The young man crossed the threshold of the filthy tavern with a staggering gait and stepped out onto the sun-drenched wooden pavement. It was early morning, yet he appeared dead drunk. And no wonder! He had been drinking the whole night through in the company of port loaders and smugglers of the lowest sort. To an outsider, he looked like just another degraded vagrant who had squandered his last coppers.

He moved further down the alley. But as the man distanced himself from the dens and cut deeper into the quiet quarters, his stride grew steadier, his shoulders squared, and the heavy, drunken glaze vanished from his eyes, giving way to a sharp, predatory focus.

Dallion Lenoir was no drunkard. Oh no, alcohol could barely take hold of his body. However, the people who possessed the necessary information were very fond of drinking, and in a drunken stupor, human tongues, as is well known, loosen all by themselves. Over the course of this night, Dallion had learned everything he needed. And even a little more.

The young man stopped in a deserted dead end between two tall brick warehouses and stretched his stiff neck with pleasure.

“How... weary I am,” he drawled, cracking his joints, and ran a hand through his hair, brushing it back with a careless movement.

Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his favorite silver coin, and spun it on his thumb with a familiar, practiced motion.

A crisp, crystal chime cut through the morning air. The coin soared upward, catching the facets of the breaking sun, and obediently fell back into his palm.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

“Well, that was interesting.” He caught it. “Heads or tails? Heads!”

Tossing the coin once more, he deftly caught it mid-air and slipped it back into his pocket.

The bright spring sun blinded his eyes. The trading capital of the Eastern Empire possessed a colossal junction of routes. Sea lanes, overland highways, and secret paths from all across the continent converged here. But one of these routes had recently become far too active. Along it, a large shipment of contraband goods was being delivered, bypassing Imperial customs. It was precisely this knot that Dallion wished to untangle. And judging by the clues, the threads led somewhere toward the borderland warehouses and new faces in the city.

He whistled a simple melody, walking slowly down the street, deeply immersed in his thoughts. There was no one around him, so Dallion allowed himself to cast off his disguise.

The air around his body shimmered for a moment with a barely perceptible, transparent haze. The moment he walked beneath a spreading tree, his filthy rags, reeking of cheap ale, shifted with a soft, almost inaudible rustle into a fine, expensive doublet of thick dark-blue cloth with silver embroidery. His dusty, dull hair filled with a deep, noble color the instant he ran his fingers through it, and his clouded, "drunken" eyes regained their true, piercing clarity. Pleased with the result, Dallion straightened up. His posture was now impeccable.

The young man was a mage. Working wonders came as naturally to him as breathing.

Dallion bought a fresh newspaper from a street urchin, scanned the headlines on the front page, and suddenly stopped. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a familiar silhouette. He narrowed his eyes slightly, looking toward the merchant buildings where Hubert was receiving some important guests. The importance of these people was eloquently conveyed by the behavior of the head of the perfume house. The man was fussing over the new arrivals in person.

“Now this is getting interesting,” Dallion smirked. “That old fox doesn’t often scurry around clients himself.”

Hubert Bothmer would never miss a profit for anything in the world. Which meant he was fussing because he smelled gold. The way the perfumer was practically hovering over the travelers instantly put Lenoir on his guard.

Dallion knew the underbelly of this respectable, elderly gentleman's affairs all too well. For a long time, Hubert Bothmer had been receiving regular bribes from the islanders in exchange for secretly supplying a portion of their special goods, prohibited by Imperial law, to the noble houses of the country.

“Could the old man be preparing a new method to deliver contraband?” the thought flashed through Dallion’s mind. He was accustomed to trusting his gut. Something was definitely brewing here that deserved his close attention.

The decision was made instantly. Dallion relaxed his shoulders slightly, adopted his usual foolish smile of a careless playboy, and with a light effort of will, caused his attire to emanate a faint, sweetish trail of expensive alcohol. Those around him were meant to see nothing more than a wealthy idler who had begun carousing at the break of dawn. This role came easiest to the young man.

Sauntering straight toward the porch, Dallion made a theatrical wave of his hand.

“Oh, most venerable Mr. Bothmer! What a splendid morning for great deeds, don’t you find, to your refined nose?” he exclaimed cheerfully and a bit loudly, striking up an utterly foolish, empty conversation about the weather and the latest gossip from the capital.

Hubert winced for a fraction of a second but quickly composed himself. The old perfumer didn't truly know the young man’s real origins. Rumors swirled within the merchant guild that Lenoir was the bastard of some influential and quite wealthy capital house that preferred not to publicize its connection to him. Most importantly, this lad adored mindlessly squandering money. For Hubert, this was more than enough to put on his most welcoming and obsequious expression. Or, at least, to very artfully pretend that he was genuinely delighted by the meeting.

“Mr. Lenoir! What an unexpected and, naturally, delightful encounter,” the merchant beamed, carefully steering Dallion a bit to the side, closer to the carriage where the unloading was just being finished. “Allow me to present my new, highly venerable guests. Mr. Marcus Rosenthal! They have arrived from the borderlands of Aden for... ahem, joint commercial endeavors.”

Marcus, who was just checking the security of another strap, turned around slowly. His stern, perceptive gaze of an old appraiser instantly scanned the dandy standing before him. The experienced merchant strongly disliked the look of this young man, who at such an early hour already reeked of syrupy liquor. Marcus scowled barely perceptibly, gave a reserved nod, and tucked his hands behind his back, demonstrating by his entire demeanor that he was in no mood for social banter with drunkards.

“What a foolish face. It isn’t even ten yet, and he’s already managed to get drunk?” Marcus thought.

Dallion, meanwhile, continuing to wear his serene smile, noted this reaction. His gaze caught the family ring on Marcus’s hand, which depicted a crossed rose and sword, and the striking caution with which Hubert’s servants humored his cargo. The game was becoming more and more intriguing. Not least because he knew nothing about this man and was seeing such a coat of arms for the very first time.

“Good day, sir! Allow me to introduce myself! Dallion Lenoir,” he offered a sweeping bow, nearly losing his balance.

Marcus gave a barely perceptible snort when he saw Hubert hurriedly catch the young man by the elbow to keep him from falling.

Dallion brushed himself off and continued to feign a merry, drunken bewilderment, catching out of the corner of his ear how obsequiously Hubert praised the virtues of his borderland guests. But in the next second, his serene mask shifted into genuine surprise.

From the doors of a dilapidated building located slightly deeper within the artisans' quarter, a young woman walked out unhurriedly.

Azalea had just finished inspecting the premises, which she and Hubert had picked out together for her future private salon. The building had seen better days and currently looked neglected, but the girl definitely took a liking to it. She was particularly enchanted by what was hidden in the backyard. A massive glass dome, which had once served as a conservatory, filled her with utter delight. Right now, it was partially collapsed, many frames stood empty, yawning with shards, and a good amount of gold would have to be spent on its full restoration and clearing. Yet, Azalea could already mentally see rare flowers blooming beneath this sun-drenched dome. It was definitely worth the expense.

The girl stepped onto the porch, listening intently to the quiet bickering of the property owner and the hired builder, who was calculating the brickwork estimate on the fly and arguing fiercely with the owner about the deplorable state of the foundation.

Dallion recognized her instantly. The rags, the charcoal soot, and the bitter tears were gone. She looked completely different. Before him stood a confident, stately beauty in an expensive business dress of a gentle blue color, emanating nobility and hidden strength. Dallion was genuinely astonished to see how drastically she had changed over these months. He was even more surprised by the fact that he remembered the girl at all, having seen her only once in a filthy, dark corner of a border town.

A soft, understanding, and entirely non-artificial smile spread across his face, he smile of a man who had finally found something truly interesting and worthwhile in this sleepy mercantile routine.

This shift in the capital dandy's expression was instantly intercepted by Marcus Rosenthal. An experienced merchant and protector of his family, he flicked his gaze from Dallion to Azalea and back again. Marcus strongly disliked the deep interest with which this suspicious, alcohol-scented fellow stared at his niece. A dangerous spark flared in his eyes, and his shoulders tensed, ready at any moment to shield the girl from a stranger’s insolent gaze.

Azalea approached her uncle and looked at him questioningly. Hubert caught the unspoken question first. He immediately broke into a wide smile and threw his hands up, stepping forward.

“Oh, Miss Azalea, my dear! Allow me to present our guest from the capital,” the old perfumer chirped, gesturing actively. “This is Mr. Dallion Lenoir. A great connoisseur of the beautiful, of rare fragrances, and... ahem, of morning walks. Mr. Lenoir, and this is Miss Azalea Rosenthal, the niece of the venerable Marcus and my dear guest.”

Dallion, without losing his idle and slightly drunken air for a single second, took an elegant step forward. He bowed smoothly, demonstrating flawless capital manners that did not align at all with the light trail of alcohol, and extended his hand.

“Infinitely charmed, my lady,” he murmured softly.

Azalea remained perfectly calm. Her face betrayed not a shadow of embarrassment or surprise as she confidently extended her hand in a thin glove. Dallion carefully took her fingers and, with a barely perceptible touch, pressed his lips to the back of the girl’s hand.