When Philip arrived at the eastern camp, it was already fully dark.

  From a distance, the lights formed a warm circle in the middle of the field. They were not the flickering flames of an ordinary soldiers’ camp, but a steadier glow coming from crystals hanging in front of several large tents.

  Even before entering, Philip could already guess what they were.

  Magic.

  He handed the invitation card to the guard.

  The guard glanced at the wax seal, checked it quickly, and bowed his head.

  “Please enter. Sir Roland Arvel is inside.”

  Philip lifted the tent flap and stepped in.

  The interior was far larger than the outside suggested. Three long tables stood in the center of the space, with softly glowing crystals suspended above them, casting an even light that did not flicker like oil lamps.

  Almost everything in the banquet seemed connected to magic.

  Glass drink containers emitted a faint glow from within. When the liquid was poured into a cup, it maintained a steady temperature, neither becoming too cold nor warming with time.

  Silver plates were arranged along the tables. The food placed on them still held warmth, even though it had clearly been prepared quite some time earlier.

  Even the fruit tray in the corner had a small stone placed beneath it—something that seemed to keep the fruit fresh.

  Taken as a whole, the banquet resembled more of a demonstration of small magical conveniences than a display of luxury.

  A little more than ten nobles were present.

  With a brief glance, Philip immediately noticed something.

  They were all older than him.

  Not by much—most appeared to be somewhere in their thirties or forties—but clearly they were people who already had experience managing territories or had at least participated in several military campaigns.

  Among them, Philip was almost certainly the youngest.

  Which also meant he needed to be more careful in his conduct.

  Not long after Philip entered, a tall, slender man approached him.

  His armor bore many scratches but was kept clean. At his side hung a large leather pouch that looked more like something a traveling mage might carry than the gear of a knight.

  “Lord Philip Montserrat.”

  The voice was calm, carrying the tone of someone accustomed to speaking with nobles.

  Philip bowed politely.

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  “Sir Roland Arvel.”

  Roland returned the gesture with appropriate formality—he was clearly a few years older than Philip and, in this setting, the host of the banquet.

  “I’m grateful that you accepted my invitation,” Roland said.

  “It is an honor to attend your gathering,” Philip replied.

  Roland nodded slightly and gestured toward the tables.

  “My apologies if the preparations appear somewhat… unusual.”

  Philip looked more carefully at the items laid out.

  Roland opened the leather pouch at his side and placed several objects on the table.

  A silver cup.

  An intricately crafted bronze spoon.

  A small wooden box containing a pale blue stone.

  Roland lifted the cup.

  “If water or wine is poured into this, the temperature remains stable for a long period.”

  He set the cup down and pointed to the spoon.

  “This one can reduce the bitterness of low-quality wine.”

  Finally, he indicated the stone.

  “If placed in an enclosed room, this stone can slightly regulate humidity, making the air more comfortable.”

  The nobles standing around the table listened with serious and polite expressions.

  A baron considerably older than Philip picked up the cup to examine it.

  “A remarkable piece of work,” he said slowly. “I must admit I do not understand magic very well, but crafting something like this cannot be simple.”

  Another noble nodded.

  “Indeed. Applications like these in daily life certainly have their own value.”

  All the comments were very courteous.

  But Philip also noticed something Roland had probably already anticipated.

  No one asked the price.

  No one showed interest in buying.

  A war was about to begin. In such circumstances, a temperature-preserving cup or a humidity-regulating stone was not the kind of thing small lords were thinking about.

  Roland did not seem bothered. He simply thanked them for their remarks and carefully returned the items to their places.

  Then he turned to Philip.

  “If you wish, please feel free to speak with the other guests. Most of them represent territories in this region.”

  “I would be glad to make their acquaintance,” Philip replied.

  For some time afterward, Philip approached each group of nobles in turn.

  He always began with the proper formalities: stating his name, introducing the Montserrat territory, and asking about their journey and the forces they had brought.

  A baron from the western riverlands spoke cautiously about the number of soldiers he had brought.

  A knight representing a southern territory mentioned the difficulty of preparing enough supplies.

  Another heir said that his family had participated in two previous campaigns under the count.

  Philip listened more than he spoke.

  That was probably the most appropriate approach for the youngest person in the tent.

  Even so, he made an effort to remember each person’s name.

  After a while, a common pattern began to emerge.

  Most of the nobles present shared similar circumstances.

  Small families.

  Limited forces.

  Little political influence compared to the great lords.

  If this campaign failed, territories like theirs would be the first to suffer losses.

  Philip stood beside a small table, holding a faintly glowing drink in his hand.

  A thought slowly began to form.

  If each small territory fought alone, they would always be the ones most vulnerable. Not only to enemies on the battlefield, but sometimes also to decisions made by those above them.

  But if these smaller territories could cooperate—at least sharing information, warning one another of danger, or supporting each other in defense—the situation might change slightly.

  There was no need for a formal alliance.

  That would certainly attract the count’s attention.

  But a network of relationships… might be possible.

  Philip looked around the tent.

  The nobles here still maintained clear ceremonial distance. They spoke in the composed tones of people accustomed to polite society.

  But they were beginning to remember each other’s names.

  Among nobles, sometimes that alone was the first step toward many other things.

  On the other side of the tent, Roland was still patiently explaining a magical spoon to two older guests.

  Both listened attentively, nodding occasionally out of respect, though neither mentioned buying it.

  Philip watched the scene for a moment.

  A knight fascinated by magic.

  A banquet where nearly everything was supported by small spells.

  And a group of minor nobles, all preparing to enter a campaign that might change the fate of their territories.

  Philip set down his glass.

  The night was still long.

  And there were still a few people he had yet to speak with.