Charles's eyes narrowed. "What's really happening here?"
A bad feeling crept up on him, and his fists clenched involuntarily.
"Ugh…" Bernard looked awkward. "So… the usual routine for a night like this is: after the show, the invited art troupes stick around to keep the nobles company—enjoying an 'artistic' atmosphere late into the night."
"I assume you get what that means. But…" He watched Charles's face, clearly struggling. "I didn't tell you upfront because I wanted it to be a surprise, and, honestly, I never imagined you'd let your own troupe perform at this kind of party…"
This was all part of Bernard's plan. Deep bonds are forged by sharing school days, going through hardship, or facing mortal danger together—classic ways to become inseparable.
But for Bernard, none of those options were available. All he could do was bring Charles into the world of high society's decadent revels, hoping to become true friends that way.
He just never expected Charles actually ran a dance troupe—and would bring them here, naïvely thinking this was a night of pure artistic appreciation!
Now Bernard was terrified he'd completely blown things with Charles.
Realizing what he'd gotten himself into, Charles's expression darkened. All his good mood dissolved instantly. "The ad we saw, the event organizer and my dance troupe's leader—they all said there were no strings attached. Perform, then leave, just like all the other independent troupes. That's why I let them come."
Bernard jumped in, "It's possible—maybe independent troupes like yours do get to leave. No need to stick around with everyone else. But… let's check in to be safe."
Charles's face was thunderous as he nodded. He had a terrible suspicion: this wasn't just about his own ballet troupe. Every independent troupe had probably been tricked—forced to stay behind as living gifts for the young nobles, tokens the Cassalanter family used to curry favor with other houses.
These bastards… Disgusting doesn't even cover it.
He made up his mind—not to wait for the end of the show. The moment his girls finished and went backstage to change, he and Bernard would go find them and get them out, no matter what.
Just then, Bernard let out a heavy sigh. "Honestly, only House Cassalanter would stoop this low. If House Sulpharlo were still around… ah, forget it, that's ancient history."
Charles's eyes flickered. "House Sulpharlo?"
He deliberately played ignorant, hoping Bernard would explain further.
"Oh, that was an old noble family in the Muse District, big in the arts," Bernard said. "Even this theater used to be theirs, not Cassalanter's."
"When Sulpharlo ran the show, independent art troupes had a real shot. Their taste, especially their fashion sense, was world-class."
"Who knows why, but they stopped chasing money and started seeking magical power instead. They defiled a divine artifact and… well, that was the end of them."
Bernard shook his head. "After the Sulpharlos fell, Cassalanter took over almost everything they owned. And they hated competition—any outside group better than their own was either crushed or absorbed. That's how things got like this."
Charles's mind was now racing.
I need to sit down with Malena and get the real story of her family.
Meanwhile, backstage at the theater, in a private room…
The girls of the White Swans ballet had just finished their performance and were back, catching their breath. Performing on a night like this was physically and mentally exhausting—their faces were flushed, foreheads slick with sweat, and they looked totally spent.
But even more than exhaustion, what filled their hearts at this moment was delight—the thrill of a successful show.
Still, they remembered whose turf they were on. The joy slowly gave way to unease:
"When can we leave?"
"No idea. But since we're done performing, maybe we should ask if we can go now?"
"I agree, better to get out early—leaving late is never safe."
The girls decided to leave as soon as possible. Just then, there was a knock at the door. A dancer near the entrance opened it and saw a sharply-dressed woman in oval glasses flanked by several servants.
"Everyone here is with the White Swans Ballet Company, right?" the woman asked with a dazzling display of teeth. "I'm the theater manager, and I have some gifts for all of you."
Behind her, the servants brought in trays filled with little brass trinkets, each one engraved with intricate, arcane designs and painted with radiant red pigment.
The instant the girls saw the trinkets, a powerful urge welled up—they wanted, needed, to put them on.
Their eyes glazed over, and they drifted forward, only snapping out of it after each had donned a trinket around her neck or wrist.
The manager's smile widened. "Please, everyone, wait just a little longer. There's going to be another awards ceremony with even more prizes for you afterward."
The girls exchanged glances—this was normal enough. Big venues always handed out participation gifts and rated the troupes, both to identify talent and keep an amicable relationship with the independent performers for future events.
They understood how these little games worked—still, Cassalanter usually played the part of the iron-fisted tyrant, so this unexpected generosity was a shock.
Maybe these guys had finally wised up—realizing good art can't be bullied out of people? Maybe their "style" was about to change for the better?
If that were true, the whole performing scene in Liberl Port might actually get a break.
The girls were feeling hopeful for the future, totally blind to the real, ugly reason behind Cassalanter's generosity tonight…
"Please, just be patient," said the manager as she herded the staff out, "I'll be back soon."
The dancers sat in the dressing room, feeling restless, excited—wondering what other surprises the night might bring.
Meanwhile, Charles and Bernard headed backstage, hoping to reach the White Swans. But two guards in red robes—chainmail peeking discreetly beneath—blocked their way. Maybe not real fighters, but more than a match for any unarmed noble in the place.
Bernard scowled. Since when did Cassalanter care about 'security' like this? He put on his best haughty noble act: "I'm Bernard Voulet. This is Nigel Charles. Our names should mean something here."
"We have urgent business backstage—please let us through."
Charles added, "The White Swans, who just performed, are my own troupe. I just saw something off and need to check on them. Please let us by."
But the guards stood firm. One even put on an air of righteousness and explained: "Sorry, gentlemen, but we can't let you pass. In the past, certain distinguished guests used any excuse they could to enter the dancers' dressing rooms and made very inappropriate demands. The fallout was… unpleasant."
"Since then, Mr. Amlick set the rule: no one enters the backstage area without being personally escorted by him, to keep the performers safe from harassment."
"So, I'm afraid you'll have to leave."
Bernard's nostrils flared in disbelief. Seriously? The Cassalanters are the whole reason those girls need protecting in the first place! Now they're playing the hero? The nerve…
The guards knew exactly how hypocritical this was, but had no choice. "Sorry, just doing our jobs. We can't let you in."
Charles didn't waste another second. He murmured a quick spell: "Sleep."
A gentle magical aura swept forward, and both guards' eyes rolled back—they slumped, fast asleep.
Charles strode forward. "Let's go, Bernard, we need to find them."
Bernard gaped in shock. "Was that… magic?"
Charles nodded. "Yeah… just a simple 1st-level spell. 'Sleep.' Don't worry, they'll wake up in a minute, no harm done."
"Let's hurry—find the girls before they come to."
Bernard nodded, casting a nervous glance at the snoring guards. Magic really is terrifying… He followed after Charles.
Finding the group was easy. No one else stopped them; a few other performers resting nearby shot them curious looks, but that was all.
They soon found the White Swans's dressing room. Charles knocked, and a moment later a dancer opened the door. When she saw him, her eyes lit up. "Mr. Charles! What brings you here?"
Charles's gaze swept over her and locked on to the new brass pin on her shoulder—carved with blood-red, almost seductive markings.
He was certain: nobody had been wearing anything like that before.
And the moment he saw those markings, a surge of longing bloomed in his chest—he wanted, desperately, to put one on himself.
But the Eldritch Mind ability kicked in—he forced the urge down and stood frowning in the doorway.
Next to him, Bernard had no such resistance. Enchanted, he reached pleadingly toward the pin. "Where'd you get that? Can I have one too?"
Charles grabbed his wrist. "Snap out of it! That thing's enchanted—Bernard, if you trust me, pinch yourself. Hard!"
Bernard hesitated, then screwed up his courage and gave his cheek a savage twist.
The sharp pain banished the charm's effect. He blinked, clear-eyed now, and gaped at the pin. "That thing's hideous! What was I…?"
The dancers, however, were indignant. "Ugly? How is it ugly?"
"I think it looks pretty."
"Is that your taste?"
The bickering erupted, totally ignoring the fact that Bernard was Charles's guest. Charles held up a hand, silencing them, and asked, "Never mind if it's pretty. Where did these come from?"
The girls exchanged glances, then one volunteered, "A woman claiming to be the manager brought them—all the performers got one, they said it was a little present."
Another added, "Right, and she said there'd be an award thing later, with even more gifts for everyone."
Charles took a deep breath. By now, he wasn't just worried for his girls, but for everyone in the building.
Just what is Cassalanter planning?
So many magical trinkets, even if cheaply made, would cost a fortune—a single one might fetch dozens of gold, maybe hundreds… a staggering investment for just one night.
For comparison: the whole troupe only earned about two gold pieces per dancer for tonight's show, and most of that was eaten up by expenses. The value of just these pins in this room probably dwarfed the entire cost of the event.
Cassalanter's putting so much into trinkets for a simple party—the payoff they're after must be truly monstrous.
But whatever it was, these pins definitely needed to come off. Charles ordered, "Everyone—no, before you take them off, pinch your arms. Hard. Make sure it hurts!"
The girls didn't get it, but it was the first time Charles had given an outright command. They obeyed, pinching hard. Cries of "Ouch!" filled the room, but as pain blotted out the charm, they stared at their pins, confused. "Why am I even wearing this ugly thing?"
No need for more convincing—they peeled them off at once. Charles collected them all, his expression grim. "You were all charmed. This place is not safe. Pack your stuff and leave, now!"
He said it so grimly that, even if they didn't truly understand, every dancer took him seriously—no one resisted. In moments, the girls were packed, changed, and moving out in a group.
A few bouncers tried to block their way, but Charles just cast Sleep again. Soon, they breezed past without resistance.
Outside, Charles got them all loaded into carriages and sent them away, then turned back, face stormy as he stared at the theater.
"Should we see what the Cassalanters are really up to in there?"
Bernard looked uneasy—if Cassalanter was up to this kind of malicious business, and willing to use magic, there was no way this was trivial.
He was just a noble, with no spells to his name. If he got involved and things went south… who knew what disaster could follow?
But then Bernard thought about his family. His father's warnings. His own awkward place at home, always in his brothers' shadow, doomed to mediocrity…
And he remembered how Charles, with a word and the flick of a finger, sent a dozen armed bouncers snoring on the spot.
Bernard straightened his back and steeled himself. "Let's go, Charles! I'm coming with—we need to see what these bastards are up to!"
Charles glanced at him, then smiled in approval. "You really don't have to force yourself. Tonight could get dangerous—it's fine if you want to leave."
Bernard took a shaky breath, puffed out his chest. "A true noble stands his ground! I'll go with you. Besides, there are so many nobles inside—I doubt they'd try anything crazy."
Charles grinned, not pressing further. "Alright. Let's go see, together, just what these bastards are planning."
With that, he strode back toward the ballroom, ready to face the night's true crisis.
~~~
Get early access to 360+ advanced chapters on Patreon!
patreon.com/PokemonStoryWeaver
~~~