear Makol from the Strip of Hope. Please, continue," Zafiro said, raising his hands with theatrical innocence as his tail waggled joyfully. "Alexander the Saint, as some call him."

  Alexander shot Zafiro a sharp look, and the Count's son responded with a playful wink. The tension thickened. 'That's strike two,' Alexander's jaw clenched—minor interruptions and mocking would undermine him and could later lead to problems.

  Makol didn't understand and immediately played into Zafiro's play—whatever it meant to be. He cleared his throat, wanting to make them understand why they named Alexander that way. "Our people owe a debt of gratitude to Alexander's support. We've improved living conditions and gained a foothold in this region. Our volunteers seek to repay that kindness."

  Zafiro leaned forward, a predatory smile tugging at his lips, as he looked at Alexander. "So, you're telling me these poor and humble refugees are marching off to war out of... gratitude? Sounds more like they're convenient meatshields. Wouldn't they prefer to stay alive, far from the front lines?"

  The temperature in the room seemed to drop as Alexander and Zafiro locked eyes, 'Strike three—I will skin this little bastard.' Yet, Makol's voice broke through, somewhat exasperated, "We volunteer willingly and want to ally ourselves with Alexander!"

  Zafiro turned to Makol, his smile never fading, but his voice suddenly had an edge. "I see," he looked at Isabella, who was in deep thought. "Don't we think the Saint presses our dear refugees into this battle? Subtle but definitely there."

  Isabella, who had remained quiet, now looked troubled. She toyed with the ribbon on her gloves, her posture tense. "Is it truly their choice?" she asked softly, her eyes turning to Alexander. "I am no stranger to politics. Sometimes, people are coerced without realizing it."

  Makol's gaze flicked to Alexander, who met his eyes in warning. The truths behind their arrangement were complicated, and some couldn't be exposed without jeopardizing everything. Makol chose his words carefully, basically repeating himself. "We are here of our own accord. No one holds a blade to our throats."

  An intense atmosphere filled the room as the trio stared at each other, only to be interrupted by the metallic clicking sound of Alexander's metallic box. Everyone became confused when he casually threw a piece of candy in his mouth.

  After a strong bite, Alexander exhaled a pungent poisonous mist. "Zafi isn't wrong, though," all attention was focused on him as he continued. "Everything has a price and consequences—" he leaned slightly back, addressing the room—freedom, honor, pride, love, justice, all the things people write poems about were carved out with blood and steel."

  Zafiro turned to Makol, his smile getting a sinister edge, "Do you hear this, representative of the Strip of Hope? Your Saint is saying that you need to die for the land you... occupy."

  As if on command, Bjoern slammed the wooden cup filled with wine on the table, making every flinch turn to him. "What's wrong 'bout that, lil' pup?" he smirked at Zafiro. "It's an honor to die fer yer kin! Just sit still and listen while folks willin' to die fer a cause tell ya what they want!"

  Zafiro became irritated, but unfortunately for him, they found another ally—Persephone of the Heart-Fire household. "Stop it, Zafi," her reddish eyes bore into him. "This is not one of your little debate games; we are talking about real lives."

  Isabella turned to her, stoicism invading her mood. "Don't play dumb," their eyes locked, the air becoming thicker. "We are not talking about whether laying down your life is honorable or makes sense, but if—" she turned to Alexander, narrowing her eyes, "—all your people are forced like slaves into this stupid war."

  Alexander crushed the metal case in his hand; the killing intent mixed in with the poisonous candy flowed freely. "What did you say, you little shit?"

  Isabella leaned forward, a slight smirk on her lips. "Oh? Was this the truth, my dear Commander?" She quickly ignored him, turning to Makol, who became more nervous, "Wouldn't you rather stay away from this bloodbath?"

  Makol shook his head. "And be seen as ungrateful toward the only person who—" he sighed, remembering that he couldn't disclose the whole truth. "—supported us, and as I said, we wish for closer relationships, thus giving our support to be accepted in the region we occupy."

  It was a nonsensical repetition, like a puppet controlled and tugged at the string; he couldn't say the truth. There was a tense silence, and as Zafiro wanted to continue, Alexander interrupted him. "Just shut the fuck up," they locked eyes, the atmosphere intensifying. "They got betrayed by the Pure-Steam Clan or whatever and sought revenge by taking the territory, remember? So, why poking around?"

  Zafiro's smile cracked. "How rude," though his tone was still playfully sinister. "Too many inconsistencies that everyone simply ignores because someone is seen as too talented and protected."

  Alexander let the metal case fall, the resude burning into the floor, his smile widening in mock. "Oh?" He leaned forward, his tail waggling happily, "Isn't the great Count's son jealous? Wish to have the brilliance I have?" his eyes narrowed, "You will never have, though."

  The tension escalated as Zafiro slowly stood up, straightening his hair and ear fur while his tail flinched. After tugging on his attire, he stepped forward, "Do you really want to be embarrassed, Alex?"

  Before Alexander was about to rip his head off, the door opened, everyone's tension refocusing on who entered. A sudden gust of air announced the arrival of Green, a small woman with greenish skin and shimmering autumn-patterned wings—a fairy. She hovered into the room with an unapologetic grin. "Sorry, I'm late. Too many wounded to tend outside," she said breezily.

  Zafiro's face sparkled with mischief, "Oh, isn't that Green from the—"

  She interrupted him immediately. "Yeah, hi," she said with a small wingbeat as she headed straight to the buffet. "Continue as I was never here... where is the stuff without meat? I hope you got something yummy!"

  Zafiro's smile cracked. "We were talking about the poor residents of the Strip of Hope, and I would like to know your opinion about them and their marching into war and dying."

  Green glanced at him over her shoulder, unimpressed. "We support Alexander's decision," she said simply, plucking grapes from a platter. "We always have."

  Zafiro tried to push further, his smile slightly cracking. "And what do the other Temple Branches say?"

  Green's laugh was a light tinkling sound. "We don't much care what they say. The Twin-Acorn Branch never cares about other opinions and trusts Alexander," she said while settling into a chair, sipping her wine, clearly uninterested in a verbal duel. However, her last sentence changed Zafiro's attitude. "The Oracle supports him fully, even granting him a blessing, and that's enough for me."

  There was an eerie silence throughout the room. The air around Zafiro changed as he narrowed his eyes at her, not moving at all. It even became interesting for Alexander as he watched what would now happen.

  Fortunately, it was interrupted by Makol. "May—" Alexander cut him off, needing to continue. "Yeah, sit down. Next, we have the Cold-Snout Household representation."

  Matilda strode forward, even bowing down with a bright smile to Zafiro as he sat down again. She wore her school uniform as though it were ceremonial armor. "Hi all, Matilda here! The Cold-Snout Household is fully behind Alexander, and Emma sends her regrets for not attending. She won't be able to write for months—circumstances, you know." She shrugged as if Emma's silence was just another trivial oddity.

  Alexander raised a brow. "Circumstances?" He didn't press further, but he made a mental note. Questions about Emma would have to wait. There were too many eyes and ears in this room.

  Before Matilda started, she winked at Alexander, making his ears reel back as if something ominous was about to befall him. "Stuff women have to go through, you know? Circumstances!"