BAM!
The heavy mahogany door to Alden's guest room flew open with enough force to rattle the hinges.
Alden, who had been peacefully meditating near the massive bay window, didn't even flinch. He just cracked his single crimson eye open, letting out a slow, long-suffering sigh. Over the past few days of staying at the Blackwood estate, he had quickly learned that knocking was a completely foreign concept to the youngest daughter of the house.
"Get up, vagabond!" Lyra declared, marching into the room with her hands planted firmly on her hips. She was dressed in a highly fashionable, deep burgundy street-wear ensemble that looked like it cost more than a small town. Behind her, Elian hovered in the doorway, offering an apologetic, awkward wave.
"I have a name, you know," Alden muttered, slowly uncrossing his legs and standing up.
"Yeah, well, your name is currently attached to a hundred-billion-gold bounty, so we're not exactly going to be shouting it in the streets," Lyra shot back smoothly.
"Now put your shoes on. Father is locked in the Grand Forge completely dismantling your broken ring. He said it's going to take at least another three days to re-anchor the spatial matrix. You are not spending those three days sulking in this room."
"I wasn't sulking," Alden defended dryly.
"I was contemplating the profound mysteries of the universe. And also enjoying not being hunted."
"Boring," Lyra rolled her eyes.
"We are going to the city. Elian and I are giving you the grand tour of Ironpeak. Consider it cultural enrichment."
Alden looked at Elian, silently pleading for the scholarly boy to intervene, but Elian just offered a helpless shrug.
"She's been talking about this since breakfast, Alden. It's easier to just surrender."
"Fine," Alden groaned.
He walked over to the wardrobe. If he was going into the capital city of the Dwarf Empire, he couldn't afford to be careless. He grabbed a sleek, pitch-black cloth mask, pulling it up over his chin and nose until it covered the entire lower half of his face. Next came the heavy black ranger's cloak. He fastened the clasp at his throat and pulled the deep, oversized hood up, casting his upper face into deep shadow.
With his lower face masked and his upper face shadowed by the hood, he looked completely anonymous.
"A bit dramatic, don't you think?" Lyra mused, tilting her head. "You look like you're about to assassinate a noble."
"I look like a guy trying to keep his head attached to his neck," Alden replied, his voice slightly muffled through the fabric.
"Let's go before I change my mind."
CLANG! HISSSSS… RUMBLE!
The sounds of Ironpeak hit Alden like a physical wave the moment they stepped out of the private carriage.
It was nothing like the human capital. There were no pristine white marble towers or delicate glass spires. Ironpeak was a masterpiece of brutal, glorious industry. Massive buildings forged entirely from dark iron, brass, and heavy stone stretched up toward the hazy orange sky. High above, thick pipes transported glowing blue liquid mana, illuminating the shadowed streets like neon veins. The air smelled of roasted meats, spiced ale, and the sharp, metallic tang of burning coal.
It was utterly amazing.
Despite the mask covering his face, Alden's crimson eye was wide with genuine wonder. He looked around at the bustling crowds. Dwarves with braided beards carrying heavy crates, elves in sleek robes haggling with merchants, and human mercenaries inspecting weapon racks—it was a true melting pot of the continent.
"Incredible, isn't it?" Elian smiled, noticing Alden's silent awe.
"The central sector is entirely dedicated to free trade. No politics. No borders. Just pure commerce."
"It's loud," Alden admitted, "but it's… alive."
For the first hour, the tour was genuinely enjoyable. Elian acted as a brilliant tour guide, explaining the history of the massive clocktower in the plaza, while Lyra dragged them to food stalls, forcing Alden to try dangerously spicy dwarven skewers that nearly burned a hole through his tongue.
But then, the atmosphere shifted.
They turned a corner, leaving the smell of roasted meat behind, and stepped onto a wide, pristine boulevard lined with massive glass storefronts, glowing displays, and impossibly expensive mannequins.
"Oh no," Elian whispered, the color instantly draining from his face.
Lyra's dark eyes locked onto the boulevard. A terrifying, predatory gleam sparked in her irises.
"The Fashion District," Lyra breathed, her voice dropping into a deadly serious whisper. "I haven't been here in two months."
Alden looked at Elian. "Is there a tactical retreat option?"
"If we run, she will hunt us down," Elian replied grimly, already accepting his fate.
What followed could only be described as a psychological endurance trial that severely tested Alden's sanity.
Rustle… zip…
"Too bright! Next!"
Thud!
"The hem is entirely disproportionate to the shoulders. Hideous. Next!"
For three agonizing hours, Alden and Elian were reduced to highly lethal, incredibly dangerous pack mules. They sat on a velvet couch inside an insanely upscale boutique called The Gilded Thread, completely surrounded by towering piles of shopping bags.
Alden sat with his arms crossed, his hood still up, staring blankly at the wall. Elian was slouched next to him, his head resting in his hands, looking like his soul had left his body an hour ago.
"I fought a Blood-Iron Bear barehanded," Alden muttered under his breath, his voice devoid of all hope.
"I survived a sensory deprivation torture chamber. I walked through a forest of death. And yet, this… this is the true abyss."
Elian let out a hollow, exhausted laugh. "Welcome to shopping with my sister. You can never leave."
The curtain to the fitting room violently whipped open. Lyra stepped out, wearing a stunning, dark emerald gown woven with faint, silver runic threads that caught the ambient light.
"Well?" Lyra demanded, striking a pose with absolute confidence.
"Be honest."
"It's a masterpiece," Elian lied instantly, his voice entirely dead.
"Buy it. Buy them all. Please, let us go home."
"You're useless," Lyra scoffed, turning her gaze to the hooded vagabond.
"Alden. Thoughts?"
Alden looked at the dress. He tilted his head.
"The color works, but the runic stitching clashes with your combat boots. Plus, you literally just bought three dresses in the exact same shade of green at the last store."
Lyra paused. She looked down at the dress, then at the bags.
"You're right," Lyra sighed, retreating back into the fitting room.
"I'll try the midnight blue one."
"Why did you say that?" Elian hissed, looking at Alden with absolute betrayal.
"She was about to buy it! We were almost free!"
"I don't lie about fashion, Elian," Alden replied smoothly, closing his eye and leaning his head back. "It's a matter of principle."
Ten minutes later, Lyra finally emerged, fully dressed in her original clothes, carrying three more bags.
"Alright, I'm done," Lyra declared cheerfully.
Elian nearly cried tears of joy, moving to stand up, but Lyra immediately pointed a finger right at Alden's chest.
"But you aren't," she smirked.
Alden froze.
"Excuse me?"
"You've been walking around our estate wearing my father's old, baggy shirts and that tragic, dirt-stained ranger cloak," Lyra said, shaking her head in disgust.
"You are an honored guest of the Blackwood family. I absolutely refuse to be seen with someone dressed like a common grave robber. Go into the men's section. Now."
"I don't need clothes," Alden protested, gripping the armrest of the couch. "I'm perfectly fine in this."
"Go, or I'll tell the shop owner you're a shoplifter and have security tackle you," Lyra threatened with a bright, innocent smile.
Alden narrowed his eye beneath his hood. He knew she was completely bluffing, but the sheer force of her bossy willpower was exhausting.
Sigh…
"Fine. Five minutes."
Alden stood up, handing his pile of bags to Elian, and walked toward the men's tailoring section at the back of the boutique. An elderly dwarven tailor, measuring tape draped around his neck, took one look at Alden's lean, athletic build and practically shoved a pile of dark, high-end garments into his arms, ushering him into a private, spacious fitting room.
The heavy wooden door clicked shut, leaving Alden in absolute privacy.
The room was lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, brightly lit by glowing crystal lamps. Alden let out a heavy breath.
He reached up and pulled the dark hood off his head. Next, he untied the black cloth mask covering his mouth and nose, tossing it onto a nearby velvet stool. Finally, his hand hovered over the knot at the back of his head.
Over the last few days, his body's passive, chaotic healing had worked miracles. The deep, horrific gouge Liam had carved into his left eye socket had fundamentally changed.
He pulled the black eyepatch off.
Alden looked into the tall mirror.
The hollow, ugly darkness that had previously sunken into the left side of his face was completely gone. The tissue had healed flawlessly over the empty socket, leaving his left eyelid permanently and cleanly closed. Running straight down over that closed eyelid, starting just below his eyebrow and ending high on his cheekbone, was a singular, razor-thin silver scar.
It didn't look gruesome. It didn't look tragic.
Coupled with his pale skin, his messy, dark black hair, and his remaining, brilliantly glowing crimson right eye, the scar just looked… dangerously attractive. It gave his aristocratic, sharp features a rogue, incredibly lethal edge.
Alden slowly blinked his red eye, taking in the reflection.
He stripped off the oversized white shirt and slipped into the garments the tailor had given him. He pulled on a fitted, dark charcoal undershirt that perfectly hugged the dense, coiled muscles of his torso. Over that, he shrugged on a sleek, high-collared long coat. It was a masterpiece of dwarven tailoring—a sweeping, knee-length trench coat made of a heavy, shadow-black material, accented with subtle, dull silver clasps and buckles.
He adjusted the high collar, letting it frame his jawline, and fastened the dark leather belt around his waist.
Alden took a step back, looking at his full reflection in the mirror.
The dark trench coat flared slightly at the ankles, giving him an imposing, sleek silhouette. His messy dark hair contrasted perfectly with his pale skin, the sharp silver scar, and the single, piercing red eye.
A slow, thoroughly arrogant smirk curled onto Alden's lips.
"Damn," Alden muttered to the empty room, adjusting the cuff of the coat.
His usual, deeply ingrained narcissism—a habit he used to mask his stress—bubbled to the surface in full force. He tilted his head slightly, admiring the sharp angle of his jaw.
"It's actually unfair to the rest of the male population," Alden chuckled softly, entirely unabashed by his own ego.
"No wonder Liam wanted to kill me. He was probably just jealous of the bone structure. I mean, look at this. Put me on a poster, and half the continent would surrender voluntarily."
He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up just a bit more to achieve that perfect, effortless, 'I-just-woke-up-but-could-still-ruin-your-life' look.
"If Alisia saw me right now," Alden mused, a genuine, warm amusement lighting up his crimson eye, "she would pretend not to care, insult my coat, and then stare at me when she thought I wasn't looking."
KNOCK! KNOCK!
"Are you dead in there, vagabond?" Lyra's impatient voice rang through the heavy wooden door.
"It's been ten minutes!"
Alden dropped the pose, rolling his eye.
"Patience is a virtue, Lyra!" Alden called back.
He didn't bother putting the mask or the hood back on. There was no point in the fitting room, and frankly, he liked the coat too much to cover it up immediately. He grabbed the mask and the eyepatch, stuffing them into his pocket.
He reached out, grabbed the polished brass handle, and threw the fitting room door open.
SWISH—
Alden stepped out into the main boutique area, the bottom of the black trench coat sweeping elegantly behind him.
Elian and Lyra, who had been arguing over a scarf, both stopped mid-sentence.
They turned their heads.
Elian's jaw dropped. Lyra's eyes went completely wide.
For five full seconds, neither of the twins said a single word. They just stared at the impossibly sharp, tall, crimson-eyed boy standing before them, radiating an aura of dangerous, effortless charisma.
Alden casually leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, his silver scar catching the boutique's crystal light.
He offered them a slow, devastatingly arrogant smirk.
"I know," Alden said smoothly, his voice dripping with pure, unadulterated confidence.
"Try not to stare too hard. It's blinding, isn't it?"
Elian snapped his mouth shut, shaking his head in absolute disbelief.
"You… you look like a completely different person."
Lyra, recovering quickly from her initial shock, crossed her arms, though her cheeks were betraying a faint, undeniable hint of pink.
"Don't let it go to your head, vagabond," Lyra huffed, looking away and pretending to examine a nearby rack of coats.
"The coat is doing all the heavy lifting. The dwarven tailor is the real hero here."
"Sure, let's go with that," Alden laughed, stepping away from the door.
He felt good. For the first time since his world had been violently flipped upside down, the crushing weight of survival had lifted, even if just for an afternoon. He wasn't a hunted monster today. He was just a guy, standing in a shop, annoying his friends.
"Come on," Alden said, pulling the black mask out of his pocket and preparing to hide his dangerously handsome face once more.
"Let's go home. I think Elian is about to collapse."
As he wrapped the mask back around his jaw and pulled the heavy hood over his head, a spark of anticipation flared in his chest.
Three days left. Three days until his ring was fixed, and he could finally take his next step toward showing the world what it meant to make an enemy out of Alden.