Margret spotted the elf the moment she rounded the corner. She recognized the type: stiff-backed, silver-sashed, standing like someone trying very hard not to wrinkle their robe. He was holding something. For more chapters visit Novᴇl_Fire(.)net
Her boots made barely a sound as she approached, but his ears twitched anyway. He turned before she reached him, bowing just low enough to be respectful without seeming servile.
"Flyer 652?" he asked, though he clearly already knew.
She folded her arms. "Yes?"
He extended a letter. Thick parchment. Wax seal. Gold thread woven along the edge. Definitely not the kind of thing given to someone still addressed by a number.
"You are expected," the elf said. "Immediately."
Margret took the letter without breaking eye contact. He didn't meet her gaze. His eyes were already drifting toward the hallway behind her, as if worried someone might see them speaking.
When she broke the seal, a faint scent of crushed mint leaves rose from the page. The writing was elegant and handwritten, signed with a name she didn't recognize. The place, however, stood out: Heartbloom Villa. She knew it. Everyone did.
The elf blinked, startled, then shook his head. "The Lady gave no name. Only the request."
Margret stared down at the letter. Her thumb tapped the edge once, twice, then stopped.
As she turned to leave, she heard the elf exhale quietly, like someone releasing a breath they hadn't realized they were holding. When she glanced back, he was already walking away quickly and with purpose, as if afraid she might call him back.
Even if she wanted to protest, she couldn't.
The summons was real. The weight of the paper in her hand confirmed it. Someone high up, very high up, had just asked for her by name.
That was never good news.
Margret launched into the air, arms tucked tight, the wind tugging at her uniform like impatient fingers. Her wings of compressed air hummed around her, subtle and controlled, barely stirring the leaves as she banked left, away from the usual patrol routes.
The farther she flew, the more the branches changed. Narrow walkways gave way to broad promenades. Railings sculpted from living bark were now lined with polished stone. Lanterns pulsed with soft light, not flame, but woven magic. Trees here didn't just grow; they obeyed.
Below, she passed a spiraling tower with a roof that shifted with the sun. A guard leaned against its arch, dressed in embroidered leathers rather than armor. He was reading.
In her own district, guards barked orders. Here, they read books.
Margret adjusted her angle and flew a little lower. The air tasted different, thinner and cleaner. The wind no longer clawed at her; it whispered.
She passed a cluster of homes that hadn't been built, but bloomed. Walls of translucent petals, doors that folded like leaves. A child looked up from a garden where butterflies fed on glowing fruit. The child's smile faded when she saw Margret. Then she turned and walked inside.
No one here waved. No one stared. They just stepped aside, quietly, gracefully, as if pretending she wasn't there at all.
That was worse than insults.
Heartbloom Villa came into view. Perched close to the trunk, its balconies curled like the petals of a flower that had never wilted. White and silver wood, laced with glowing blue veins. It looked alive. No. It was alive. The building moved with the rhythm of Yggdrasil itself.
Margret hovered, circling once before touching down on the landing platform. No guards. No challenge. No demands to identify herself or state her purpos. Just a set of twin doors, already open.
Margret stepped across the threshold.
Her boots met polished wood that felt warm and welcoming. The floor had a faint give, as if something still living rested beneath her feet, like walking on a tree that hadn't quite forgotten what it was.
A steward stood just inside the entrance. He wasn't a guard. No armor, no weapons. Just layered robes and gloves so pristine they probably had their own rotation schedule. He bowed low. Not mockingly, not exaggerated, but as if it were simply routine.
The title landed heavier than she expected. She almost missed her next step.
He turned before she could answer, and she followed, too stunned to think of a reason not to.
The halls were quiet. Not empty, just quiet.
Servants passed by without a word, their steps soft, their movements practiced and unhurried. No one stared. No one whispered. One paused just long enough to offer her a tray of candied root slices and a napkin stitched with gold thread.
Margret shook her head. She would have liked to try one, but her stomach was too tight to eat. The servant gave no reaction, simply bowed and vanished behind a woven curtain.
Her gaze wandered. This was the first time she had ever seen one of these places from the inside, and it might very well be her last. People didn't get invited here, her, least of all. There were no paintings on the walls. No portraits. No proud ancestors or grand battles. Only nature. A branch heavy with dew. A leaf caught mid-fall. A single feather drifting through mist.
Every inch of this place spoke of someone who didn't need to impress, but did anyway.
"Your hostess is waiting," the steward said as they reached a wide door made of living wood, pulsing softly with ambient light. It opened without being touched, unfolding like a blooming flower.
The steward stepped aside. "She is within."
Not because she was afraid, but because this felt far above her station. She had no authority to negotiate anything here. Truth be told, she didn't have any authority at all.
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Originally, she'd been sent to gain experience, not to strike trade agreements. Zeke probably would honor any deal she arranged, but he had never said that outright.
None of this felt right.
Still, someone had summoned her. And she had come too far to turn back now.
She took a steadying breath, then stepped inside.
The room beyond was quiet, wide, and filled with sunlight. One wall stood completely open to the canopy outside, framed by vines that swayed slightly, even though the air was still. A low table sat at the center, surrounded by floor cushions instead of chairs.
Margret spotted the elf sitting at the far end, one leg folded beneath her, the other propped just enough to rest an elbow. Her clothing was simple. There were no sigils, no trim, no ornaments. That didn't mean she looked plain; nothing about her did. She had the kind of stillness Margret had only seen in people who didn't need to prove anything.
Born into wealth and power, no doubt.
"Welcome," the elf said. Her voice was soft, steady, and measured like everything else in this place. "I appreciate you coming on such short notice."
Margret didn't respond. She stepped further inside, eyes scanning the room: corners, ceiling, balcony. No guards. No visible enchantments. That made her more uneasy, not less.
What was she playing at?
The elf gestured to a cushion across from her. "Please, sit. The tea is fresh."
Margret remained standing.
"I assume you're the one who requested me," she said, arms crossed.
"Then say what you need to say."
The elf studied her for a moment, expression unreadable. Then she gave a single nod.
"I was hoping we might talk," she said, "about a man named Ezekiel."
Margret's back straightened at the name. She didn't flinch, but the shift was there, too small for most to catch, but not for this elf.
The woman met Margret's eyes and smiled slightly, knowingly. "My name is Lyriel."
The name meant little on its own. Not without a family attached to it.
Margret didn't sit. Didn't speak. She didn't like anything about this situation. It felt like the woman before her knew everything about her, while she herself was completely in the dark.
"You're cautious. Good." Lyriel lifted her cup and took a sip. "I have a few things I'd like answered."
The silence stretched. Margret didn't break it. She was already at a disadvantage and saw no reason to widen the gap by giving away more than necessary.
Lyriel took her time with the tea, sipping slowly as if she had nowhere else to be. Eventually, she set the cup down and folded her hands.
"I've read about him, you know," she said, her tone light, almost casual. "A human boy born with three affinities. No remarkable lineage, aside from a severed tie to the Bloodletter family. His mentor, the disappearance, and the fact that he recently broke two major records before turning twenty."
She gestured toward a nearby stack of materials—books, drawings, letters, and reports piled together in what looked like a disorganized collection.
"…Impressive dedication," Margret said, her brow tightening.
Lyriel nodded with quiet seriousness. "I've read everything available. His relationships, accomplishments, connections. Every scrap I could find."
Margret said nothing.
That level of research wasn't done on a whim. Someone high up had taken notice. The only question was why.
Lyriel seemed unfazed by her silence. "You were sent here by him. That's clear. What isn't clear is why."
Margret kept her expression neutral. "What makes you think I know his motives?"
Lyriel smiled faintly, like someone indulging a child. "He sent his right-hand man to Korrovan to lead a rebellion. At the same time, he sends you here…"
Margret didn't move. "What exactly are you asking?"
Lyriel leaned in slightly, just enough to make the shift obvious. "What is Ezekiel von Hohenheim really after? Is he building alliances? Influence? Or something more permanent?"
Margret's jaw tightened. "You think I'd betray his trust for a cup of tea?"
Lyriel tilted her head. "I think you're in a difficult position. One that demands clarity."
Margret stepped closer to the table. "I'm not confused."
"No," Lyriel said softly. "But you are cornered."
Lyriel's tone didn't rise. She didn't press. She continued in the same calm, level voice. "Anyone who matters knows what Ezekiel of Tradespire is after. Trade contracts. And yet, you've been here for months and gained nothing. No contacts. No progress. No trust. My people won't help him, and you know it."
Margret's fingers curled tighter until her nails dug into her palms.
Lyriel went on, her tone neither cruel nor kind. "You're loyal. That's rare. But it won't matter if your loyalty leads to failure."
Margret looked away, just for a moment, toward the balcony, toward the distant clouds. Then back.
"He never asked me to succeed," she said. "He asked me to try."
Lyriel watched her quietly.
Then, for the first time, she nodded. Not out of mockery. Not with amusement.
"Good," she said. "Then maybe this isn't a waste of time after all."
Lyriel reached to her side and drew out a small case. It was flat, rectangular, bound in pale green leather with silver thread woven into the seams. She set it on the table between them.
Margret's eyes narrowed. The case didn't hum with power, didn't glow, and bore no sigils. It looked ordinary. But the way Lyriel handled it, with care and precision, said otherwise.
"I believe this will be of use to you," she said.
Lyriel opened the lid.
Inside were six scrolls, each tied with a different colored ribbon—blue, gold, red.
One bore a seal Margret recognized from her long hours in the Flyers Hall: the emblem of the High Council. Another was marked with the twisting runes reserved for high-level magical contracts.
She stepped closer. After everything they had just discussed, it was obvious what the scrolls were.
"These are official?" she asked quietly.
"They are binding," Lyriel replied. "Recognized across elven lands. They cover trade permissions, research access, and the provisional right to send diplomatic envoys."
Margret didn't ask how she had obtained them. It didn't matter. No one outside the upper ranks could produce something .
"What's the price?" she asked.
Lyriel rested a hand lightly on the case. She didn't pull it back. "There isn't one."
Margret's eyes snapped up. "You're giving this away?"
Lyriel held her gaze. "Call it an opportunity. Or a seed. What it becomes depends on what your lord does next."
Margret looked at the scrolls again. This was everything Zeke had asked for.
After months of closed doors and polite dismissals, it was all here, laid out in front of her like a gift.
She didn't reach for it. It was too tempting. Even a fool knew that if something looked too good to be true, it usually was.
Lyriel noticed. "You're afraid to owe me," she said.
"Favors tend to become the most expensive kind of debt."
"Then consider this an investment," Lyriel said, sitting back. "In someone worth watching."
Margret narrowed her eyes, arms crossed. That sounded like the most ominous thing she'd ever heard. It reeked of strings attached.
Not the quiet, dignified sigh elves often used to signal disapproval. This was the kind of sigh a dockworker might let out after being told he had to stay late again. It was tired and frustrated.
"Look," Lyriel said, her tone shifting to something more casual, "we're in a similar position, you and I."
Margret opened her mouth, but Lyriel raised a hand to stop her.
"Just listen," she said. "I was asked to show you goodwill, but since you seem too stubborn to accept a good thing, I'll speak plainly."
She pointed to the scrolls. "These? They're nothing." She picked up one and tossed it lightly onto the table. "The person I'm representing could issue a hundred of these without blinking."
She returned it to the case. "This," she said, tapping the box, "is what I decided to prepare for you after doing my research on what you need most."
She met Margret's eyes. "Accept it or don't. It won't change anything."
Margret still didn't move.
Not until Lyriel slid the case forward with a single finger.
Only then did she reach out and take it.
The case was heavier than it looked.
Margret held it with both hands, the smooth leather cool against her palms. No enchantments activated, no traps triggered. Just silence.
Lyriel stood as she turned to leave.
"One thing," the elf said.
Margret paused at the threshold but didn't turn around.
"Eyes are on him now. Some curious. Some... less so."
Lyriel's voice was calm, even thoughtful. "Tell your lord that power draws attention. It's a law as old as the roots of this tree."
Still facing forward, Margret gave the smallest nod she could without turning back. Then she stepped through the open doors.
The halls were as quiet as before. The steward bowed again, saying nothing. No one followed her. No one blocked her path.
Outside, the wind greeted her like an old friend. She launched from the platform in silence, the air catching her with ease. The case was pressed firmly against her chest, locked between her arms and ribs.
She didn't look back.
As the layers of the city slipped away beneath her—garden balconies, crystal-lit bridges, rising walkways—her thoughts circled.
She had done it. She had what he needed. The contracts were secured. The path was open. She should have felt victorious.
Instead, she felt like a pawn that had just been promoted to bishop.
Still part of the game.
And now, the real match had begun.