CHAPTER 216: FALL OF VALTAIR [12]

The main hall thrummed with life.

Tyren moved through it like water finding cracks in stone.

Sandy brown hair fell across his forehead in that careless way that suggested he was too busy working to bother with a comb.

He wove between clusters of merchants first, his hands carrying a silver tray laden with empty glasses.

A portly man in crimson velvet gestured wildly as he spoke, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his goblet.

"Absolute robbery, I tell you! Fifteen percent tariff on Southward grain shipments—"

Tyren slipped past, close enough that the man’s sleeve brushed his shoulder. Close enough to hear. Not close enough to be noticed.

The information filed in his mind as he angled toward a refreshment stall.

Crystal decanters lined the white-clothed table, their contents glowing amber and ruby and gold under chandelier light.

He set down his tray with a soft clink, then immediately lifted a fresh one, this time loaded with full glasses of champagne that bubbled and hissed quietly.

A noblewoman in jade silk laughed too loudly nearby, her hand resting possessively on a younger man’s arm.

Tyren drifted closer, offering champagne with a slight bow.

"Lord Kessler won’t last the season," the woman purred, plucking a glass without looking at him. "Not after what happened at the Northern holdings. His creditors are circling like vultures."

The young man hummed, but his eyes sharpened with interest. "I heard it was a mining collapse. Tragic, really."

"Tragic," the woman echoed, her smile sharp as broken glass. "Convenient is more like it. The Harrows have been eyeing those holdings for years."

Tyren’s expression never changed. He simply moved on, the tray balanced perfectly on one hand as he navigated toward the eastern wing.

A merchant in bottle-green brocade was standing near a marble column, his voice pitched low but carrying just enough. "The shipment arrives in three days. Quality stock from the Vesrel workshops."

His companion, leaned in. "You’re certain of the route? After what happened to the Meridian convoy—"

"Different route entirely. We’re going through Ashvale."

Tyren angled past them, offering champagne that went ignored.

His feet carried him in a circuit that looked random but wasn’t, stall to stall, group to group, a servant doing his job while the world conducted its business around him.

Near the grand staircase, two nobles spoke.

"Did you see the way Duke Verast was looking at the Ember girl? Absolutely shameless."

"Mmm. Shame about her family’s debt. Such a pretty way to settle accounts, don’t you think?"

Cruel laughter echoed.

The music swelled, a waltz now.

Couples took to the floor. Tyren skirted the edge of the dance floor, his tray never wavering, his pace never hurrying.

He sometimes pauses, for a heartbeat to listen more. Then began walking away.

Then someone snapped their fingers at him, a merchant demanding wine and Tyren was moving again.

Information flowed around him like a river, and he drank it all in, one careful sip at a time.

Tyren then reached the southeastern corner of the hall.

Here, the light dimmed a little. A service door stood half-hidden behind a velvet curtain, and beside it, another servant waited.

Mera.

She was older than him, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun that emphasized the sharp angles of her face.

She didn’t look at him as he approached, just kept her eyes forward, hands folded at her waist like she was waiting for orders.

Tyren set his tray down on a narrow side table with a soft clink.

"The grain tariffs are up fifteen percent," he murmured, his lips barely moving.

"Harrow family moving on Kessler’s Northern holdings. Vesrel shipment in three days through Ashvale."

She nodded once, her gaze still fixed on the middle distance. "I’ll—"

Then suddenly, she stopped.

Went absolutely, utterly still.

Though Tyren felt it a bit later.

A pressure that descended like a physical weight, pressed against his chest, his throat, the back of his skull.

The air grew thick, viscous, as if gravity itself had doubled. His breath caught. The sounds of the gathering seemed to muffle, distant, like he was suddenly underwater.

What?

Then... the shadows in the corner moved.

Not shifted. Not flickered.

Moved, deliberate and alive, peeling away from the wall like oil sliding off glass. They coalesced, thickened, took shape.

A figure emerged.

She stepped from the darkness as if she’d always been part of it.

Draped in something that wasn’t quite fabric and wasn’t quite smoke which clung to her form like liquid night, drinking in what little light dared approach.

Her face was pale, almost luminescent in the gloom.

Eyes like chips of black ice regarded them both with the kind of detached curiosity an apex might show a pair of interesting insects.

When she spoke, her voice was feminine but cold silk wrapped around a blade.

"So."

The word hung in the air, sharp and precise.

"You are also his pawns."

It wasn’t a question.

Tyren’s hand had moved instinctively toward the small knife hidden in his belt, but his fingers were frozen, locked in place by that crushing pressure.

Beside him, Mera had gone white, her breathing shallow and quick.

The woman tilted her head, studying them. A strand of silver-white hair fell across her cheek. Behind her, the shadows seemed to writhe, restless, hungry.

The woman’s lips curved, just slightly. Not quite a smile.

"How... interesting."

**********

The door closed behind Alaric with a thud.

"Well. That’s settled."

His fingers found the edge of his black mask, adjusting it where it had shifted slightly.

He rolled his shoulders once, shaking off the tension from the previous conversation, and stepped fully into the main hall.

"Where is she now?"

He wove between clusters of guests gathered, yes scanning the room.

He angled toward a refreshment stall, then—

He stopped.

There... Delphine stood near the wine table, her posture loose.

She swayed ever so slightly, one hand wrapped around a goblet that tilted at a dangerous angle. Her brown hair had come partially undone from its pins, a few rebellious strands framing her flushed face.

And beside her, leaning in with that particular predatory amusement, stood a young man.

His hand hovered near Delphine’s elbow. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough that the intention was clear.

Delphine laughed at something he said, too loud, unguarded, and nearly sloshed wine over the rim of her goblet. The young man’s smile widened.

Alaric’s jaw tightened beneath the mask.

His feet were already moved before he’d consciously decided.

...

Chapter End...

[A/N]

Sorry for the earlier error, and taking much time to fix it.

As I was not at home.

And thanks for reading.

Bye. Bye.