The Caphast stepped cautiously into the grand ballroom, his boots making dull thuds against the polished floor, a sound almost swallowed by the vibrant waltz echoing through the hall. His eyes wandered over the scene—elegantly dressed couples twirled gracefully in perfect harmony, their movements as fluid as the music guiding them. A small crowd circled the dancers, clapping softly and murmuring their admiration, careful not to disrupt the delicate ambiance of the room.
Above it all, perched at the top of a grand staircase overlooking the ballroom, stood a man who commanded the room without uttering a word. His presence was regal, his posture straight and composed, his gaze sweeping over the crowd like a hawk surveying its territory. Clad in formal attire adorned with subtle yet unmistakable signs of authority, he looked every bit like the king of this gilded gathering.
The Caphast's gaze lingered on him. His fingers brushed the edge of the box tucked under his arm as he muttered to himself, "Maybe the casket belongs to him. Seems like he's the one running this show. But that doesn't make sense... the letter said to deliver it to the black cliffs, not to some fancy shindig."
The uncertainty gnawed at him, but there was no mistaking the instructions that had led him to this address. This ballroom. This place where every glance felt like it carried hidden motives.
As he hesitated, the man at the top of the staircase moved. With a slow, deliberate gesture, he raised a hand and waved at the Caphast, his fingers pointing toward an interior balcony tucked away behind the bustling crowd. The message was clear, his meaning undeniable.
The Caphast felt a prickle of uncertainty but didn't flinch. He turned his head slightly, catching movement from the corner of his eye. Another man, dressed in sharp yet understated formalwear, stood nearby, gesturing for him to follow. His expression was calm, almost friendly, though there was an edge to his presence that made it clear he wasn't just another guest.
Without a word, the Caphast nodded and began to follow the man, weaving through the ballroom with practiced ease, careful not to bump into any of the elaborately dressed attendees. The music and laughter seemed to grow fainter as they moved, the clinking of glasses and muted conversations fading into the background.
They reached the balcony, an open space draped with fine curtains that swayed gently in the breeze. The man stepped aside, allowing the Caphast to pass, and soon he found himself standing face-to-face with the figure who had beckoned him.
The air felt heavier here, the opulence of the ballroom replaced by an intimate tension. The Caphast adjusted the box under his arm, his grip firm as he stared at the man before him. "So," he began, his voice low and steady. "You're the one expecting this?"
The man extended his arm, his demeanor polite but commanding, a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes as if everything was proceeding according to a meticulously crafted plan. "Good evening, Mr. Nathaniel," he began smoothly, his voice cultured and measured. "My name is Finnovare. As you've likely surmised, I oversee this palace and all that transpires within its walls. I am also the one who commissioned the delivery of that casket—to here and eventually, yes, to the black cliffs. And I must say, I am most pleased to see my Caphast arrive at such an opportune moment."
Nathaniel, now identified by name, let his gaze wander behind Finnovare. Beyond the balcony doors was a richly adorned office, illuminated softly by the warm light of sconces and a glowing fireplace. A room of fine leather chairs, mahogany bookshelves, and a sprawling desk hinted at the hours Finnovare must have spent orchestrating his affairs in silence, far removed from the lively gatherings that filled the ballroom below.
Nathaniel's eyes slowly returned to the man before him. He glanced at Finnovare's outstretched hand but made no motion to reciprocate. "I don't shake hands," he said curtly, his tone flat but unwavering.
For a brief moment, Finnovare's brow furrowed, caught off guard by the unexpected refusal. But he recovered quickly, a smile tugging at his lips, masking any trace of offense. "Ah, of course," he said with a light chuckle. "To each their own."
Gesturing toward a pair of plush sofas set on an ornate rug in the corner of the balcony, Finnovare extended an invitation with a sweep of his hand. "Come, sit. We've much to discuss, and I imagine you've had quite the journey."
Nathaniel gave no reaction, his expression unreadable, and followed Finnovare to the seating area. He eased himself onto one of the sofas, setting the box beside him with care, and leaned back. Finnovare took the seat opposite, crossing his legs elegantly, his hands folding neatly on his lap.
For a moment, neither spoke. The sounds of the distant waltz drifted faintly through the open balcony, mingling with the quiet crackle of the fire within the office. Finnovare broke the silence, his voice as smooth as the velvet upholstery.
"Tell me, Nathaniel," he began, his eyes locking onto the Caphast with an almost predatory curiosity, "what do you know of the cargo you've brought me? And more importantly, what do you expect in return for your... dedication to this task?"
Nathaniel sat in still silence for a few moments, his gaze unwavering as he studied Finnovare's expectant face. His demeanor remained steady, unshaken by the man's polite probing. Finally, he decided to speak, his voice calm but firm, carrying the weight of someone accustomed to being direct.
"I'm afraid I don't know anything about the casket I brought," Nathaniel admitted, his tone void of pretense. "My task was simple: deliver it to the black cliffs. Though, I must say, this ballroom wasn't quite what I pictured when I heard the name 'black cliffs.'"
Finnovare chuckled softly, a knowing glint in his eyes as he nodded in acknowledgment of Nathaniel's straightforward explanation. "I can see how the name might mislead," he replied, the corners of his mouth curling upward. "But rest assured, you're precisely where you're meant to be."
Nathaniel leaned back slightly, resting his hand on the box beside him, his sharp gaze never leaving Finnovare. "As for the reward," he continued, his voice lowering a touch, "I've heard talk that you might know something about the Spirit Flower Agency. Its downfall... and the countless deaths that followed."
Finnovare's expression faltered for the briefest of moments, a flicker of recognition passing through his eyes before his smile returned. Nathaniel pressed on.
"Those deaths," he added, his voice laced with a cold edge, "they caused the Links to quietly crumble—like dinosaurs after the meteor's fall. Once thriving, now a whispered memory."
The room seemed to hold its breath, the faint sounds of the ballroom's waltz falling away as the weight of Nathaniel's words settled between them.
Finnovare leaned forward slightly, his steepled fingers resting under his chin. "You speak of history with remarkable precision, Nathaniel," he said, his voice measured. "The Spirit Flower Agency... the Links... a tragedy, indeed. One not easily unraveled. But it seems your delivery comes with a curiosity of its own."
Nathaniel's face remained impassive, his silence inviting Finnovare to continue. Finnovare's smile faded, replaced by a calculating look. "Very well," he said softly. "If it's answers you seek, perhaps your cargo has more to reveal than either of us yet understands."
He gestured toward the casket, his gaze lingering on it as if it held secrets only he could divine. "But first, allow me a moment to ensure that what you've delivered is indeed what I requested."
Nathaniel's sharp eyes lingered on Finnovare, studying his every movement, but he chose to keep the air civil. With a subtle nod, he gestured toward the casket. "Go on, then," he said evenly. "Let's see if it lives up to the fuss."
Finnovare's fingers deftly worked at the latches, his movements precise and deliberate, as if unsealing a treasure that demanded reverence. The casket gave a faint creak as it opened, revealing its contents. A warm glow seemed to emanate from within, casting a golden hue over Finnovare's face as he peered inside. His grin widened, his expression one of both satisfaction and triumph.
"Ah, quite the moment indeed," Finnovare murmured, his voice tinged with delight. He reached inside, his hand brushing over the treasure nestled within. When he turned back to Nathaniel, his grin remained fixed, his eyes gleaming with approval. "You've done well, Mr. Nathaniel. Exceptionally well. The item is in perfect, shining form, just as I had hoped. For that, you have my gratitude."
Nathaniel remained silent, his posture steady, his gaze unyielding as Finnovare gently closed the casket, sealing it once more.
"Very well," Finnovare continued, leaning back in his seat and clasping his hands together. "You've held up your end of the bargain splendidly. Now, it's my turn to fulfill mine. Speak, Mr. Nathaniel. Ask the questions you came here to have answered."
Nathaniel's lips pressed into a thin line as he considered his words carefully. Finally, he leaned forward, his voice calm but laced with intent. "What I want is information—on the Spirit Flower Agency. Its collapse. The deaths. And the truth behind what really brought the Links to their knees."
Finnovare's grin faded, his expression shifting to one of measured contemplation. He studied Nathaniel for a moment, as if weighing the cost of the truth he held. Then, with a nod, he leaned forward, his voice low and steady. "You don't ask for simple answers, Mr. Nathaniel. But I am a man of my word..."
To be continued...