Kairami
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The Exalted Mage - Chapter 20: The Envoy is…?!
🕑 Added 2025-12-31 22:12:29 +0000 UTCThe townsfolk had all gathered around the square now, the long banquet table filled with roasted meats glistening in their juices; platters of vegetables steamed and were served on side dishes, while baskets of freshly baked bread stood piled high. Citrus slices, honey-glazed mapleroots, and even some fish sliced into delicate pieces were all prepared.
It truly was a celebration.
Baron Welterman stood tall in his formal coat. Beside him was Steward Hadrian, checking a parchment list and quietly muttering things under his breath. Elise waited as well, hair tied back, hands behind her back, composed as a proper maid.
Veronica stood with them—the four of them, along with some guards, all shaded beneath some ironwork lanterns.
“They should be arriving here shortly,” Welterman said, glancing toward the road with a placid smile.
Veronica sipped a glass of chilled juice, her second one for today.
With the arrival of the envoy nearing, she figured now was a good time to pry for some information.
“You mentioned earlier that you and the Ronswicks have been close for some time,” she said. “How exactly did that relationship begin?”
“Ah.” The baron turned slightly toward her. “Viscount Ronswick oversees much of the land to the east—some of the valleys and the outer ridges of the mountain chain. My territory is located in his viscounty, so I obviously had to make some connection with him. I met him five years ago, when I was on my way to some business matters with other aristocracy. Boring paper work stuff I won’t bore you with. We conversed with one another and built a relationship from then on.”
“Since then,” Welterman continued, “his family has sent aides and suppliers to help bolster Greystone. It’s been mutually beneficial. The Ronswicks profit from the trade that we do with them—particularly, the mines—and in return, they’ve taken an interest in the town’s development.”
Veronica nodded nonchalantly. “Mines? Like iron or crystal? Or something more rare?”
“Ah, yes.” Welterman smoothed the front of his coat. “We do get iron now and then. Same with some quartz. They provide a small, but steady stream of income. However, what makes the mine truly valuable…”
He lowered his voice slightly.
“It’s the kassal oil.”
Veronica stilled. The glass hovered just shy of her lips. “You have that here?”
He caught her tone and offered a pleased nod. “So you’re familiar.”
“Of course. I did some research about its history when becoming a mage,” she said, lowering her glass.
“Well then,” the baron continued, “we have a small deposit—nothing impressive, but steady. It seeps from a reservoir roughly forty meters down, collecting in the cracks between the stone. A few vials a month, sometimes more. We sell directly to the Ronswicks. They refine it, repackage it, and ship it out quietly to a few trusted buyers in Tableun.”
Kassal oil wasn’t just rare. It wasn’t even a substance, not exactly.
It was mana made heavy. A slow-thickened essence drawn from places where magic had once been rich—battlefields, ancient ruins, long-dead leyline crossings. The residue of centuries. If left long enough, it sank into the stone itself, condensing into a slick, potent liquid. Highly reactive. Extremely dangerous. And immeasurably valuable.
It could be used for high-grade alchemy, enchantments, or in rare cases, to fuel magical engines and forgotten relics. SAGE’s original casing, before the prototype core had been compressed into its current form, had run on something like it. She remembered the cooling tanks located in Martin’s lab.
So this is it… the true reason for their connection, she thought.
The viscount had the network. The buyers. The coin. Welterman had the land—the product. It made perfect sense. Kassal oil wasn’t something a backwater baron could distribute on his own. But with the right hands… the right friends… If his territory was also under the protection of the viscount, then there would be no danger of someone trying to meddle in their affairs. Even Veronica dared not incur the wrath of a viscount right now—now with her meager Tier-2 status.
This wasn’t just a friendly visit. It was a celebration of profit. A consolidation of power. The Ronswicks coming in person had one obvious implication. The reservoir was more valuable than even Welterman realized. And if they’ve been in business for so long, their visit now should represent some type of major shift.
A hush rippled across the square.
It began with the distant clatter of hooves. Not frantic galloping, but the measured, ceremonial cadence of horses trained for parade—dignified and calm, armored shoes striking clean against cobblestone.
Three carriages emerged at the far end of the road, silhouetted by the arching gate of Greystone’s eastern entrance. Gloss-black lacquered wood, wheels trimmed with brass. What was most likely the crest of the Ronswick family—stitched in blue and silver, a rising hawk clutching a ring of stars—decorated the doors.
Behind them rode a small escort of mounted guards, each one adorned in heavier leather and steel than anything the town could offer. Their weapons shone. Their posture was exact. These weren’t part-time militia or bored patrolmen—they were professionals, handpicked retainers of a noble house.
Veronica watched in silence, sipping the last of her drink.
The crowd began to part in waves as the carriages came to a halt near the front of the square. One after another, their doors opened with a practiced smoothness.
From the center carriage stepped the supposed person of the hour.
Tall, with a groomed beard trimmed to sharp lines and streaks of silver in his black hair. His doublet was midnight blue, woven with faint silver threadwork along the collar and cuffs. A brooch clasped his cloak at the shoulder—polished opal framed in platinum. He wasn’t old, perhaps late twenties to early thirties.
Baron Welterman stepped forward with open arms and a wide, practiced smile. “Viscount Leopold! You honor us.”
“Baron,” the viscount replied, tone smooth but measured, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Greystone looks far more lively than I remember.”
Veronica blinked. She hadn’t misheard. Viscount?
She’d assumed it would be a minor envoy. A steward or some other type of proxy. But no—this was the head of the house himself.
This made things much more complicated.
From the same carriage, a small figure climbed down with careful steps. A girl—perhaps nine or ten years old, with soft curls tied back by a ribbon the same blue as her father’s crest. She wore a dress more practical than frilled, though the fabric was clearly expensive, hand-stitched and well-kept.
Welterman’s smile warmed. “Lady Claire Ronswick. Stars above, you’ve grown. I remember when you were still no taller than my desk.”
The girl dipped her head shyly, fingers curling into her sleeves. She curtsied, and returned the greeting. “Nice to meet you, Baron Welterman.”
Behind them, more members of the house disembarked—retainers, aides, and three proper servants. One of them moved with a slower gait, his posture straight despite the stiffness in his limbs.
An older man. White hair, combed back. His face was deeply lined, rough and pitted with old scars. A soldier’s face, forced into the tidy shape of a butler’s role. A scar creased one brow, and his eyes, though deferent, swept the crowd like a soldier checking for blades in shadows. He was definitely a man of military stature, at least formerly, if not currently.
He wore a butler’s uniform, and stayed close to Viscount Leopold.
“Ah, Nolhan,” Welterman said, inclining his head. “Still serving loyally, I see.”
The man offered a quiet bow. “Until my bones betray me, my lord.”
There was something about the way he stood—hands clasped, not behind his back but in front. A soldier’s stance. Veronica watched him carefully.
Baron Welterman offered a warm smile and stepped aside, gesturing to the laden banquet table that dominated the center of the square.
“Well,” he said, clapping a hand lightly on Leopold’s shoulder, “let’s ignore formalities for now. You must be tired from the road—and hungrier still. Let us celebrate first. My own kitchen staff prepared most of the food today, along with the local recipes from the honored people of Greystone. I hope it suits your palate.”
Leopold gave a small incline of his head.
Welterman turned toward the crowd and raised both hands.
“My friends of Greystone,” he called, his voice clear, practiced, and meant to carry. “Our honored guests have arrived. Let us begin!”
As if held back by a spell, the crowd finally moved—slowly at first, then all at once.
Families drifted forward. Young couples holding hands. Miners fresh from washing the dust from their arms. Children rushed the tables with squeals of delight as they caught the scent of honey-baked roast and glazed carrots. A woman began to play a wooden flute; a moment later, a trio of lute strings joined in.
The festival had begun.
Veronica didn’t move. Not at first.
She remained near the edge of the gathering, letting the motion pass around her like a tide. Her fingers held a fresh cup—another chilled glass of citrus—but she didn’t drink.
Because in the corner of her vision, past the flowing bodies and the clink of ceramic plates, something caught her eye.
A hood was pulled up. Then another. Faces disappeared beneath shadowed cloth. And then, one by one, they slipped between buildings and into the narrow alleys that laced through Greystone’s outer ring.
Veronica’s eyes narrowed.
Cultists? Thieves?
She couldn’t be sure. It could be a crime of opportunity. It could be a planned escape. Or it could be something far worse. With the town gathered in one place, any number of things could happen unseen.
She tensed, already circulating the mana in her body. She couldn’t take any chances, she had to go on the pursuit—
“Miss Veronica,” Welterman called, suddenly beside her.
She blinked. He had approached with Leopold in tow, his large hand gently guiding the viscount forward. Claire stood beside him, her small fingers gripping the folds of her father’s coat.
“I’d like to formally introduce you to our guest,” the baron said.
She forced her posture to relax, the trail of ambient mana slipping back into her core like mist vanishing in wind.
Damn it.
She finally saw some suspicious movement, but now she was stuck exchanging pleasantries.
Exposing herself right now would not be ideal, as it was still uncertain whether Welterman or Leopold were working with the cultists.
But… if they are after the Viscount or even his daughter, they wouldn’t do something blatant out in the open like this, so it should be fine for now, Veronica thought. I can keep an eye on him and his daughter, in case they make any moves.
If they were aiming for any of the members of house Ronswick for their ritual—the safest place for them to be, was right next to her.
Comments
Vanessa Bräuer
Ehmmmm… Keep an eye on the ritual site????? Seems a bit idiotic to just leave that and hope…
