The morning sun cast a golden glow over the Imperial Capital, Velcia, its light glinting off spires of silver and gold. The streets were already alive with merchants calling out their wares, nobles in carriages of enchanted wood, and adventurers swaggering through the marketplace, each draped in cloaks bearing the insignias of their respective guilds.


    Damien stepped out of the palace gates, his **black coat flowing** behind him as he took in the scene before him.


    Velcia. The beating heart of the Empire.


    The air was thick with magic and ambition, a city where power ruled, whether through coin, influence, or sheer strength. It had been a long time since he’d walked these streets, and though much had changed, much had stayed the same.


    And yet, as he moved through the bustling roads, it was as if the world itself parted for him.


    Guards stiffened as he passed. Merchants faltered mid-sentence. Even seasoned adventurers, men and women who had braved dungeons and monsters, found their eyes drawn to him.


    They did not recognize him. Not truly.


    Yet they knew, instinctively—he was different.


    Damien ignored it. He had business in the city, but more importantly, he had something far more pressing: breakfast.


    The Golden Ember Tavern was one of the more well-known establishments in the capital, a favorite of adventurers and mercenaries. It was large, loud, and always smelled like roasted meat and ale—a pleasant contrast to the cold formality of the palace.


    As Damien pushed open the doors, a wave of sound washed over him.


    Laughter, drunken boasting, the clinking of mugs. The scent of freshly baked bread and charred steak filled the air.


    Perfect.


    A few heads turned toward him, but most went back to their business. Unlike the nobles and soldiers, adventurers only cared about strength, and while Damien’s presence was unnerving, he wasn’t looking for a fight.


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    He found a quiet corner, sat down, and within moments, a waitress approached.


    She was young, with fox-like ears poking out from her auburn hair**, a beastkin of some kind. Her eyes flicked over him cautiously before she pulled out a notepad.


    "What’ll it be, mister?"


    "Steak. Medium rare. Bread. And coffee."


    She raised an eyebrow. "Expensive taste for someone dressed like a wandering swordsman."


    Damien smirked. "You assume I’m wandering."


    She rolled her eyes but scribbled down the order. "It’s your coin. Anything else?"


    He shook his head, and she disappeared into the kitchen.


    The tavern was a melting pot of information, one of the best places to learn about the state of the world.


    Damien leaned back in his chair, listening.


    "Did you hear? The Black Fang Mercenaries wiped out an entire bandit camp overnight."


    "That’s nothing! A dungeon gate opened in the south—third one this month! If the Empire doesn’t do something, we’ll be overrun!"


    "Pfft, politics is the real battlefield. You hear about Duke Renhardt? Guy’s been trying to marry his daughter to one of the Emperor’s nephews. A power move, if I’ve ever seen one."


    So, not much had changed.


    The Empire was still the same—strong, ambitious, and constantly playing its dangerous games.


    The only real difference? **Damien was here now.


    A loud commotion near the bar caught his attention.


    A group of adventurers had gathered around a stocky dwarf, their voices raised in excitement.


    "Go on, old man, tell the story again!"


    "Aye, aye, fine, you impatient louts," the dwarf grumbled, taking a deep swig of ale before slamming the mug down. "So there I was, knee-deep in goblin guts, right? And then—"


    He cut himself off as he caught sight of Damien watching from across the room.


    For a moment, there was silence.


    Then, the dwarf squinted.


    "…Do I know ye, lad?"


    Damien tilted his head. "Doubt it."


    The dwarf stared at him a moment longer, then let out a booming laugh. "Bah! Thought for a second ye looked familiar! Must be the lighting."


    The tension eased, and the adventurers returned to their drinking and laughing.


    Damien simply continued sipping his coffee.


    He had no intention of being recognized.


    Just as he was finishing his meal, the tavern doors swung open with a oud thud.


    A group of men strode in—city guards, their silver armor polished and gleaming. But these weren’t regular patrolmen. Their insignia marked them as personal enforcers of the Imperial Court.


    The tavern grew quiet.


    Everyone knew that when the Imperial Enforcers arrived, it was rarely for anything good.


    The leader, a stern-faced knight with a scar down his cheek, scanned the room before his eyes settled on Damien.


    "You," he said, voice sharp. "Lord Damien Stark. You are summoned to the palace."


    Murmurs broke out among the tavern patrons.


    Lord? Stark?


    Damien sighed, finishing the last sip of his coffee. "I was just there."


    The knight’s expression didn’t change. "His Majesty requires your presence. Immediately."


    Damien set his cup down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.


    "Is it about the wedding?"


    "No."


    Now that was interesting.


    Damien stood, adjusting his coat. The knight flinched—not from fear, but from instinct.


    Damien didn’t move like other men. He didn’t carry himself like a noble or a warrior. His presence was something else entirely.


    "Fine," he said lazily. "Lead the way."


    The knights quickly turned, and the tavern slowly returned to its usual atmosphere.


    Damien followed, but his mind was already elsewhere.


    The Emperor wouldn’t summon him twice in one day for no reason.


    Something was happening.


    Something important.


    And Damien Stark was about to find out exactly what.


    ---