“Lord Markus, it was a pleasure to meet you and to aid you in becoming another client of this storied bank,” Sera Meritus says, bowing me out of her office and back into the reception area. “Please feel free to visit me at any time if you have any questions or requests. I will do my absolute best to help you.”

  “Thanks for your help,” I return – I know that the bank manager has a vested interest in keeping me happy, but she’s still been professional and helpful, and I appreciate that.

  After a few more words of polite farewell, we leave the bank, the rest of my Bound and Sarran falling into place behind me.

  “You managed to get everything done that Nicholas wanted?” Sarran asks when we are in the corridor.

  “I think so,” I agree with a shrug. “Everything that he wrote in the document, anyway.”

  I see Sarran nod out of the corner of my eye.

  “At least that has gone right,” he mutters quietly to himself, perhaps not intending me to hear it. I don’t respond – the outing so far has been rather more socially active than I think Nicholas expected it to be. Though I don’t think that’s all my fault – given that Goldmine was actually waiting for me, I suspect that she would have spoken to me regardless of whether I argued with Heir Fell or not. And Softrain indicated that he had been present too – he might have been lurking to speak to me too.

  Exiting the corridor is easier than entering it – there is no need to have my House signature read again, and I don’t have to actively bring my Bound across.

  We make our way through and then out of the market again, Sarran offering me quiet nudges or verbal directions to keep us moving in the right direction – we now need to enter me into the competition officially.

  My companions are quiet, becoming tenser and tenser with every inquisitive glance and curious mutter. And there are a lot of them, meaning that by the time we leave the market, I’m starting to be concerned that Bastet and Ninja in particular will snap and attack the next person who looks at us funnily. Clearly, word has spread – the bows which I’m increasingly getting indicate just what word.

  Calm down, I warn the three feline-types and nudge Sirocco. I hold in a wince as the nudge jostles the claws Sirocco has sunk into my shoulder – only my control over Flesh-shaping is stopping my blood from escaping my body and staining my clothes. No one’s just going to attack us – not physically, at least. Sarran’s reprimand about my own use of physical force on Heir Fell makes that clear. Unless there are assassins, of course, but are they likely to attack us in the middle of a heavily traversed corridor? The thought doesn’t make me feel any more relaxed and I have to fight not to become as tense as my Bound.

  Unsurprisingly, my own lack of conviction doesn’t do much in convincing the others. Still, whether it’s the forbidding expression I fix on my face or our fast pace which clearly demonstrates our intentions, we manage to make it to our destination without being waylaid by anyone – other nobles or otherwise.

  Just like when we visited the Genealogist, this section of the palace is full of offices. Instead of being clothed in light blue, however, the people here are dressed in pale yellow.

  “Do the colours of clothing mean anything?” I mutter to Sarran curiously.

  “Merely the department of administration to which the person belongs,” he explains. “Blue are records; yellow are noble administration. There are a number of other departments too, though the one that’s most feared are the violets.”

  “Finance?” I ask with a raised eyebrow. Sarran’s own eyebrows rise significantly.

  “How did you know?”

  “Lucky guess,” I explain dismissively, a spark of amusement lighting inside me – it seems like that department is disliked in every world. “Is there some sort of…Human Resources here?” I wonder out loud.

  “There are the greens,” Sarran ventures. “They’re in charge of hiring and dismissing servants, or buying and selling slaves. They’re not much liked either and they’re always over-worked.”

  Figures. Even in a fantasy world some things stay the same.

  The office where I’m to register for the competition is smaller than I expected. Tucked away between two other offices with their doors closed, this office is the only one I’ve seen so far which is guarded, even if it’s only by a single sentinel. The guard is fully armoured and extends his spear across the doorway to block me from entering. I tense, prepared for something to go wrong – it’s hard to know the guard’s intentions without being able to see his face.

  “Name and purpose, please,” she asks with the air of one who has asked the same question far too many times.

  “Markus of House Titanbend, here to enter the competition,” I answer with faint nerves in my stomach. Do I need to present the document the Genealogist gave me or something?

  Apparently not – after obviously looking me up and down for a moment, the guard withdraws her spear.

  “Only those who are entering the competition are permitted to enter the room,” she intones monotonously. I exchange looks with Sarran.

  “I’ll stay out here,” he tells me diplomatically and steps to one side. I enter into the office, followed by my Bound – though I eye the guard slightly uncertainly, she doesn’t move to block their entry. The room inside feels more like a notary's study than the gateway to a potentially throne-winning expedition. The furnishings are simple: a desk, a few chairs, a side cabinet, and many racks of scrolls carefully bound with coloured ribbons that line the walls.

  The official sitting at the desk is a greying man who might be in his fifties if he was on Earth. Given that we’re in a completely different world where magic and Classes are impacting factors, I dare not make such an assumption. He’s neatly turned out in buttercup yellow robes marked with the crown’s sigil and what I assume is the seal of the registry. His hair is cropped close, and his expression is one of calm detachment, though there’s sharpness in his gaze, like a man used to spotting liars and fools.

  He looks up as I enter. “Markus of Titanbend…. Heir of Titanbend, I presume?”

  I nod.

  “That’s right,” I agree with a slight wry twist to my lips. Word has spread even here, it seems.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “Please be seated.” He gestures to the chair across from him. I sit, Bastet and Ninja sitting primly on either side of me, Lathani looming over my shoulder as she sits behind us. Sirocco perches on my shoulder, preening herself slightly irritably – the small confines of the spaces we’ve been entering today have been getting on her nerves. I’m only glad I didn’t give into Noir’s request to come with us to the palace too.

  The man watches them briefly, eyes flicking over each of my Bonded like he’s taking mental notes.

  “Your Bonded?” he asks, tone neutral.

  “They are Bound to me,” I confirm.

  “I see.” He doesn’t comment further, but something about the way his pen hovers over the page makes me think he’s added a mental footnote regardless.

  “I am Registrar Corvan. I take it you are here to formally register for His Majesty’s Competition? For yourself and for your House?”

  “I am.”

  “Then let us begin.” He opens a leather-bound ledger and produces a scroll from the cabinet beside him, unsealing it with a flick of his fingers. “May I see your identity seal, please?”

  Ah, this is where I produce the document the Genealogist gave me – the main reason why we had to go there first before doing this, I assume. I withdraw the scroll from my Inventory and place it on the desk. My personal seal attracts my attention as it did before, the death’s head optical illusion once more all I can see. Is it a warning to me? Or to my enemies?

  Registrar Corvan places his hand on top of the document and visibly concentrates. A soft white light pulses from below his hand and rolls over the document like a brief flash of dry ice. A matching glow responds from both my seal and the seal of House Titanbend in the top left corner. The words on the page pulse faintly blue. After a pause, all the lights fade and the document looks like a printed page once more.

  “Identity confirmed,” he declares without inflection. “This seal records you as Heir of House Titanbend and authorised to act in its name.”

  He glances at me again, more directly this time. “Heir Titanbend, do you understand what this competition entails?”

  “The competitors have to establish a colony on the Lost Continent, I believe,” I reply, a little hesitantly. “To grow it into a thriving settlement. To ensure it survives and succeeds – and to do so better than the others.”

  His expression doesn’t change, but he nods. “Correct. And do you acknowledge that declaring the winner is a privilege that belongs solely to His Majesty King Ionith? That you cannot assume or claim that you have won simply because you have created the most successful colony in terms of profit, military ventures, or amount of land and resources controlled, though these may be contributing factors?”

  “I do.”

  “And do you swear to accept the result, whatever it might be?”

  “I do.” Perhaps I’m fooling myself, but I read a hint of surprise in his eyebrows. I wonder whether other nobles have not wanted to accept that condition and have argued. But it makes complete sense for the other competitors to be obliged to accept the result of the competition – and I wonder if it’s even magically enforced. If not, I can easily imagine that civil war would follow, as those who disagree with the outcome use their newly-gained resources to make their own bid for the throne.

  Registrar Corvan doesn’t allow his slight surprise – if I didn’t misread his expression, that is – to interfere with his duties.

  “You will be expected to lead your expedition with autonomy,” he continues. “You may receive some support from your House, but the Crown will not interfere. Your success or failure is your own. Do you also understand the risks?”

  “I do.”

  “Then state them, please.”

  I pause, but only briefly as I recall what Nicholas told me about the task I would be given as his heir. “The continent is largely unknown. There are threats we may not be prepared for. Survival isn’t guaranteed. Injury or death are possible. And even if we survive, we may still fail to build something worthwhile.”

  Corvan watches me carefully as I speak, then gives a small, almost approving nod. “Very good. Many nobles simply say ‘yes’ and assume we’re talking about a hunting trip. You’re more realistic than most.”

  I don't respond. Bastet presses lightly against my knee under the desk – her version of silent support. She knows exactly how much I’ve already endured. We’ve already endured. And what we’ve built together.

  He writes something in the ledger, then pulls a fresh scroll from the rack and begins inscribing it with smooth, precise strokes of a fountain pen. The ink gleams as he writes – magical, no doubt, perhaps keyed to official enchantments.

  “You will receive this scroll as proof of entry. Do not lose it. It is bound to your mana seal and beyond acting as proof of your participation, serves as your access to Crown-provided resources related to the competition, namely any shared intelligence collected before launch. Replacements can be issued, but it will be... inconvenient.”

  He finishes writing, then passes the scroll across the desk. As I take it, a brief flicker of warmth runs through my fingers – the increasingly familiar pulse of my House magical signature connecting with the parchment.

  Sirocco leans closer to peer at the scroll, tail flicking near my ear.

  Does this mean we won’t need to stay in these shiny caves for much longer? she asks hopefully.

  Not immediately, I answer, but yes, at some point in the probably-near future, we’ll be going to somewhere that’s most likely got more in common with the world we left behind than the one of humans.

  Good, she answers in satisfaction, preening her shoulder again happily.

  “Registration complete,” Registrar Corvan continues, oblivious to our interaction. “Your House is responsible for ensuring that you make it across the ocean to the Lost Continent. You may peruse the maps we have available to determine where you wish to make your beachhead – you will be required to produce your registration to gain access. I strongly suggest that you carefully consider what preparations you should make ahead of time and who you should bring with you before departing.” He sits back slightly, folding his hands. “Any questions?”

  “Just one,” I say. “How many others have registered so far?”

  “Eleven confirmed Houses, apart from your own, however several more are expected to apply by the tenday’s end. Many are nobles of standing. Some... are not.” He tilts his head slightly, the barest note of curiosity beneath his calm professionalism as his eyes flicker across me. I wonder briefly what he’s thinking and then blink it away – does it matter?

  I rise to my feet.

  “Thank you for your help, Registrar Corvan.” I nod at him.

  “May the gods watch over your efforts, Heir Titanbend.” He bows over his desk, the first time he’s offered me one. Perhaps officials in pursuit of their duty are not obliged to offer nobles the normal gestures of respect.

  As I turn to go, Bastet pads alongside me and gives a soft chuff under her breath.

  Eleven rivals to make into pack or to drive off, she muses quietly.

  Do you think we can do it? I ask her, suddenly filled with doubt. They’re no doubt ‘proper’ heirs, with years of experience in everything I’m only beginning to learn.

  Of course we can, the raptorcat answers me. I glance sideways at her, and she lifts her head proudly, eyes gleaming bronze in the ever-present light. Confidence radiates from her – and I know it’s well-earned. We have already overcome so much. Can the soft, prey-like creatures we’ve encountered so far in this gilded cave boast the same? she asks with derision in her mental voice.

  Behind us, Corvan has already returned to his ledger. But I feel the weight of what I’ve just done settle in my chest – and the hope that Bastet is indeed right. That the trials of the past make it easier, not harder, to succeed in the future.

  We’re not going to lose, Lathani adds, determination and competitive spirit emanating from her just as faith does from Bastet. Mother will make sure we don’t.

  The scroll is warm in my hand. The future is once more cold, dark, and full of unknowns.

  But at least this time I’m not alone.

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