The grandeur of the banquet outdid the opulent welcome, with the well-paved path guiding them through the orderly garden, with the feathering fragrant petals saluting their steps, with the undulating notes of the orchestra enlivening the night, and the decorated hall added the last touch with its sumptuous assemblage of steaming and aromatic food.

  “Welcome to my humble home.” When Ewan and the others crossed into the hall, and the soft clamor from the mixed chatter washed over them, a man in a formal black wear took the stage, standing high with his shoulders wide. His sonorous voice resonated with a slight buzz as his spotlight dimmed the rest.

  Moths fluttered in his shadow while a seething swarm veiled his face, and their existence validated his status—Merwyn, the Mothflame, of the masked conclave and the Seigneur of Fallsard Enclave. “I really appreciate you all answering my invitation, thank you all for coming. I’m not a man of many words, so I won't take much of your time,” he said. “This was to be a simple get together before, acquainting with each other, and it will remain so now, but I must add something on this occasion.”

  The hall housed the guests and the hosts and their murmurs, yet maintained its expanse, and the rolling melody backdropped the casual talks. But as a female attendant with a deep valley served Ewan and the four and led them to their named table, they all hushed for Merwyn’s words.

  “As you all may know, our area of Morinfair has been engulfed in chaos recently, from the sun to the children, and many have died for it,” he said, taking a breath. “And while I’m deeply grateful to you for putting your trust in me and disregarding the unfair contract, I must ask you for more. I know the allure of information, and what you may achieve if you can gather all the children who carry such treasure. But this has caused too much bloodshed already, the unending news of death has me worn down. And since Ashevagord is too busy to take any step against it, I’ve decided from my end to pay out all I have to end this madness. I will give out an Anima Crystal mine to each of the guests here, and I only want your promise in return. You don’t need to sign any contract of peace; you just need to give me your word.”

  A wave of silence rippled in the hall, but it only rested for a moment when the realization dawned on the crowd and stirred the waters, and soon the heavy breaths and the sparkling eyes echoed with avarice.

  “I agree!” someone yelled from his table, raising his glass, and the liquor sloshed out.

  “I agree too!” Another followed. “Same, I’ll give you my word!” And then another.

  “Boss,” Kidd whispered and looked at Ewan, and the other three did the same.

  “We’ll agree,” Ewan said to the four then raised his glass to the Seigneur. “You have our promise; we’ll strive for peace.”

  …..

  “Seems like the contract had some credibility,” Stefan said, taking a bite of bread with an overload of dressing on top. The restrained Ryvia of the guests barely moved beyond the reach of their arm’s length, and the amalgamated gray in Ewan’s eyes kept to their tables, as if isolated islands in the ocean. And so, they voiced their thoughts, minding the routes of the waiters.

  “What about it?” Lance asked.

  “An upsurge in everyone’s riches without the change in economic circumstances will inevitably lead to the crash of the market,” Stefan said. “The generous gift of the mines is a sweet poison.”

  “How so? We’re just getting rich,” Kidd said, stuffing his face with meat and sauce, shoving all his greens to Lance’s plate, sneaking some to Stefan’s too.

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  “The rise in wealth will spike the demand in the market, but the supply will remain the same,” Ewan said, the ice cubes clinking in his glass, the fizzy brown liquor hiding their depth, and he also shifted his crunchy carrots to Nana’s plate, dodging her glare. “It’ll lead to hyperinflation. The prices will soar; we’ll have to pay an arm and a leg just to buy an Astylind Core. Whether he’s doing it deliberately, hiding his motive behind the mask of goodness, or it’s just a collateral damage that he’s willing to accept…” Ewan shrugged. “Can't say.”

  “What could he gain from making others rich though? The crash should affect him too, right?” Lance asked, finishing his plate diligently, mopping the last bit of gravy with the toasted garlic bread.

  “Market manipulation, hoarding, some rite of advancement, pure chaos, who knows,” Stefan said, chugging his wine.

  “It might even be something else entirely,” Ewan said, giving his share of the salted caramel ice cream to Nana—she’d grown to love this flavor. “The mines might have a problem…”

  “Should we not take it then?” Nana asked, scarfing spoonful of the slightly melted ice cream.

  “We’ll see, we can decide that when he check it out,” Ewan said, wiping the corners of her mouth then licking the cream off his thumb. “Eat slowly, no one’s taking it away.”

  “It’s melting,” she said with her mouth crammed.

  “Let me freeze it then,” he quipped.

  “Don’t,” she said, keeping the ice cream cup away from him. “It changes the texture, becomes icy.”

  The drone of the moths approached before Merwyn’s elongated shadow reached for them, and the indistinct whispers of the nearby tables quietened—only the clatters of the cutlery rang aloud. The Seigneur made rounds in the hall, towing the moths with him, addressing each table personally with minutes of his evening—he had a smile beneath that humming mask of moths, no one could deny that. The polite words and the courteous stance garnered him a cordial response from the hall, but they were, in the end, icing on the wealth he gifted them. The man was about to make them filthy rich; no one could be rude to him. And finally, he came to Ewan.