A little away from the unfolding action, Hubert, with his characteristic sycophantic smile, was listening intently to Azalea. The young artisan was just discussing the terms of transferring the property rights with the owner of the dilapidated building. The man, sensing a profit and seeing the figure of a wealthy perfume businessman nearby, was blatantly driving up the price. Azalea frowned every time he declared yet again that he wanted more money for this half-ruined plot.

The situation was delicate. Their available funds were not enough to buy the building outright. Disposing of their prepared gems right now, without official papers and a trade permit, was dangerous. Moreover, questions might arise as to where a ruined family had obtained such treasures. Furthermore, flooding the market with too much perfumery product at once was suspicious and risky. Compounding the issue, obtaining essential oils through ordinary methods required a massive amount of raw material and long labor. For now, Azalea’s hands were tied by the lack of official avenues. They had to haggle over every single Imperial copper.

Marcus, arms crossed over his chest, kept a vigilant eye on his niece. But the old merchant watched even more intently how stubbornly and demonstratively Azalea ignored the interested gaze of the capital dandy. She carried herself as though Lenoir did not exist on the square at all.

Dallion, meanwhile, wasted no time. He kept unceremoniously wedging himself into the difficult real estate conversation, addressing mostly Hubert but constantly casting sidelong glances at the girl.

“Tell me, most venerable Bothmer,” Dallion rocked lightheartedly on his heels, gesturing relaxedly toward the weathered walls. “Will a decent carriage fit in the backyard? Say, for hasty midnight rides under the moon? You never know, perhaps future guests will wish to escape the bustle!”

Hubert merely offered a strained smile, trying to regain the thread of the conversation with the builder, but Lenoir was unstoppable. He scanned the facade with an appraising, half-sleepy gaze and pressed a finger to his lips.

“And by the way, what color do you think to paint it? It seems to me a soft lavender or a powdery rose would harmonize perfectly with the shade of the morning sky over our Empire. What do you think, Mr. Rosenthal?”

In response, Marcus only scowled deeper, rewarding the lad with such a heavy glare that any other man would have retreated long ago. Lenoir artfully maintained his drunken guise of an idle spendthrift, but beneath that mask, his eyes, whenever they ceased to squint askew for a fraction of a second, remained cold, sober, and frighteningly sharp. He was probing them. Every movement, every reaction.

The builder started his old song about the cost of brickwork again, the property owner brought up the urgency premium once more, and Dallion, right into Hubert's ear, began to discourse upon the quality of the local roof tiles.

In the end, Hubert, utterly exhausted by the endless arguments, the haggling over the lease, and the overwhelming chatter of the intrusive man, could bear no more. He clapped his hands together with a loud, resonant slap, interrupting the lingering circus.

“Gentlemen, have mercy! We have been standing in the scorching sun for a good hour, and business is not settled on an empty stomach,” the old perfumer smiled placatingly. “Venerable property owner, prepare the papers by evening, and we shall continue. Don't you wish to relax in the shade for a bit yourself? Since Mr. Marcus and his lovely family are guests at my perfume house, I have the full and unconditional privilege of inviting everyone to the cool terrace. We definitely all need a cup of tea. Real capital tea, with wild jasmine petals.”

Hubert cast an eloquent look at Dallion, silently hinting that it was time for Lenoir to take his leave, but the young man merely smiled joyfully, taking it as an invitation for everyone present. Marcus compressed his lips in displeasure, foreseeing that this strange character would not leave them alone so easily.

The terrace of Hubert's perfume house was flooded with soft midday sun. Servants moved soundlessly between the guests, setting out porcelain cups and a pot-bellied teapot from which fragrant steam rose with delicate notes of jasmine and bergamot.

Dallion waited until his cup was filled, took a leisurely sip, and, elegantly setting down his teacup and saucer, made his first move.

“You know, Mr. Rosenthal,” Lenoir drawled lazily, as if in passing, resting his cheek on his hand and studying Marcus from beneath half-closed eyelids. “In our parts, one does not often encounter merchants from the borderlands with... such exquisite taste. The Rosenthal lineage... Hm, admittedly, the name sounds noble, but I cannot for the life of me recall in which exact guilds of the capital or Aden you were spoken of most warmly? What is your family truly famous for?”

Marcus darkened even further. He had no desire to speak with Dallion, a fact he tried to show with his entire demeanor, but the young man seemed to reflect all displeased glances with his smile. Marcus wished even less to speak to this man about his family.

“We are simple artisans, Mr. Lenoir,” Marcus replied dryly, cutting him off, without even touching his tea. “We do what we know how to do. I do not think you could have heard our name anywhere else. We are only just beginning our business. And we prefer to remain within a modest circle of trusted people, rather than at the center of capital guilds.”

Dallion smiled understandingly and somewhat too perceptively, causing Marcus to tense inwardly. Realizing the old man would clam up completely if pressed further, Lenoir gave a theatrical sigh and rose from his seat, straightening his doublet.

“My apologies, esteemed gentlemen and ladies. I am forced to leave you for a short while.”

As soon as Dallion vanished behind the terrace doors with a staggering gait, the atmosphere at the table instantly cleared. Marcus watched him go with a heavy gaze and, turning to Hubert, frowned deeper than usual.

“I do not like that fellow, Hubert. Not at all. He reeks of trouble from a mile away, and those questions of his...”

Marcus pointedly shifted a stern look to Azalea, seeking his niece's silent support and endorsement of his caution. However, the girl merely took a calm sip of her tea and shrugged indifferently, showing that some capital playboy certainly shouldn’t concern her right now. Her head was currently aching over the matter of finances. Granted, Azalea could have restored the building herself with her magic, but the last thing she wanted was to expose her power.

Hubert sighed heavily and nodded in agreement, pulling his cup closer.

“And you are absolutely right to worry, Marcus. Your gut does not fail you. This boy is a walking disaster. A playboy, a bitter drunkard, an reckless carouser, and, to top it all off, a wretched lover. A true disgrace to his lineage! Between you and me, he has already been caught thrice in the chambers of the city's married ladies. I would gladly rid you of his company, but you see for yourself how beautifully he fails to take hints, and to tell him bluntly—I fear to offend him. Who knows what he truly amounts to?”

Before Hubert could finish his sentence, the terrace doors swung open with a light click. The same idle, beaming expression played on Dallion’s face, as if he hadn't heard a word of the description he had just been granted.

“A absolutely spectacular idea just crossed my mind!” Dallion proclaimed joyfully, walking back to the table under the intense stares of the men. “While I was washing my hands, I thought of this. I want to invest in your business! My purse is at your service, Messrs. Rosenthal.”

Hubert opened his mouth in bewilderment, shifting his gaze from a radiant Dallion to the frozen Rosenthals. Inside his seasoned merchant head, the usual calculation instantly clicked. The old perfumer sensed the capital carouser's obvious, sudden favor toward the young lady. Besides, it was impossible not to notice how he kept glancing at Azalea the entire time. In the Empire, such things happened left and right. Fickle, wealthy young men constantly and thoughtlessly squandered family money on momentary follies, expensive trinkets, and beautiful women.

Marcus tensed even more, his fists clenching beneath the table. Two feelings battled within him: the urge to protect his niece from the intrusive playboy and... a purely pragmatic assessment of the situation. The old appraiser cast another glance at Dallion and thought that such a dimwitted, drunken fool would be even easier to wrap around their fingers if they accepted his gold. Yet, he did not want to have anything to do with this man at all.

Slowly, without a single unnecessary sound, Azalea set her porcelain cup back onto its saucer. The noise of the bustling square outside the windows seemed to recede into the background. It was strange and utterly inexplicable, but she felt absolutely no threat from this man. Not a shred of false malice or danger.

She looked intently, searchingly, straight into his piercing eyes, as if trying to look past the mask of the flippant dandy. And then, with a faint but crushingly confident smile, she spoke calmly:

“Thank you for your offer, Mr. Lenoir. However, we must refuse you.”

The young man froze for a moment, and his perfect, idle expression faltered slightly at such a swift and uncompromising rebuff.

Dallion walked down the paved merchant street, artfully keeping the grimace of a hurt, undeservedly rejected puppy on his face. Passersby smiled understandingly after him, mentally mocking yet another capital playboy who had been shown the door. Some of the ladies walking past even thought to comfort the poor thing. But the moment Dallion turned into a quiet, deserted alley and vanished from the eyes of unwanted onlookers, all his false resentment instantly evaporated, giving way to a genuine, pleased expression.

A look of anticipation played upon his lips. He immensely liked the way Azalea had conducted herself. There was not a drop of that syrupy obsequiousness with which provincial maidens usually greeted him upon seeing a taut purse. She was proud, calculating, and astonishingly perceptive. And yet, the two men at that table, Hubert for certain, could have shaken colossal money out of him, had they yielded to their first impulse.

Suddenly, a silhouette materialized soundlessly from the deep shadow between the brick warehouses. The man was dressed with distinct severity in a dark travel cloak, and a heavy arming sword rested at his waist, its hilt adorned with a family crest depicting two ravens. Not a single emotion reflected on his face.

“Your Lordship,” the warrior said quietly but distinctly, bowing his head in a brief, strictly military greeting. “Your mother asked to convey that you should finish the contraband investigation as soon as possible and return to the capital.”

Dallion did not even flinch. Lazily, his fingers caught a silver coin that had soared into the air, hid it in his palm, and he let out a cold chuckle, looking at the warrior with a completely different gaze now.

“Tell Her Ladyship that I shall be delayed,” the young man replied quietly. “Here a far more interesting performance has begun. And I want to watch it to the very end.”