The grand hall of House Varlock was alight with gold and crystal, chandeliers blazing like captive stars against the high-arched ceilings. Servants flitted like shadows among the noble guests, pouring wine aged older than kingdoms and laying dishes glazed in sauces so rare they could buy a lesser man's freedom.
But no amount of splendor could hide the stench beneath — the rotting pride, the greed behind every gilded smile.
This was not a dinner.
It was war dressed in velvet.
And tonight, I would fight with words sharper than blades.
I arrived precisely on time — neither early, like a desperate upstart, nor late, like an arrogant fool. Varick, the old steward, had coached me on every rule, but I had no intention of simply surviving this night.
I intended to conquer it.
The nobles gathered in clusters around the room — plumes and silks, brocade and jewels, each outdoing the other like peacocks in a mating dance. At the center stood my father, the Marquis, a stone of iron amidst a sea of lesser metals. His cold gaze swept over me once, and I inclined my head in dutiful greeting.
The Duke of Elbrecht had already arrived. A large man, broad-shouldered, with hair streaked silver but eyes still sharp as a hawk's. His laughter boomed, loud and false, as he slapped a lesser lord on the back hard enough to make the man flinch.
Beside him, I noticed her — Evelyne.
Draped in dark sapphire silk that made her silver hair gleam like starlight, her expression was composed, aloof. But I caught the faint flicker of her crimson gaze sliding toward me.
Brief. Measured. Calculating.
She was watching.
Good.
As the dinner began, I took my seat at the lower end of the table — a deliberate slight. The heir, but seated below the visiting lords and cousins.
Once, this would have burned me. Once, Leonhart Varlock would have bristled at every insult, every sneer.
But I smiled.
Let them think me weak. Let them forget I was here.
It made their fall all the sweeter.
The first course arrived — smoked river eel with crimsonberry glaze — and with it, the opening volleys.
The Count of Merrow leaned over, his voice loud enough to carry. "Ah, young Lord Leonhart. I recall you once challenged my son to a duel over a spilled drink. Hot-blooded youth, eh? I trust you've grown out of such… impulsive tendencies."
Laughter rippled down the table, thin and sharp.
I set down my fork carefully.
"My lord count," I said, voice smooth as silk. "I have learned that spilled drinks are far less costly than spilled blood. And that some insults are best swallowed — until the right moment to choke the offender with them."
A beat of silence.
Then the Duke himself barked a laugh. "Ha! The boy has fangs after all!"
Laughter followed again — but this time edged with something else. Uncertainty.
I caught Evelyne's eyes across the table. Her lips quirked upward, just a fraction.
She approved.
As the courses progressed, I listened more than I spoke.
The Baroness Heliane boasted of her son's appointment to the royal guard — a thinly veiled attempt to flaunt her rising favor at court.
Lord Vern accused the eastern traders of price-fixing, his words laced with frustration and barely hidden desperation. I made a mental note of that — a noble bleeding coin was always a useful ally in the making.
Every word was a dagger, every toast a challenge.
And I drank it all in.
When the main course arrived — golden-roasted game bird stuffed with pearl mushrooms — the real game began.
The Duke leaned forward, eyes glittering. "Marquis Varlock, I've heard troubling rumors. They say there's unrest brewing in the border territories. Bandits growing bold, even whispers of old loyalties stirring. Dangerous times, eh?"
My father's face remained carved from stone. "House Varlock maintains order. No more, no less."
But I saw the flicker of tension beneath.
The Duke wasn't here for mere pleasantries. He was testing waters, probing for weakness. And from the tightening of noble jaws around the table, they all smelled the same thing — opportunity.
I sipped my wine, watching them like a wolf among sheep.
They still thought my father was the true threat.
Let them.
When dessert arrived — honey-glazed figs and chilled cream — I made my move.
I leaned toward the Count of Merrow, voice low enough that only nearby lords could hear.
"It's strange, is it not, my lord count? Bandits grow bold. Merchants complain of taxes. And yet, the royal court does nothing. Perhaps they find turmoil here… convenient."
His eyes widened slightly. "You suggest… treachery?"
I smiled thinly. "I suggest nothing. I merely observe. But I wonder — if chaos spreads, who stands to gain? Not House Varlock, certainly. Our lands bleed under such lawlessness."
His gaze turned inward, thoughtful. Seeds, planted.
Around the table, I caught other lords shifting, eyes darting. Doubt spreading like ink in water.
Perfect.
When the meal finally ended, and the nobles drifted toward the smoking lounge and card tables, I found myself near Evelyne once again.
She stood alone beside a towering vase of silver lilies, her posture perfect, her face a mask of serenity.
But her words, when she spoke, were knives.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Leonhart."
I turned to her, matching her cool gaze. "Aren't we all, Lady Evelyne? You, me, the Duke — even my esteemed father. Each of us with our knives hidden, waiting to strike."
Her lips curved faintly. "Some knives are sharper than others. And some fools forget the cost of drawing blood."
I stepped closer, voice dropping. "And some know that blood must be spilled if the old order is to fall."
A pause. Tension coiled between us, thick as a drawn bowstring.
Her crimson eyes flickered, unreadable. "Be careful. Monsters born in shadows rarely live long under the sun."
"And yet," I murmured, "it is always the monsters who survive while heroes die on their shining swords."
Her smile was brittle as glass. "Perhaps."
Then she turned and walked away, the scent of lilies lingering in her wake.
That night, as I returned to my chambers, I allowed myself a slow exhale.
Pieces moved.
Rumors would spread.
The count would whisper to his allies. The baron would wonder who truly controlled the chaos. Doubt would fester, eating away at the fragile unity of the noble houses.
And Evelyne… she would watch. Calculating, perhaps even admiring, but never trusting. Not yet.
Good.
I didn't need trust.
I needed time.
And time, I had in abundance.
As I closed the door behind me, Luther stepped from the shadows.
"How did it go, my lord?"
I smiled darkly. "They don't know it yet, but tonight they took the first step toward tearing each other apart."
He grunted, pleased. "And the lady Evelyne?"
I turned toward the window, gazing at the distant tower where her light still burned.
"She's sharpening her own blade," I said softly. "The question is — will she aim it at me… or at them?"
Either way, I would be ready.
The game was only just beginning.