Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution

Chapter 172: THE CITY OF MAGES

The sun had climbed high into the sky when the black SUV finally crossed the city limits of Aritama.

The air felt different—warmer, more humid, and there was a faint tingle at the tip of one’s nose. Mana. The air here was thick with it, like an invisible mist shrouding every corner. Rianor felt it at his fingertips—a subtle vibration he had never encountered in Northreach.

"This is Aritama," Elara said softly.

She gazed out the window with an expression that was hard to decipher. A faint smile touched her lips, but her fingers trembled as she gripped Rianor’s hand.

"Quite lively," Rianor commented, observing the streets.

Mages clad in robes strolled along the sidewalks. Some carried staves topped with floating crystals, while others wore cloaks that shimmered faintly with every step. Shops lined both sides of the road—selling potions in glass vials, parchment scrolls sealed with red wax, and mana crystals of various sizes displayed in glass storefronts.

One shop sold tiny, glowing birds in cages. Another displayed swords with hilts embedded with glowing red gems.

Their black iron vehicle moved slowly through the crowd. Several citizens turned to look. Some stared with furrowed brows. A small child even stopped chewing his apple, mouth agape, pointing at the car before being pulled away by his mother, who whispered something in a hurried tone.

Rianor didn’t pay them much mind. His eyes were fixed on something in the distance.

The silhouette of a tower loomed on the eastern horizon. It was slender, tapering at the peak like a needle piercing the heavens. Its scale was immense—perhaps equivalent to a fifty-story skyscraper, towering far above the red roofs of Aritama.

"The Tower of Babil," Elara said, following his gaze. "The capital of Eastmarch, Dawnshroud, is located there. That tower is the seat of power for Duchess Clarissa. The strongest mages on the continent gather there."

Rianor nodded slowly. "The height is incredible."

"Built with pure mana and ancient sorcery. They say it took a hundred years to complete." Elara offered a faint smile. "From Aritama, only its silhouette is visible. But if you stand atop the eastern hill, you can see the entire tower rising from the mist. It’s a sight that... makes you feel small."

There was a hint of longing in her voice. But there was also fear.

Rianor squeezed her hand. "Do you miss this place?"

Elara fell silent for a moment. "I miss... the view. I miss the wind on the eastern hill when the sun rises and the fog begins to lift." She looked down. "But nothing more than that."

The car continued onward, leaving the bustling city center behind. The road began to incline. Lush trees on either side replaced the stone buildings. Houses became sparse, replaced by stone fences marking the boundaries of noble estates.

Dom, sitting in the front, glanced occasionally at the rearview mirror. His eyes were wary despite his relaxed posture. The two Ghost Squad members in the back remained silent, but their fingers hovered near their waists—close to their weapons.

"Clear," Dom reported quietly. "No one is following."

Rianor simply nodded.

"My home is at the top of that hill." Elara pointed ahead toward a grand structure emerging from the trees. Its roof was a deep crimson, contrasting with the sturdy gray stone walls. "Kastel Velmora."

The journey from the city center took some time. The hill wasn’t particularly high, but the road was winding, curving to follow the terrain. The higher they went, the denser the trees became. Between the branches, spheres of floating light occasionally appeared—mana lamps illuminating the path.

"Is this still Velmora territory?" Rianor asked.

"Ever since that first stone gate back there." Elara pointed behind them. "These trees, those lights—they all belong to my family. The Velmoras control nearly a third of Aritama. My father... Adrian Velmora... is one of the wealthiest mages in Eastmarch."

"Adrian Velmora." Rianor repeated the name softly. "I’ve heard of him. One of the mages who refused the royal invitation to join the Aethelgard Magic Council."

"Because he considers himself above the council." Elara’s voice was flat. "He’s not wrong, technically. But that’s no excuse."

The car finally emerged from the treeline. Kastel Velmora unfolded before them.

The building was magnificent. Gray stone walls towered high with small turrets at every corner. Stained-glass windows depicted intricate magical symbols. In the front courtyard, a stone fountain shaped like a griffin spewed shimmering water—not from sunlight, but from the mana infused within it.

The gardens surrounding the castle were perfectly manicured. Spiral-shaped hedges, strange flowers with dimly glowing petals, and small trees with silver leaves.

"Beautiful," Rianor said honestly.

Elara smiled bitterly. "I used to play in that garden. Until Celeste told me the garden was only for true mages, not for trash like me."

Rianor didn’t respond, but his jaw tightened.

The car came to a halt in front of a towering black iron gate. Two stone pillars on either side were adorned with carvings of intertwined dragons. Atop the pillars, blue crystal orbs glowed faintly.

Five guards stood there.

They wore leather armor with short navy-blue capes—the colors of House Velmora. Their weapons were no ordinary blades; short crystal staves hung from their waists, and swords with glowing hilts were strapped to their backs.

The car stopped. The engine died.

Silence.

The guards exchanged glances. Their faces showed a mixture of confusion and suspicion. A black iron carriage without horses, without visible magic—they had never seen anything like it.

Rianor opened the door. The fresh air, carrying the scent of exotic flowers, greeted him.

He walked to the back and opened the trunk. Dom had already retrieved the folding wheelchair, snapping it open with quick, precise movements. The other Ghost Squad members stepped out, standing near the car, eyes scanning the surroundings.

Rianor opened the door on Elara’s side.

"Let me—"

"I’ve got you," Rianor interrupted gently.

He scooped Elara up—one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back. Elara blushed, her face turning crimson. Her small hands reached for Rianor’s neck, holding on tight.

"I can..." she murmured shyly.

"I know." Rianor lifted her with ease. "But let me do this."

The guards’ eyes widened even further. A man in full armor—older than the rest, likely the squad leader—took a step forward, his hand hovering near his crystal staff.

With careful movements, Rianor lowered Elara into the wheelchair. He adjusted her legs, ensuring she was comfortable. Taking a thin blanket Dom offered, he covered Elara’s lap.

"Thank you," Elara whispered.

Rianor offered a faint smile. "You’re welcome."

He stood up. His face shifted. The smile vanished, replaced by the stoic expression that had become his trademark on the battlefield. It wasn’t cold—but a measured, lethal calm. An authority that didn’t need to be shouted.

He approached the gate. Dom and the three Ghost Squad members followed two paces behind. Not too close, not too far. Close enough to observe, close enough to react.

The guard leader raised his hand. "Halt. Who—"

"Rianor Sudrath." Rianor’s voice was flat and firm, not loud but carrying clearly. "Son of Duke Lucian Sudrath of Northreach. I am here to see the Velmora family."

The name hung in the air.

Sudrath.

The guards looked at each other again. Hesitation flickered on their faces. They might have heard the name—tales of a northern noble family that built a city without magic, of strange technology that turned iron into deadly weapons. But they had never seen it firsthand.

Then their eyes drifted to the woman in the wheelchair.

Red hair. Purple eyes.

One of the guards drew a sharp breath. There was something familiar there. But he couldn’t quite place it. It was just a strange feeling nagging at the back of his mind.

The squad leader blinked. His eyes moved from Rianor to the black car, then to the Ghost Squad with their strange weapons.

"Wait a moment," he said finally. He gestured to one of his men. "Report inside."

The guard ran into the courtyard, disappearing behind the gates.

Silence returned.

The wind blew, carrying the scent of silver flowers from the garden. Elara looked down, her fingers fiddling with the edge of her blanket. Rianor stood beside her, his hands resting on the handles of the wheelchair.

No one spoke.

A few minutes passed. The guard returned, approaching the squad leader and whispering something. The leader nodded, then pressed something on the stone pillar.

The blue crystal orb atop the pillar pulsed. The black iron gate opened slowly, silently, without the screech of metal on metal.

"Please enter, Lord Sudrath," the squad leader said. His eyes still lingered on the wheelchair with an odd expression. "Forgive the simple welcome. We were not informed of a guest from Northreach."

Rianor nodded politely. "It is a sudden visit. There was no prior notice."

He pushed Elara’s wheelchair into the castle grounds.

The inner courtyard of Kastel Velmora was even vaster than it appeared from the outside. The gardens here were more meticulously kept. Emerald grass was trimmed perfectly, hedges were shaped into geometric spirals, and in the center of the courtyard, a towering marble statue stood—a man in long robes, one hand raising a staff, the other holding a crystal orb.

"The Velmora ancestor," Elara whispered. "The founder of the Crimson Clan of Arkana."

Rianor only glanced at it. His eyes moved to the main building—double wooden doors carved with the tree of life, stained-glass windows displaying battles between mages and monsters, and above the door, the Velmora crest carved in stone: a crimson tree with roots reaching down like claws.

Dom and the Ghost Squad remained outside, standing by the car. They didn’t need orders—they knew their place.

Rianor pushed the wheelchair toward the main entrance.

An elderly butler in a crisp suit was waiting at the door. His hair was white, his face wrinkled, but his eyes were sharp. He bowed politely.

"Lord Sudrath, Lady Velmora is waiting in the drawing room. Please follow me."

Rianor caught the slight change in Elara’s posture. Her shoulders tensed. Her hands gripped the armrests of the wheelchair.

"You aren’t alone," Rianor whispered.

Elara took a soft breath. "I know."

The butler opened the doors.

The drawing room of Kastel Velmora was a vast space with high ceilings. A crystal chandelier hung in the center, casting a warm light that danced on the stone walls. Deep red velvet sofas were neatly arranged, a coffee table made of polished dark wood sat in the center, and in the corner, bookshelves were filled with parchment scrolls and thick leather-bound books.

Above the stone fireplace, a family portrait hung—a man in black robes stood in the center, an elegant woman beside him, and two young men and a woman behind them. Their faces were cold. Elegant. Distant.

And in the center of the room, in the primary chair, a woman sat with grace.

Her hair was pitch black, neatly styled with a silver clip. Her robes were made of deep purple silk with ancient runes embroidered in gold thread. Her face was still beautiful despite the fine lines of age at the corners of her eyes and lips. Her eyes—just like Elara’s—were purple.

But there was no warmth in them.

Elvari Velmora stared at them both.

Her eyes moved to Rianor first, studying his face, his clothes, and the way he carried himself. Then her gaze shifted to the wheelchair.

To Elara.

To her legs covered by the blanket.

There was no shock. No pity. No tears of joy.

Only... silence.

It was like looking at something she hadn’t thought about in a long time. Like finding an old item in storage—something that once existed but had long been forgotten.

Elara lowered her head. Her hands gripped the wheelchair handles so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Elvari smiled.

It was a measured smile. A smile practiced for years in noble circles. Warm on the surface, but bone-chillingly cold beneath.

"Lord Rianor Sudrath," she greeted in a feigned, soft voice. "Son of Duke Lucian. It is truly an honor to receive a visit from you. Although... we were not informed beforehand."

She emphasized the words ’not informed’ with a subtle tone—not a protest, but a reminder. That this was an uninvited visit. That they were unprepared. That perhaps, she shouldn’t have bothered to receive him at all.

Rianor bowed politely. "Apologies for the inconvenience, Lady Velmora. This is a sudden visit. I did not have time to send word ahead."

"It is no matter." Elvari smiled again. Her eyes flicked to Elara, then back to Rianor. "So, what brings the son of the Duke of Northreach to our humble abode?"

Rianor stood tall.

He could play politics, though not as skillfully as Roland. He could engage in soft diplomacy, small talk, and build tension before delivering his purpose. But he didn’t want to.

Elara, beside him, had waited long enough. She had been hurt long enough. Ignored long enough.

"I am here," Rianor said, his voice calm and firm, "to inform you that I will be marrying Elara."

Silence.

A silence so thick the ticking of the clock in the corner of the room could be heard clearly. The crystal chandelier vibrated slightly from the wind through the open window.

Elvari froze.

The smile remained on her lips, but her eyes... they were hollow. As if she were processing nonsensical information. As if she had heard a joke that wasn’t funny.

In her wheelchair, Elara lowered her head even further. Her red hair fell to cover her face. Her hands gripped the blanket.

Rianor did not move. He didn’t add another word. He simply stood there, beside the wheelchair, his hand resting on the handle—not rushed, not nervous.

Elvari finally exhaled. Slowly. Measured.

Her smile widened—but it wasn’t a warm smile. It was the same smile Elara had described. The smile a mother uses when her child says something ridiculous.

"Marriage?" she repeated softly. Her gaze moved to Elara, then back to Rianor. "To Elara?"

Her voice didn’t rise. She wasn’t angry. She was just... asking. As if confirming an impossible fact.

"Yes." Rianor didn’t blink.

Elvari stared at him for a long time. Perhaps she saw something in the young man’s face. Something she couldn’t refute. Something that made her smile slowly fade.

"She..." Elvari looked down for a moment, then back at Elara. "...is in a wheelchair. Paralyzed."

Rianor didn’t answer. He only stared.

"And her magic?" Elvari asked. "She has lost her mana. I can feel it. There is no vibration of mana in her body. None."

Rianor remained silent.

Elvari drew a breath. She straightened her back, smoothed her robes, and for the first time, a truly cold expression appeared on her face.

"Lord Sudrath," she said, her voice still soft but with a sharper edge beneath. "I do not understand. You are the son of Duke Lucian. The Sudrath family is at the height of its power. You could choose anyone. Any noble daughter. Perhaps even a princess."

She paused. Her eyes scanned Elara with an indecipherable look.

"Why would you choose... her?"

In the wheelchair, Elara’s shoulders trembled.

Rianor felt it. A tiny tremor that wouldn’t have been visible if he weren’t standing this close. A tremor he had known for a long time—since he first saw Elara in the hospital, since he first held her hand.

He lowered his hand to Elara’s shoulder. Not a hug. Not a pull. Just a touch. Just letting her know he was there.

"Because I love her."

The sentence came out flatly. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t heroic. It was just a fact. Like explaining that the sky was blue, or that water flows downward.

But in that silent room, the words felt like a thunderclap.

Elvari was silent again. For a long time.

In the corner of the room, the crystal lamp chimed softly in the wind.

Elara lifted her face. Tears had already fallen, wetting her cheeks. But she was smiling. A sincere, warm smile that reminded Rianor why he was doing all of this.

Elvari saw that smile.

For the first time, something moved in her eyes. Not warmth. But perhaps... confusion. Perhaps bewilderment. Like seeing something she didn’t understand. Something she never had.

She opened her mouth, wanting to say something.

But no sound came out.

A cold silence enveloped the room.

In her wheelchair, Elara gripped Rianor’s hand tightly.