CHAPTER 65: DUKE OF THE EAST

A pause had settled after Count Casten’s words until one of the older nobles leaned forward, tapping his fingers lightly against his goblet and spoke. "And what of the vein?"

"What about the vein found in the Greystone stretch?" he asked. "The one deep in the woods."

That changed the air in the room.

Alaric raised a brow looking at the old man who spoke then at the Count.

Count Casten gave a brief nod, eyes flicking toward Selene, then to the rest.

"Yes... the miners stumbled on something during that last beast chase. If the scouts are to be believed... It might be Varnacite."

A pause.

Varnacite was no common metal. Mages prized it for its essence-binding properties.

It could store, channel, or suppress raw Essence better than most enchanted crystals.

When forged properly, it made weapons that cut through spell wards and armor that bent magic around the wearer instead of against them.

But mining it was hell.

The ore formed deep within beast-ridden terrain. Worse still, its raw form exuded a subtle pressure that made beasts restless.

Then...

"It runs along the Greystone line," the Count continued. "Deeper in the forest, yes, but not too far in. Dangerous still... but not unreachable."

Baron Varell exhaled sharply. "That land edges close to my southern watch. My men were the first to spot the shimmer in the rockface."

"And yet it lies closer to my northern tree-line than your outpost, Lord Duskwood," Baroness Elira added, her voice calm but cutting.

"My scouts have marked that forest path for over a decade."

Huh, vultures. Alaric scoffed internally.

Selene said nothing at first, only let the words hang. Then, with the faintest smile, she placed her goblet down and turned slightly toward the Count.

"A curious thing, that vein. Though I’m told it’s closer to Black Thorn’s northern holdings than any other. Barely half a day’s ride, if one avoids the low marsh trails."

Baron Varell shifted in his seat, there was a faint twitch in his jaw.

"That may be," he said, voice cool, "but proximity doesn’t equate to ownership, Lady Glimor. That stretch of forest skirts my eastern border as well. Our scouts have patrolled it for years."

"Scouts?" she said, her tone light

"Funny. All this sudden interest in a patch of forest that was once thought useless... until Blackthorn cleared the beast trails and made it safe enough for others to wander."

She didn’t look at anyone directly. She didn’t need to.

"My people were the ones who reported it first. My men bled there last winter. If not for us, the land would still be roamed by those beasts."

Varell scoffed. "You say that as if it gives you full claim. You cleared beasts, not bought the soil."

"No one’s bought anything," Baroness Elira added, coldly. "That land hasn’t been measured or marked officially. Let’s not pretend we own what still belongs to the wild."

"And yet some of us treat it like a market stall." Selene’s voice sharpened by a hair.

"Scouting veins that aren’t theirs. Digging paths through woods that don’t bear their banners."

Count Casten raised a hand. "Enough." His tone wasn’t harsh, but it pressed on the air like stone. "Until we know the full reach of the vein, there will be no division of claims."

Selene leaned back, relaxed now. "Of course, my lord. Naturally." But her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

Varell muttered something under his breath. Elira didn’t speak again, but her fingers tapped steadily on the table’s edge.

Just as the Count parted his lips to speak.

CREAK!

The doors of the hall creaked open.

The air shifted.

Conversations died mid-breath as every noble in the chamber turned their heads.

TAP! TAP!

Heavy footsteps echoed across the stone floor.

A tall broad-shouldered man with graying hair entered. His face was marked by deep lines. A short, close-trimmed graying beard lined his square jaw.

His unblinking grey eyes carried the cold stillness of a battlefield long since won.

Behind him came a second figure, slighter in build, draped in a silver-blue cloak that shimmered faintly beneath the hall’s lanterns.

Their hood was drawn, face obscured.

Every lord and lady in the room stood.

"Duke Rithvale," several of them said in near unison, dipping their heads with reverence.

Garran Rithvale, Duke of Eastmarch.

One of the four pillars of the kingdom.

There were only four dukes in the entire realm governing a vast territory over North, South, East, and West each.

The Royal Family sat atop the throne in the capital, ruling the Central Region, but no king dared move without the dukes at his back. Or at least, without checking which way their blades were pointed.

Because they commanded private armies nearly as strong as the Crown’s own legions. Though still the crown’s military beat them in terms of weapons, war artifacts and experience.

And Garran... ruled the East.

The Count stood without hesitation and offered his seat.

Duke Garran took it with a nod, settling into the head of the long table as if he had always belonged there.

The cloaked figure beside him moved with a fluid grace, taking the seat on his left.

The Count, now slightly displaced, eased himself into the empty chair on Alaric’s other side, masking the shift with a forced smile.

A hush had fallen over the room, nobles stiff and watchful like prey sensing a larger predator.

The Duke gave a casual flick of his hand.

"Don’t mind me. Please, continue. I only thought my daughter should begin acquainting herself with the... charms of politics. She’ll have little choice in avoiding them soon enough."

At his words, the hooded girl beside him reached up and pulled back her hood.

Silver hair spilled down her shoulders in soft waves, streaked with fine strands of glacial blue that caught the chandelier’s light like frozen threads.

Her face was delicate, beautiful in the kind of way that felt sculpted by old magic. Skin pale as porcelain, lips faintly tinted like rosewater. But it was her eyes that could catch the air out from anyone’s lungs—sapphire-blue, cold and vivid, with a depth that saw more than she let on.

The room stirred at once. Nobles straightened their spines and adjusted their cuffs as if mere posture might earn them favor.

"My, Lady Veleria is even more radiant than the last I saw her—"

"Truly blessed, Duke Rithvale! If only I had sons of age!"

"Surely she’ll have no shortage of suitors from the capital... or perhaps even from nearby kingdoms."

The usual noble bootlicking, Alaric thought as he saw the faces of these nobles which had been dimmed due to the appearance of Duke, now had been bloomed to earn the favor of this young noblewoman.

Veleria nodded in response, but not a smile touched her lips. She wore composure like armor, her chin high, gaze unreadable.

Yet, as the compliments thickened and grew more desperate, Alaric noticed the faintest twitch of her jaw. A tiny flick of muscle near her chin.

She hated this, was tired of it.

As the others went on flattering the Duke’s daughter like drunken poets, the Count leaned slightly toward forward and spoke to Selene in a voice coated with politeness.

"Lady Selene," he said smoothly, gesturing subtly with a nod toward Alaric, "If you don’t mind my asking... who might this young man be?"

He masked it well, the curiosity, the calm, but Alaric noticed it. The brief strain behind the eyes. The twitch of a knuckle. Something tight in his voice.

Jealousy? Discomfort?

Like father, like son, Alaric thought dryly, keeping his face perfectly blank.