Michael sat up slowly, the linen sheet slipping off his bare torso.
The floor was cold beneath his feet as he stood, but he didn't flinch.
Without rushing, he made his way to the bath.
There was also water in the large bath tub but it was cold.
However Michael didn't care.
Michael lowered himself into the water and leaned back, letting his body relax. The cool sensation seeped into his skin, but his mind remained clear.
After scrubbing his skin clean and running a cloth over his hair, Michael rose, water dripping from his form.
Michael stepped out and reached for the towel, wiping himself dry with slow, thodical movents.
Once done, he walked over to the wardrobe.
It was built into the wall, tall and wide, its doors opening to reveal rows of neatly hung garnts. Robes lined with fine thread.
Tunics dyed in rare colors like midnight blue and forest green.
So had delicate patterns stitched into them.
There were also coats lined with fur, cloaks with silk interiors, and boots made of blackened leather.
Michael stared at it all for a mont, as if assessing what version of himself he wanted to show today.
Just a few days ago, the wardrobe had been nearly empty. But after his recent visit to the Inner City, that changed.
With the surplus silver coins he had, Michael had purchased these clothes from a tailor whose shop was nestled between a jeweler and a shoe store.
The man had been quick to flatter, quick to bow, and even quicker to fetch his best work.
Michael had accepted it all without expression. He didn't dress to impress. But power often needed to be displayed—especially in places like the core.
He chose a dark green robe with subtle embroidery at the cuffs. Clean lines, minimal embellishnts, but clearly expensive.
Michael pulled it on, adjusted the belt, then moved to the smaller drawer beside the wardrobe.
Inside, resting among glass bottles cushioned with velvet, were a few perfus.
He reached for a small, dark vial and uncorked it. The scent drifted out imdiately—sharp at first, then warm and llow, like aged wood soaked in faint citrus.
Michael dabbed the perfu across his wrists, then lightly across his neck. The scent mingled with the fabric of his robe, subtle but distinct.
Now prepared, he stood still for a mont.
Today mattered.
And Michael was sure it wasn't just him.
Unless Mage Lian had found soone else—soone better suited for his situation—Michael was certain the old man had been waiting for him.
It had been nearly a week since their last eting, and Michael couldn't help but wonder how the old man was doing now, and how he felt about the delay.
Delaying him hadn't been part of Michael's plan.
He hadn't lied when he said he needed ti to think.
But that ti to think had caused him to temporarily set the old man's matter aside.
Especially after evolving—when he no longer had to worry about his body exploding from excess mana—and with new things taking over his focus.
Even so, while forgetting might be excusable, what Michael considered truly unacceptable was neglecting the old man to the point of damaging their relationship.
Michael stepped out of the house, closing the wooden door behind him with a soft thud.
The morning sun had risen fully by now, casting long shadows across the dusty streets of the outer city.
The air was brisk, carrying with it the scent of baked bread, iron, and smoke from early forges.
Outside the silver district, people bustled about—rchants shouting prices, children darting between legs—but the crowd parted subtly when they saw him.
There was no formal recognition, no salutes or greetings, yet many eyes lingered. A few nodded, and so whispered.
Michael walked with steady steps, unhurried, his dark green robe fluttering faintly in the breeze.
As he approached the gate leading to the inner city, the guards stationed there straightened slightly.
One of them, a man with grizzled cheeks and sharp brown eyes, gave Michael a quick glance and then a nod.
"Morning, sir," the man said.
Michael returned the nod wordlessly.
There was no request for identification. No questions. No delay.
They simply stepped aside and let him pass, the iron gate creaking open without protest.
Just like the guards at the outer city gates, these ones had co to recognize his face—and more importantly, what it ant.
The difference between the outer and inner city was imdiate. The roads were better paved, lined with cleaner stones.
Buildings stood taller and were made from smoother bricks.
Fountains decorated intersections, and the air slled faintly of herbs and incense rather than ash and sweat.
Michael didn't stop to admire any of it.
He didn't detour to the market square or the gardens, nor did he pause to greet any of the people who turned to watch him walk by.
The Golden Family residence stood at the end of a long, curved street flanked by silver lanterns and trimd hedges.
The estate was walled and tall, with polished brass gates and guards in livery bearing the family's crest.
Michael slowed his steps as he approached.
This wasn't his first ti here.
It was the Golden Family who had once helped him contact Mage Lian.
According to his knowledge, he could also go to other noble houses and as long as he had the token the grand mage gave him, any of them should welco him.
However, Michael didn't do this.
He preferred familiarity. And they were familiar with him. That was enough.
The guards at the gate stepped forward, one of them already lifting the latch.
"Sir Michael," one said with a small bow.
Michael gave a small nod.
"I need an audience with soone in charge."
The guard exchanged a glance with his companion, then gestured him in with one choosing to lead the way.
"We'll inform the steward. Please, proceed."
Michael stepped through the gates without hesitation, the cool scent of trimd grass and polished stone greeting him as he entered the Golden Family's estate.
He didn't know how long the old man had waited. But today, that wait would end.
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