Chapter 263: Conversations in the Mist

Zafira leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the cold silver railing. The mist beneath the bridge drifted like slow-moving clouds, swallowing the lower edges of the floating island. For a moment, the tension of the Council chamber felt miles away.

"Honestly," she said, blowing a strand of hair from her face, "I only came out to take a walk. And probably to look for you, since—knowing you—you wouldn’t be with your family. Same as the last Council. You vanished the first moment you had the chance."

Trafalgar rolled his eyes lightly. "You say that like it’s some kind of recurring habit."

Zafira gave a sideways smirk. "Maybe."

The wind carried the faint hum of mana from the palace behind them, the whole floating island saturated with the uneasy pulse of political tension. But up here, on this quiet bridge between sky gardens and marble plazas, the world felt momentarily distant—distant enough to breathe.

Trafalgar let his gaze wander across the horizon. Gardens suspended on circular platforms glowed with soft blue mana, vines cascading down into the mist. A few servants walked briskly along the paths below, their faces tight with worry. The nobles waiting in the outer halls looked just as anxious, some pacing, some whispering, others staring toward the sealed Council chamber as if trying to hear anything through sheer will.

Zafira followed Trafalgar’s sightline. "Everyone’s on edge," she said. "The whole island feels... ready to snap."

Trafalgar shrugged. "Doesn’t change anything for us. They’re the ones making the decisions. We’re just here for decoration."

Zafira snorted softly. "Decorations with names, titles, and way too much baggage."

He cracked a faint smirk. "I left my baggage back at the castle."

"You are the baggage, Trafalgar."

He exhaled through his nose in amusement. "Rude."

For a quiet moment, they simply watched the world below—the endless sky, the drifting clouds, the faint sparkle of lights connecting floating platforms like stars pinned between heavens.

Zafira’s voice softened. "A lot’s going to change after today. You feel it too, right?"

Trafalgar shrugged, but his eyes remained fixed ahead.

"I don’t care about politics," he said. "Or ancient grudges. Or which family wants to tear down the other."

His tone flattened into something colder—an edge sharpened by eight months of survival.

"All I care about," he murmured, "is staying alive."

Zafira didn’t laugh this time. She only nodded, quiet and understanding, as the wind swept past them like a distant warning.

"Then," she said softly, "let’s hope this Council doesn’t make that any harder."

Zafira shifted her weight against the railing, the soft glow of the mana lanterns painting faint violet light across her hair. Trafalgar glanced at her from the corner of his eye, then looked back toward the garden path where the vampire girl had vanished.

’Alright,’ he thought, rubbing the back of his neck. ’Let’s get some intel. This world already throws enough surprises at me—I don’t need a vampire wildcard added to the pile.’

He cleared his throat. "So... what’s the deal with her? The Nocthar girl."

Zafira blinked once. Then her lips curved in a knowing half-smile.

"I was waiting for you to ask."

Trafalgar rolled his eyes. ’I knew she’d say something like that.’

Zafira pushed off the railing and stepped beside him, hands clasped behind her back as she started walking slowly along the bridge. Trafalgar followed, boots echoing on the marble tiles.

"Her name’s Selendra au Nocthar," Zafira began. "She’s twenty. Seventh daughter out of ten."

Trafalgar frowned. "Ten?"

Zafira nodded. "Vampire nobility likes... large families. Makes political leverage easier."

Trafalgar clicked his tongue.

’Ten heirs... Christ.’ His thoughts churned as he walked beside Zafira, the cool mana breeze brushing against his face. ’And if she’s the seventh daughter, that should put her somewhere... but why the hell doesn’t she ring any bells?’

He frowned inwardly, forcing his expression to stay neutral.

’From what little information I had about legendary figures, she wasn’t one of them. And the old Trafalgar doesn’t have any memories of her either... So who the hell is she supposed to be? A new variable? A minor piece who suddenly wants to talk to me?’

Zafira noticed him thinking but didn’t pry.

"She’s twenty," she continued, "young, but old enough to stand as a proper member of Nocthar."

Trafalgar nodded once and rolled a shoulder.

"And their head didn’t look too bothered," he said casually. "Didn’t see him losing sleep over any of them."

Zafira let out a soft laugh. "The head of Nocthar rarely looks bothered by anything."

"Valttair’s not exactly a shining example of fatherhood either," Trafalgar replied, eyeing the path ahead. "Nine heirs and he barely keeps track. He just sent us to run errands here and there."

Zafira snorted. "Also true."

They passed under a floating archway, violet mana lanterns humming softly like suspended stars. Servants whispered in distant corridors, tension slowly spreading across the island as the Council’s decision loomed closer.

Trafalgar leaned on the railing, eyes on the sea of fog below.

’Selendra... twenty years old... seventh daughter... nothing remarkable, nothing legendary. So why approach me? Why look like she already knew me?’

A faint click of his tongue.

’Caution, Trafalgar. You’re not the protagonist of this world—you’re just trying to not die in it.’

Zafira nudged him lightly. "You okay?"

"Thinking," he said simply.

"Good," she replied. "Thinking is the one thing that keeps people like us alive."

He huffed a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh.

’Yeah. Thinking and surviving is all I do since I’m in this world.

They kept walking, the fog thickening around them, two heirs suspended on a floating island while their parents decided the fate of millions behind sealed doors.

Zafira spoke again, softer now. "Sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever actually have control over anything."

Before she could say something more, a voice boomed from ahead:

"Well, look who it is!"

Trafalgar stopped.

A short, broad silhouette stepped out from a corner, braided beard, and the unmistakable heavy boots of a dwarf who feared neither sky nor death.

Borin au Dvergar.

The dwarf grinned broadly, hands on hips. "I fucking knew we’d meet again, boy! Told you last time in Velkaris, didn’t I?"

Zafira blinked, startled. "You two know each other?"

Trafalgar’s mouth twitched.

"...Yeah. We crossed paths in Velkaris by coincidence. I asked him for directions, that’s all."

Zafira blinked, still surprised. "That’s it? You two act like old acquaintances."

Borin burst into laughter. "Ha! Fate brings good men together, lass!"

Trafalgar sighed internally. ’Sure. Fate. I’ve loved that word ever since I came into this world...’

Tall, slender, dressed in flowing robes of deep sea-blue and pale turquoise that shifted like waves with each movement. His long navy hair, streaked with lighter cyan strands, framed a face too calm to be trustworthy. His eyes—green with a faint ripple of teal—studied Trafalgar with cool amusement.

Lyren di Myrrhvale.

He gave a polite, almost elegant nod.

"Trafalgar," he said, voice smooth as still water. "How is your slave adjusting?"

Zafira stiffened beside Trafalgar.

Trafalgar kept his expression steady, neutral. ’Right... straight to the point.’

"She’s learning to work properly," he lied with practiced ease. "No issues."

In reality, she was safe in Cynthia and Barth’s orphanage—far away from chains and Myrrhvale hands.

Lyren’s smile widened a fraction."Good. She wasn’t a easy one. I’m pleased she’s serving you well."

’Serving me? Yeah. Sure. Fucking prick.’

Borin clapped his hands once, loud and heavy—like a hammer smashing tension to pieces.

"Enough talk of slaves and duties! We’re on a damn sky island, not in a negotiation hall." He chuckled and turned toward Zafira with exaggerated flourish. "Lady Zafira, a pleasure as always."

He took her hand and kissed it with an over-the-top bow.

Zafira laughed softly, half-amused, half-embarrassed. "You’re still dramatic, Borin."

"Of course! The world is too grim without a bit of flair," the dwarf declared.

Lyren watched the exchange quietly—eyes sharp, calculating—like a man who was always evaluating the usefulness of everyone he met.

Trafalgar caught the look.

’Yeah. Definitely the type who smiles with one hand while hiding a knife in the other.’

Zafira stepped closer to Trafalgar, still eyeing Borin and Lyren.

"So... old acquaintances, huh?" she murmured.

Trafalgar shrugged slightly. "Apparently."

Lyren’s gaze flicked between them, noting their closeness, but he said nothing.

Borin just grinned wider.

"See? Fate brings paths together! And trust me, Trafalgar—our paths will cross again."

Trafalgar resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

’He’s probably right. This damn world loves throwing familiar faces at me.’

For a moment, the quiet fog-draped garden around them felt oddly peaceful.

But Trafalgar noticed it before anyone said a word.

Dozens of eyes.

From balconies.

From behind carved pillars.

From the shadows of the side halls.

Heirs. Servants. Attendants.

All of them watching.

Watching them.

Zafira shifted closer, lowering her voice. "They’re staring."

"Of course they are," Lyren murmured, unfazed. "A Morgain, a Zar’khael, a Myrrhvale, and a Dvergar chatting casually while the Council discusses war? People will talk."

Trafalgar’s eyebrow twitched.

’Great. Just what I need. Rumors involving me. Again.’

Borin followed the line of their gazes and snorted. "Well, shit," he muttered. "Look at ’em. Like vultures waiting for corpses."

Zafira crossed her arms. "Can’t blame them. Everyone feels the tension."

"Tension, yes," Lyren said softly, his tone laced with dry amusement. "Intelligence? Not so much."

Borin barked a laugh, loud enough that a few servants flinched.

Then he leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a rumbling whisper.

"You know... talking here in the open? Between our Houses?" He glanced around again, eyes narrowing with unexpected cunning. "This could start some... interesting rumors."

Zafira blinked. "Like what?"

"Oh, you know," Borin said with a smirk. "Secret alliances. Betrayal. Plots. Everyone here is itching for news, real or fake. If we stay together too long, they’ll invent the rest."

Lyren nodded once. "He’s not wrong."

Trafalgar sighed internally. ’Fantastic. Exactly what I wanted—political bullshit sprinkled on top of more political bullshit.’

Borin straightened fully, brushing the frost off his shoulder plates.

"Well, I like you lot," he said bluntly. "So I’m heading out before some idiot starts feeding lies to the pigs."

His grin widened as he turned to Trafalgar.

"And kid—hope we don’t end up enemies someday. Would be a damn shame. You’re the kind of company I actually enjoy."

Trafalgar gave a half-shrug. "Same."

Borin thumped a fist over his chest. "Good lad. Till next time."

He stomped away down the stone path, boots echoing like war drums.

Lyren gave Trafalgar and Zafira a parting nod. "Try not to let the onlookers eat you alive. They’re hungrier than sharks today."

Then he slipped back toward the inner gardens, robes flowing behind him like shifting water.

Zafira sighed. "Well... that was something."

Trafalgar looked at the curious faces still peeking their way.

’Yeah. And somehow, I know this won’t be the last weird situation today.’