Mithral District, inside House Cassalanter.
Regolas extended his dark red hand and opened his palm. Resting quietly in his palm was a palm-sized brass disk, its surface engraved with intricate, arcane patterns.
Standing before him, Ammalia Cassalanter looked at the disk with confusion. Her gaze grew cloudy, and she instinctively reached out, trying to fasten it to herself.
But Regolas quickly closed his fist, severing her sight line—and Ammalia instantly snapped back to awareness. She stared at him in shock. "Is there magic on that thing?"
Regolas nodded. "Yes, it has two functions. First, it makes people want to wear it, almost compulsively. Second, my lord will be able to use the disk wearer's eyes as a window—seeing everything they see."
"So, when the time comes, my lord will witness firsthand the decadence and corruption of the so-called divine-blooded nobles. That'll give him plenty of ammunition to mock Mount Celestia and the gods at court—and earn us all a generous reward."
Instinctively, Ammalia felt something was off, but with no real knowledge of magic, she couldn't be sure. After a moment's hesitation, she blurted, "No one will get hurt because of this, right?"
Regolas instantly put on an affronted expression. "How could you even think that? I'd never do something so reckless! We worked so hard to clean up your family's reputation—if anything happened, all that effort would go down the drain!"
"We need to keep working together here for the long haul! Why would I dig my own grave over something this stupid?"
Seeing him so agitated, Ammalia finally managed to relax a little. "Alright, if you say so."
With that, she excused herself, turned, and left. Regolas watched her heavy frame waddle away—an evil smile curling at the edge of his mouth.
Heh. Goodbye.
...
The night of the party.
Charles arrived right on time in his carriage at the Muse District. The neighborhood was all about news, arts, sports—every kind of entertainment—so the architecture was wildly artistic too.
There was a stadium shaped like a bird's nest, an opera house modeled after stacked seashells, casinos that looked like lucky dice tossed in a pile, and so on.
By comparison, corporate skyscrapers owned by places like "Times" looked downright dull and uninspired.
The venue tonight was the Cassalanter Theatre—a brilliant, seashell-stacked construction. Bernard's carriage was waiting out front, and as soon as Charles arrived, Bernard hopped down to join him. The two walked and chatted their way inside.
Along the way, Charles bumped into several other young noble guests, each one smiling as they greeted him, with Bernard eagerly making introductions about everyone's families and ancestral glories.
Charles couldn't possibly remember all those sprawling names and tangled honorifics, but that didn't stop him from keeping a polite smile and offering just enough praise to make everyone feel respected.
That is, until he finally ran into Amlick Cassalanter, welcoming the guests.
The second their eyes met, Charles noticed Amlick's expression flicker, but just as quickly, his demeanor switched to a beaming smile. He showered Charles and Bernard with praise, ushered them to the VIP section, and then vanished.
Still, when Amlick left, Charles's own expression wasn't much friendlier. Both men knew the score—they were rivals, and there was no reason to fake pleasantries.
"Relax," Bernard said, once they were seated. He seemed to think Charles was still worried about Amlick, so he said, "He's only hosting this banquet to cozy up with us, repair his family's image among the nobles."
"So, even if he hates your guts, he won't risk pulling anything. Not in front of everyone. It'd only backfire and hurt his family's reputation." Bernard grinned. "You still want to keep your guard up around him later, but tonight? Just enjoy yourself."
Charles nodded—right, toast wine with your friend, keep your blade for your enemy. He understood.
Besides, House Cassalanter probably wasn't that eager to make a move against him. Sure, he'd razed the Old Nest of Xanathar's Guild, but these guys must assume Xanathar was dead—they'd never dream Charles actually recruited Xanathar and figured out their collusion with the cambion Regolas.
Cassalanter probably thought they still held all the cards in the shadows, while Charles was out in the open, so they weren't in any rush. They had no idea Charles had already stripped them bare.
Plus, in peacetime, even bitter enemies among the nobility sat down and drank together. No one ever drew a knife at a formal banquet.
So, tonight was almost certainly safe—and just a chance to unwind and enjoy some art.
He hoped there'd be a few performances he could actually appreciate.
With that in mind, he finally relaxed and turned his attention to the stage.
Beautiful servants flowed through the room, laying out fruit platters and the finest wine. Charles clinked glasses with Bernard, and then with each neighbor down the row.
The performances kicked off in grand style, with orchestras, theater troupes, and dance companies taking the stage one by one. Whether it was his mood, or simply the fact that he was surrounded by nobles eager to impress him—none more so than Bernard—Charles found himself actually appreciating the various "arts" more than usual.
Dance troupes came and went, and before long, his own ballerinas—the radiant White Swans—took the stage. Only then did Charles realize just how moving their dance actually was; for a moment, pure happiness radiated through his chest.
He couldn't help but want to share the feeling. Turning to Bernard with a smile, he watched the dancers swirl and asked, "Here, Bernard. How would you rate their form?"
He was honestly nervous about the answer. After all, he didn't know much about dance—if Bernard said they were mediocre, he'd feel awful.
But Bernard, who really did know his stuff, didn't kill the mood. "They're excellent—a cut above the rest, honestly. Their lines are impeccable, posture tall and smooth, their moves soft but precise. Look at the girl center stage…"
He pointed—she was spinning on tiptoe, arms wide, body fully horizontal. "She's capturing the elegant, effortless mood of a swan taking flight—but just think, to hold that position so long, her balance and control must be incredible!"
Bernard was full of praise. "Purely in terms of body and technique, they're easily among the best ballet troupes in Liberl Port."
Charles felt deeply satisfied. After all, even if the compliments were technically for the girls and not himself, he felt even happier than if someone had praised him personally. "Absolutely. I think so, too."
Then Bernard admitted, "Honestly, I've heard of this dance troupe before—I figured I'd never see them perform. Can't believe they're here tonight—Blue Dragon really splurged to send them over."
Charles smiled slyly. "Maybe you ought to thank me instead?"
Bernard turned, puzzled. "How's that?"
"Blue Dragon gave me that dance troupe." Charles answered, grinning. "I'm the one who arranged for them to perform tonight. If you want to see them again at future parties, just let me know. I can make it happen."
Bernard's eyes lit up. "Seriously? That's amazing!"
But then his expression turned a bit hesitant. "But, Mr. Charles, you're really letting your own dancers perform at this kind of event?"
Charles blinked. "Why wouldn't I? Is there something wrong with it?"
Bernard blinked too. "Uh…"
He seemed caught between several conflicting thoughts. Charles pressed him. "What's up, Bernard? If there's something I should know, just say it."
Bernard struggled with the words. "Well… Charles, forgive me for asking, but… how exactly did your ballet troupe get invited tonight?"
Charles's face was a little odd. "They just put out an ad, recruiting local troupes. My troupe's leader saw it, signed them up, and they got picked. I didn't pull any strings. Why—what's the deal?"
Bernard looked away, evasive. "Well… let me put it this way: after the show ends, I'll come with you and make sure the girls slip out as soon as possible."
"There are still… activities after the performances, and it's really not a good idea for your dancers to stick around for those." As he said this, he tried to sound reassuring. "Of course, maybe it'll be fine, and they'll just go home. They're your subordinates, and the management should know that—maybe I'm just being paranoid."
~~~
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