The wine slid slowly down Daverion's glass, catching the warm light of the restaurant's third floor like liquid amber. The low murmur of conversations, the soft clink of cutlery, and the spiced aroma of roasting meat formed an almost unreal calm—a fragile stillness that only exists when no one realizes what is about to break.
Daverion drank peacefully, watching without truly watching, letting time pass.
Then, something changed.
It was not a sound or an obvious gesture. It was a soft pressure, almost imperceptible, as if the air itself had suddenly remembered a long-forgotten antiquity.
An old man climbed to the third floor.
He appeared to be around sixty years old, though that age felt more like a concession to appearance than a truth. His presence was restrained, gentle, yet beneath it pulsed a majesty difficult to conceal. It was neither arrogant nor overwhelming; it was a natural authority, one that seeped through his upright posture and the deliberate rhythm of his breathing.
His face was angular. High, sharp cheekbones cast clean shadows along his cheeks; his jaw, narrow yet firm, resembled the edge of a finely forged blade; his straight nose gave him a noble, almost imperial air. Every feature seemed carved with intent.
At his side walked a young girl.
Her oval face retained the pure roundness of childhood, her skin smooth and flawless, like living porcelain. Her large eyes, a deep jet black, absorbed the light with genuine curiosity. She observed the world without fear or restraint, as if she had yet to learn distrust.
The two moved toward a table at the center of the restaurant.
The old man's movements were simple and precise, without wasted energy. Nothing about him was hurried. Nothing superfluous.
Mael appeared almost immediately.
He was dressed like an ordinary waiter, yet his posture was flawless, his expression respectful and attentive—carefully rehearsed.
"What would you like to try today, my esteemed guests?" he asked with measured courtesy.
The old man lifted his gaze and studied him closely, as though seeing through invisible layers.
"What are you doing here, Mael?" he asked calmly. "Since when does someone like you serve tables?"
Mael's expression did not change.
"Pardon me, sir," he replied. "Have you perhaps mistaken me for someone else?"
A mocking smile curved the old man's lips.
"Don't pretend. Surely you don't want anyone finding out you're here."
For a brief moment, Mael's eyes softened at the corners, creating an illusion of warmth. His gray eyes seemed welcoming, like a quiet sunset.
He blinked.
An unnaturally slow blink.
When his eyes opened again, all warmth had vanished. The gentleness evaporated. Those same gray eyes became flat and cold, so sharp that the air around them seemed to thin, to freeze.
"Theron," he said. "What are you doing here?"
Another blink.
The coldness disappeared completely.
"My granddaughter wanted to go out and play with her grandfather," the old man replied casually.
He turned to the girl and smiled.
"Order whatever you like, Lyra."
"I want meat, Grandpa," she said without hesitation. "And grape juice."
"Waiter," Theron continued, "you heard my granddaughter. Bring her the meat. And bring me wine."
Mael exhaled quietly, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
"Of course, sir. We'll bring your order right away."
As he stepped away, Theron scanned the restaurant with his gaze. His eyes paused for only a brief instant on Daverion—just long enough to register him—before moving on.
Five minutes later, Mael returned with the dishes.
"Enjoy your meal."
"Good work," Theron said with a soft laugh. "Keep it up. I might even hire you."
Mael's expression tightened slightly.
"Let's stop pretending," he said in a low voice. "We're both here for the same reason. You're interested in that person, aren't you?"
"I have my doubts," Theron replied. "Just like you."
Mael inclined his head slightly.
"If we measure him, those doubts disappear. I have an object capable of measuring someone's power. Not even Sovereigns are beyond its reach."
Theron frowned.
"You just want to drag me down with you if something goes wrong."
"Don't worry," Mael said with a serene smile. "This object has never failed."
Theron remained silent for a few seconds. Finally, he nodded.
Mael did not waste time.
From within his sleeve, he produced a small, ancient object made of a material that did not seem to belong to any known era. It did not glow or emit visible energy. It was discreet to the point of being forgettable.
When Mael activated it, nothing happened—at least, nothing perceptible to anyone else.
But for Mael and Theron, the world changed.
The colors of the restaurant shifted subtly. Warm tones deepened, thickened, as if reality itself had been submerged beneath an invisible layer of ancient ink.
The object did not measure brute force.
It read existence.
Vibrations.
The imprint a being left upon the very fabric of the world.
Theron's expression changed the moment he felt the activation.
And then twisted into shock when the object began to resist.
Then it broke.
It did not explode.
It made no sound.
It simply fractured, as if reality itself had rejected its function.
The color of the world snapped back into place.
Silence fell.
Mael stood frozen, stricken. Only he knew that not even when his organization had used this object to measure the last Sovereign—the Seventh—had anything like this occurred. It had never broken.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Lyra, oblivious to everything, gently swung her legs beneath the table. She had completely ignored the tense looks and veiled words; to her, the adults were simply talking about boring things.
Then she heard footsteps.
One.
Another.
She looked up.
A man was walking toward their table.
He did not look angry.
He did not look powerful.
He did not even look important.
Yet something about him made Lyra stop swinging her legs.
It was not fear.
It was curiosity.
It felt like the moment when the world grows very quiet just before it rains.
"That's strange," she thought.
She felt no pressure.
No threat.
She felt comfortable.
As if that man had belonged there long before the restaurant existed.
When Daverion stopped in front of the table, Lyra looked directly at his face, without shyness or forced respect. Her eyes traced his features with childish naturalness.
"He's not playing."
"But he's not angry either."
She looked at her grandfather.
Then at the waiter.
Then back at the man.
"Adults always talk about complicated things," she decided.
Daverion stopped before Mael and Theron. His presence was neither oppressive nor threatening.
It was natural.
"You two," he said calmly, indifferently, "are not ordinary people, are you?"
The silence deepened.
Lyra smiled faintly, as if she had just found something interesting in the middle of a boring afternoon.