THE MORNING AFTER THE STORM
Reivan woke up with a sense of impending doom. It wasn’t a new feeling—ever since he got here, his life had been a series of unfortunate misunderstandings. But this time, it was worse.
The moment he stepped into the kitchen for breakfast, his father, Gerald, shoved a pile of letters into his hands.
"You mind explaining why nobles are suddenly interested in you?" Gerald asked, rubbing his temples.
Reivan stared at the tower of invitations on the table. Each one bore the seal of a noble house, ranging from minor barons to powerful viscounts.
"I… may have accidentally impressed some people," Reivan admitted.
Gerald sighed. "Accidentally?"
Reivan shrugged. "Look, it’s not my fault they think I’m some kind of strategic genius. I was just playing the game like I always do."
Gerald gave him a long look. "Son, you won a strategy game against actual war strategists. That’s not ‘just playing.’"
Reivan groaned and flopped into his chair. "Okay, but what do they actually want?"
Gerald sorted through the letters. "Sponsorship offers, mostly. Some want to ‘mentor’ you, others want you to ‘advise’ them. A few are just inviting you to social gatherings." He paused. "House Mertens sent another one. They’re… insistent."
Reivan shuddered. "Yeah, no thanks. I don’t need a noble breathing down my neck."
"Then you’ll need a plan," Gerald said. "Because the more you refuse, the more valuable they think you are."
Reivan’s stomach dropped. Great. More misunderstandings.
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WHISPERS IN THE MERCENARY GUILD
Meanwhile, in the dimly lit halls of Ravensburg’s Mercenary Guild, rumors about Reivan were spreading like wildfire.
A group of rough-looking men sat around a wooden table, drinking ale and swapping stories. Among them was Dain, a senior mercenary with deep scars on his arms and a sharp gaze.
"I’m telling you," one mercenary muttered, "the Red Fangs have stopped taking contracts. They’re reorganizing under that merchant brat."
Dain raised an eyebrow. "The Valcrest kid? Didn’t he just start making a name for himself?"
"Yeah, but word is, he’s not just some upstart. He beat nobles in a war game. And Garm’s men say his tactics are on another level."
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Dain scoffed. "Mercs and nobles don’t mix. You sure they’re not just trying to use him?"
Another mercenary leaned in. "That’s the thing—he’s using them. He’s not taking commands from anyone, but everyone keeps trying to pull him into their side."
Dain went quiet. If what they were saying was true, then this merchant’s son wasn’t just another noble pawn.
He was becoming a power player.
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THE NOBLE PERSPECTIVE
At a lavish estate far from Ravensburg, Viscount Roderic stood in his study, watching the flickering candlelight reflect off the sealed letter from Reivan Valcrest.
"The boy didn’t respond immediately," he murmured.
His steward, a thin man with a sharp gaze, shifted uneasily. "Shall we pressure him further, my lord?"
Roderic chuckled. "No need. If he were an ordinary merchant’s son, he would have jumped at the first opportunity. The fact that he hesitates… makes him more valuable."
The steward nodded. "Rumors in the capital say that the royal court is also taking notice."
Roderic’s smile faded. "Then we must ensure he belongs to us first."
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A PROBLEM THAT WON’T GO AWAY
Back at the Valcrest household, Reivan was stress eating.
"So let me get this straight," he said through a mouthful of bread. "Nobles want me. Mercenaries are whispering about me. And now I’m being watched by multiple factions?"
Gerald nodded. "Yes."
Sylphy, who was peeling an apple with eerie precision, added, "Also, the royal court probably knows about you now."
Reivan dropped his bread. "…Excuse me?"
Sylphy smirked. "It’s only a matter of time before they send someone."
Reivan groaned. "I JUST WANTED TO BE A MERCHANT!"
Gerald and Sylphy exchanged looks.
"…Did you?" Gerald asked dryly.
Reivan slumped in his chair. "Okay, maybe I made a few… tactical miscalculations."
Sylphy gave a rare chuckle. "A few?"
Reivan pointed at her. "You’re enjoying this way too much."
Gerald set his hands on the table. "Joking aside, you need to choose a side, Reivan. The longer you stay ‘independent,’ the more dangerous you become."
Reivan frowned. "Can’t I just… pretend I’m an idiot and let them forget about me?"
Sylphy leaned forward. "That would’ve worked—if you hadn’t already proven you weren’t an idiot."
Reivan rubbed his face. "So what are my options?"
Gerald sighed. "You could accept a noble’s sponsorship and gain protection, but that comes with obligations. Or you could align with the mercenaries—though that path leads to war."
Reivan shook his head. "No war."
"Then… you’ll have to make yourself too useful to remove, but not threatening enough to eliminate."
Reivan paused. That… could actually work.
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A NEW REPUTATION FORMS
The next morning, Reivan began making calculated moves. He attended some merchant meetings, subtly accepted certain invitations, and let slip just enough information to keep nobles interested—without fully committing to anyone.
Instead of being seen as a rising war strategist, he shifted the narrative toward himself being a brilliant economic mind—a merchant prodigy.
And it worked.
For now.
But as Reivan adjusted his plans, others were making their own.
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ELSEWHERE…
In a candlelit chamber, a noblewoman tapped her nails against the armrest of her chair.
"Reivan Valcrest…" she murmured. "A merchant’s son with a war strategist’s mind."
A man in a hooded cloak bowed before her. "Shall we take action?"
She smirked. "Not yet. Let’s see how far he rises first. Then we’ll see if he is an ally… or an obstacle."