Gilberto, a Fisalia Noble

Imprisoned in one of the many security facilities, Gilberto Fisalia leaned against the cold, stone wall of his solitary cell, the dim overhead light flickering intermittently like the last breath of a dying lantern. The walls were damp, thick with mildew, and reeked faintly of rusted iron and stale sweat.

His prison garments, coarse and creased, hung awkwardly on his frame like a peasant’s borrowed robes, a far cry from the tailored silks and silver-threaded crests he once wore with quiet command.

Chains clinked faintly in adjacent cells, echoes of despair threading through the silence like a slow funeral dirge. But Gilberto was silent—unnervingly so. The Montelli dogs may have taken his luxury suit and societal power, but they didn't take his dignity. That would not be taken.

The Montellis think they won, but that was far from the case.

He vowed to get his ****, dragging the Montelli name through the mud.

For the time being, the noble remained a silent inmate, doing the bare minimum of compliance. His arrogance and pride refused to listen and obey. He would not comply with a merchant family who simply managed to get lucky in worming their way into the world of nobility in Ragunna.

As midnight struck, he decided to scope things out. They should have stationed the competent bodyguard in this facility if they truly wish to keep him in check. These fools were complacent, thinking that his Resonator power was useless, but it was far from useless.

Astral Projection.

He could project his soul out of his body for three minutes, but it was enough to assess the state of the city. He hates to admit that nothing notable occurred except for the Montelli family's reputation and credibility continuing to improve. What was the Order doing!?

He closed his eyes, and his soul felt itself be tugged forward, leaving his physical vessel. Gilberto's soul phased through the walls and facility before wandering around the city. The air grew crisper, thinner, as he hovered unseen above the quiet waters of Ragunna.

He drifted past one of the smaller squares, where a pair of young men in Montelli colors shared a bottle of amber liquor beneath a gaslamp, laughing drunkenly, tossing coins into the water like nobles at play. Another group, clad in formal wear, sipped cocktails at the open bar at the plaza.

Parasites, every one of them, Gilberto thought, watching a young couple toast to "Montelli Family's reforms" with half-drunk adoration.

For a moment, something within his soul faltered. Something cold and unspeakable.

He tried to move—pull further toward the Porto-Veno Castle. The colors dulled. His spectral hands began to blur at the edges.

Drats. His three minutes are almost up.

He turned and soared toward the prison in a **** arc, streaking over rooftops and spires like a silent ghost. The streets passed in a blur—flashes of irrelevant laughter, of drunkards slumped by alleys, of lovers clinging to each other on gondolas.

But he wouldn't make it to his destination, suddenly colliding with a body that was in the way. He thought he would simply pass through them, but that wasn't the case. As soul and body made contact, everything went dark for Gilberto.