Reivan had never liked the imperial capital.

Too many people. Too much noise. Too many politicians with knives hidden behind smiles.

But today, as his carriage rolled through the wide, marble-paved streets, he felt particularly on edge.

It wasn’t just the usual noble gossip.

This time, they were watching him.

From the balconies of gilded estates to the street corners where merchants traded whispers like currency—

Reivan had become a name worth noticing.

And that was a very bad thing.

The imperial capital, Veydris, had always been a viper’s nest.

A city of high marble towers, glittering palaces, and sprawling marketplaces—

But beneath the surface?

A ruthless battlefield where words were sharper than swords.

The streets, once merely filled with gossip about royal affairs and trade routes, were now buzzing with rumors of Reivan.

Some whispered that he was a hidden warlord, building an empire in secret.

Others claimed he was a shadow puppet master, manipulating the empire’s decline for his own gain.

The truth?

He was just trying to survive.

Unfortunately, the nobles had decided he was worth either courting or killing.

And both options involved headaches.

By the time Reivan stepped into his rented estate, a mountain of sealed letters and summons awaited him.

Garm, standing nearby, whistled. "That’s a lot of fancy paper. You piss off the entire capital already?"

Reivan scanned the letters without touching them.

Some bore the wax seals of powerful families.

Some were from minor nobles, hoping to ride his coattails.

And some—

Some were traps.

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He sighed. "I’d say it’s about half-and-half."

Sylpkx, lounging on the windowsill, snorted. "Which half wants you dead?"

Reivan flicked a particularly ornate envelope. "The ones who sent poisoned invitations."

Garm frowned. "Poisoned?"

Reivan nodded, holding up the letter without opening it. "There’s a subtle alchemical scent. The ink they used? Laced with a slow-acting nerve agent."

Garm stared. "They poisoned their own invitations?"

"Welcome to politics," Reivan muttered.

Sylpkx grinned. "Should I eat the messengers for you?"

Reivan sighed. "As tempting as that is, no. We’re still playing the civilized game."

For now.

Later that evening, Reivan reluctantly attended a private gathering hosted by Duke Varion.

The grand hall was lined with chandeliers, polished marble, and nobles wearing expressions of casual deceit.

Reivan hated it already.

Duke Varion—a towering, broad-shouldered man with the aura of a battlefield general forced into politics—greeted him with a smirk.

"Sir Reivan," he said, voice rich with amusement. "You’ve caused quite the stir."

Reivan smiled politely. "Unintentionally."

"Ah, but intent is irrelevant. You’ve drawn power, whether you sought it or not."

Reivan sipped his wine. "And what do you suggest I do with it?"

Varion chuckled. "The same thing every powerful man does in court—survive."

Reivan sighed internally. Not helpful.

Of course, it didn’t take long for someone to pick a fight.

Count Estienne—a noble whose family had controlled military logistics for decades—clearly saw Reivan as a threat.

And so, halfway through the evening, he raised his voice.

"A merchant masquerading as a warlord," Estienne mused, his voice carrying across the hall. "Tell me, Sir Reivan—do you truly believe that coin can buy loyalty as well as blood?"

The room went silent.

Reivan exhaled.

Great.

This was the part where he had to play their game.

So he smiled—just slightly.

"Coin doesn’t buy loyalty, Count," he said smoothly. "But it does buy food, shelter, weapons, and trained soldiers. And I find that well-fed, well-armed men tend to be more… loyal than starving ones."

A few nobles chuckled.

Estienne wasn’t amused. "Spoken like a man who has never bled for his cause."

Reivan tilted his head. "Ah. Are we comparing scars now? Shall I strip my shirt and count the knife wounds I’ve earned dodging assassins? Or would you prefer we measure battlefield losses instead?"

A murmur ran through the crowd.

Estienne scowled. "War isn’t something one can manage like a ledger."

Reivan’s smile didn’t waver. "And yet, if you had managed your ledgers better, perhaps your last campaign wouldn’t have run out of supplies before winter."

The crowd laughed.

Estienne’s face darkened.

And just like that—

Reivan had won the exchange.

As the gathering began to wind down, Sylpkx approached him, grinning.

"You pissed off the wrong noble," she said, sipping a stolen glass of wine.

Reivan sighed. "I piss off every noble. It’s a numbers game at this point."

Garm clapped him on the back. "That was fun! You should insult people more often!"

Reivan gave him a look. "That’s how wars start."

"Yeah, but it’s entertaining."

Sylpkx leaned in. "By the way, Count Estienne left early."

Reivan frowned. "That’s bad, isn’t it?"

Sylpkx grinned. "Oh, it’s terrible."

Because when a noble left early, it meant one thing.

They weren’t planning their next move.

They were already executing it.

Just before midnight, a letter arrived.

Unlike the others, this one wasn’t a noble’s invitation.

It was a warning.

The wax seal was broken. The edges were smudged.

A sign that the messenger had delivered it in a hurry.

Reivan unfolded the paper, scanning the words.

Then, slowly, he set it down.

Sylpkx watched him carefully. "Bad news?"

Reivan exhaled.

"Oh," he muttered. "It’s worse than bad."

Because it wasn’t just a political move anymore.

It was an assassination order.

And it had already been signed.