Chapter 102: A Dangerous Game

  Vira moved through the clusters of nobles with a dancer’s ease, listening more than she spoke. The evening had already begun to shift from its carefully planned balance. House Kelcrest’s arrival had caused ripples. House Veylan’s audacious entrance had caused waves. And in the delicate game of power, ripples and waves were dangerous things.

  Vira let her eyes drift, cataloging the faces, the subtle movements. Some nobles remained poised, their training too perfect to allow visible reaction. Others whispered behind their gilded fans, stolen glances betraying their concern. But House Ulthar?

  They weren’t whispering. They were watching.

  Vira kept her distance, gliding toward the edges of the ballroom where the lesser nobility lingered—the ones too far from power to influence the game, but close enough to see the pieces move. The best place for information.

  A goblet of wine in her hand, she listened. House Ulthar had expected this night to go one way, and it had gone entirely another. The whispers around her painted a picture:

  They had been backing another faction.

  They had planned to discredit House Veylan.

  They had contacts in Xenor—figures once aligned with Thane Vulgaris.

  That’s interesting.

  A piece slid into place in Vira’s mind. Ulthar’s ties to the Thane—that was leverage. That was something Thalron could use.

  But to confirm it? She needed something more concrete.

  A lone noble left one of Ulthar’s private discussions—a minor lord, someone who had clearly just been given orders.

  Vira didn’t hesitate.

  She moved without moving, seamlessly falling into step a few paces behind him, her expression placid, gaze seemingly unfocused as if lost in thought. But her ears caught every breath, every shift of his posture.

  The noble veered toward the outer halls, away from the main ballroom. Vira followed at a safe distance, just long enough to confirm what she needed.

  He handed off a sealed note to a servant. She caught the crest—Ulthar’s sigil.

  Vira exhaled slowly. That’ll do.

  The ballroom was alive with murmurs, a symphony of whispered intrigue playing beneath the grand chandeliers. House Veylan’s entrance had shattered the evening’s carefully orchestrated atmosphere, and now the nobility of Nireen was left scrambling to recover their composure. Eyes flickered across the gathering, assessing, recalculating, and, most importantly, deciding which way the winds of power would blow.

  For Thalron, this was the moment that would determine everything.

  He had expected resistance, perhaps even outright rejection, but as he scanned the sea of finely dressed aristocrats, something more dangerous loomed in the air—curiosity.

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  They were watching him. Waiting.

  Marcus, standing just behind Thalron, could feel the weight of the moment pressing down like an unseen force. The nobles were circling, not physically but with their words, their gazes. This was a battlefield without weapons, and their opponents wielded status instead of steel.

  “I don’t like the way Ulthar is watching us,” Marcus muttered under his breath, his sharp eyes locking onto a group of impeccably dressed elves gathered near the High Lords' table. Their expressions were unreadable, but their posture spoke volumes—rigid, calculated, and unimpressed.

  “They’re waiting,” Thalron said quietly, keeping his gaze forward. “Seeing if we’ll stumble.”

  Arixa scoffed. “Then let’s not disappoint them.”

  She was already playing her role well. Every step she took exuded confidence, her crimson gown trailing behind her like a war banner. She was an anomaly here, a figure too strong, too raw for the delicately balanced facade of elven nobility. And yet, the fact that she was here made her impossible to ignore.

  "She's quite stunning" Vira said, seemingly appearing from thin air.

  Thalron and Marcus hid their shock.

  "You have something for us Vira?" Thalron asked looking away, an attempt to keep her involvement with the trio inconspicuous.

  Vira slipped Thalron a note, and slipped back into the party. Thalron briefly glanced at the note.

  "Interesting"

  "What is it?" Marcus asked curiously.

  "Vira found evidence linking House Ulthar to Thane Vulgaris" Thalron continued "several figures in house Vulgaris were contacted for aid—they left the Thane to fend for himself."

  Thalron put the note away and gave Marcus a small nod.

  It was time to make their move.

  Marcus took a single step forward, ensuring that all eyes remained on them. Then, clearing his throat, he let his voice carry.

  “A fascinating evening,” he said smoothly, his tone carrying just the right amount of amusement. “Rarely does one get the privilege of witnessing history in motion.”

  A ripple of reaction spread through the nobles. Some turned with polite curiosity, others barely concealed their disdain. But Marcus had already planted the seed—the idea that something significant was happening tonight, whether they liked it or not.

  And then, House Veylan moved.

  From across the room, Lord Sylven Veylan—a tall elf with golden-brown skin and sharp emerald eyes—strode toward them. His movements were unhurried, exuding a confidence that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing.

  “For someone without noble blood, you have quite the tongue,” Sylven mused, amusement flickering behind his gaze. “I do hope you intend to back those words with action.”

  Thalron stepped forward, meeting Lord Sylven’s gaze without hesitation. “Thalron Kelcrest,” he said evenly, letting the name settle over the gathered crowd like a challenge.

  A pause. Then, a soft chuckle.

  “Rightful heir to a name that no longer exists,” Sylven remarked, his smirk sharp. “That is a bold claim.”

  Marcus could feel the room watching, waiting for Thalron to fumble.

  He didn’t.

  “House Kelcrest was removed from the records,” Thalron said calmly. “But history has a way of remembering what it chooses to forget.” He took a slow step forward, keeping his voice steady. “And history favors those willing to shape it.”

  Sylven’s smile lingered. He was enjoying this.

  But not everyone in the room was.

  A sharp voice cut through the gathering. “Ah, Kelcrest… I had almost forgotten that name. Though I see some memories linger longer than they should.”

  Marcus turned, his jaw tightening. A noble dressed in fine silver and blue—House Ulthar—had stepped forward, his expression one of pure, unfiltered disdain.

  The murmur in the room changed. It wasn’t just curiosity anymore. It was anticipation.

  The insult wasn’t subtle. It was meant to remind everyone that no matter how well Thalron carried himself, he was still lesser in their eyes.

  Marcus didn’t hesitate. He stepped in, his voice measured but cutting. “Funny. I recall that in the last great battle, it wasn’t ‘pure blood’ that won the day, but the strength of those who knew how to fight.” He let the words hang before adding, “Remind me, what was House Ulthar doing when Xenor’s forces fell?”

  A few nobles laughed softly, hidden behind their goblets. Others merely watched, but Marcus could see it—a crack in Ulthar’s composure.

  The noble from House Ulthar narrowed his eyes. “You presume much, commoner.”

  “And yet, here I stand,” Marcus said, his smirk never faltering.

  The tension was palpable. It could have escalated further.

  But Lord Sylven chose that moment to chuckle, diffusing the situation before it could become a full-blown scandal.

  “Well, well,” he said, stepping between the two sides. “It seems the evening has become far more entertaining than anticipated.”

  He turned back to Thalron, extending a gloved hand.

  “Perhaps we should continue this discussion somewhere more private?”

  House Veylan was offering a meeting.

  A test. A negotiation. A trap?

  Marcus exhaled quietly, his mind already working through the possibilities.

  Thalron gave a slow nod. “Lead the way.”