The grand hall of Mansion , where the Baron hosted his Daughter's birthday, shimmered with a cold, competitive beauty. It was a landscape of power, each cluster of nobles a shifting border on a silent map. The air smelled of perfumed ambition and chilled wine.
King Oren Evercrest sat upon a raised dais, a monarch carved from winter oak. His gaze, usually distant, was fixed on the dance floor. A rare, faint smile touched his lips.
On the floor, First Prince Cedric and Aurelia just finished the danced and
The music ended. The dancers bowed and curtsied. A polite ripple of applause began.
King Oren Evercrest rose to his feet.
The applause died instantly. Every head turned. The King never stood for a simple dance.
King Oren Evercrest : That. That is how a court dance should be performed. Not as a political manoeuvre, but as an art. As a celebration.
His voice, quiet but carrying, froze the room. He looked directly at his son and Aurelia.
King Oren Evercrest : Prince Cedric, you have shown admirable form. But Lady Aurelia… you have shown it a soul. A rare quality. You have both honoured this gathering.
A collective, silent shockwave passed through the nobility. From the side, Duke Magnus Blackwood's face tightened, his jaw a hard line. His daughters , stood beside him, their own lovely features carefully neutral, but their knuckles were white on their fan.
Duke Magnus Blackwood : (under his breath, to his wife) A baron's daughter. Charming a prince with… footwork. My Cordelia recited the entire lineage of the Seven Kings at seven. Where is the praise for that?
Near the champagne fountain, Marquess Alistair Stormcrest swirled his drink, his storm-grey eyes narrowed. His twin daughters, accomplished harpists both, had performed earlier to a mere polite nod from the throne.
Marquess Alistair Stormcrest : (to his companion) It seems the King prefers rustic vigour over cultivated refinement. A worrying precedent. The Stormcrest name was built on more than pretty pirouettes.
Earl Leoric, a man whose pride was as vast as his barren lands, watched with a simmering resentment. He had pushed his daughter forward all season to no avail.
Earl Leoric : (muttering) Saint-John. A glorified farmer with a lucky mine. And now he parades his daughter like a prized mare. And the King applauds!
Baron Saint-John, stood humbly beside his wife. He was not a man of courts, and he looked as if he wished the marble floor would swallow him whole under the weight of so many jealous stares.
King Oren Evercrest's gaze swept from the dancers and landed squarely on the Baron.
King Oren Evercrest : The quality of the performance reflects the quality of the spirit behind it. Baron Saint-John, your daughter is a credit to your house. As is your recent, and most patriotic, decision.
The King paused, letting the suspense build. All the simmering jealousy was now laced with sharp curiosity.
King Oren Evercrest : It has come to my attention that you have voluntarily ceded a significant portion of your newfound mythril mining rights—more than twenty percent—to the Royal Crown. Not through levy, nor through coercion, but as a gift. For the fortification of the realm's defences.
A soft gasp rippled through the hall. Mythril. The magical, near-unbreakable metal. More than Twenty percent was a staggering fortune, a king's ransom given freely.
King Oren Evercrest : In an age where many seek only to take, you, Baron, have chosen to give. To build. This is the true duty of nobility. You have my public thanks, and the lasting gratitude of the Crown.
The King raised his goblet.
King Oren Evercrest : To Baron Saint-John. A loyal servant of the realm.
The room was forced to follow. "To Baron Saint-John!" The toast was echoed, but in the voices of Duke Blackwood, Marquess Stormcrest, and Earl Leoric, it sounded like a sentence.
But one man did not raise his glass. Viscount Sebastian Arclay stood apart, near a curtained archway, his face a masterpiece of controlled fury. His winter-blue eyes were glacial pins fixed on the Baron.
Viscount Sebastian Arclay : (whispering, venomously) You thieving, sanctimonious peasant.
He saw it all now, the brilliant, insulting strategy. Saint-John had beaten him in the arbitration, stealing the mines from him. And now, instead of hoarding the wealth, the Baron had taken the one thing Arclay could never offer freely—a massive portion of the prize—and used it to buy the one thing Arclay desperately needed: irrevocable royal favour. He hadn't just won the mine. He had used the mine to anchor himself to the King's side, making any future challenge or legal manoeuvre by Arclay not just difficult, but tantamount to treason against the Crown's own interests.
It was a move of devastating political genius, disguised as humble generosity.
As the crowd murmured around him, Arclay watched the King clap a hand on the flustered Baron's shoulder. He watched Aurelia, now glowing under the royal praise, return to her father's side. He watched Prince Cedric look after her with a thoughtful expression.
Viscount Sebastian Arclay : (to himself, a cold vow) You think you are secure, farmer? You think your daughter' pretty dance and your grand gesture have built a wall? No. You have simply shown me where the foundation is weakest. You have made your daughter the jewel of your house. And jewels… are made to be stolen.
He finally took a sip of his wine, the taste as bitter as gall. The game was no longer about a mine. It was about annihilation. And Baron Saint-John had just foolishly placed everything he loved directly in the line of fire.