CHAPTER 176: [176] THREE SEEDS OF RUIN

Xavier stepped away from Lord Aldric mid-sentence, leaving the portly man sputtering about trade routes. The ballroom’s intricate dance of politics had begun, and Xavier intended to choreograph chaos.

Time to see how well these nobles handle poison in their wine.

He spotted Lord Garrett Ironhold near the ice sculptures, the man’s hawk mask failing to disguise his perpetually sour expression. Xavier approached with the easy confidence of shared misery.

"Lord Ironhold." Xavier’s voice carried just the right note of weary frustration. "I don’t suppose you’ve heard the latest about the Thornwood Pass attacks?"

Ironhold’s weathered face turned toward him, suspicious by nature. "What about them?"

"My cousin rode through the aftermath yesterday." Xavier’s eyes darted around the room, the picture of nervous discretion. "The tracks weren’t beast prints. Human boots, arranged to look like Vorthak claws. Someone’s been staging these attacks."

The older lord’s grip tightened on his wine goblet. "You’re certain?"

"Certain enough that I’m reconsidering my support for certain... expansion policies." Xavier let his gaze drift meaningfully toward Duke Haverford on the dance floor. "Amazing how some people seem to know exactly where to position their interests before disasters strike."

Ironhold’s jaw worked like he was chewing leather. The man had lost two sons to winter beast attacks in the past year. Xavier watched the seed take root behind those calculating eyes, saw the moment when suspicion crystallized into something harder, more dangerous. The lord’s weathered fingers drummed against his goblet—a nervous habit that spoke of a man reassessing everything he thought he knew about recent tragedies.

Perfect. Nothing quite like parental grief to fuel righteous anger.

Before moving on to his next target, Xavier let his expression soften just enough to suggest reluctant sympathy. "I’m sorry about your boys, my lord. They deserved better than to die for someone else’s ambitions."

Lady Cordelia Ashworth stood near the champagne fountain, her silver mask doing nothing to hide the ambitious gleam in her green eyes. She controlled three of the city’s most profitable crystal mines, or had, until Haverford’s recent acquisitions.

"Lady Ashworth." Xavier bowed with just enough deference to avoid insult. "Magnificent evening, though I confess I’m surprised to see you here."

Her fan snapped open with the sharp sound of breaking ice. "Oh? And why is that, Lord...?"

"Blackwood. I merely thought you’d be too busy dealing with the mine closures." Xavier’s expression conveyed sympathetic concern. "Though I suppose Duke Haverford’s offer was generous enough to ease the sting."

The fan’s movement stilled completely. "What offer?"

"The buyout terms for your northern holdings. Word is he made the proposal three days before the Winter Court raids began." Xavier’s voice dropped to conspiratorial levels. "Remarkable timing, really. Almost as if someone knew exactly which mines would become... problematic."

Lady Ashworth’s knuckles went white around her fan. Her mines hadn’t been raided—they’d been systematically undercut by Haverford’s competing operations. But the implication hung in the air like smoke from a dying fire. Xavier could see the wheels turning behind her eyes, connecting dots that painted an ugly picture of orchestrated manipulation.

"Three days, you said?" Her voice had gone dangerously quiet.

"Perhaps I misheard the details." Xavier’s retreat was perfectly timed—plant the seed, then step back before the explosion. "You know how gossip distorts truth."

But Lady Ashworth was already moving away, her silver gown cutting through the crowd as she sought out allies with similar grievances against the Duke.

Xavier excused himself completely, already moving toward his next conversation. The King’s Gaze whispered tactical assessments of sight lines and escape routes, but Xavier silenced the alien voice. Tonight required human intuition, not cosmic calculation.

Across the ballroom, Naomi glided between clusters of nobility like a shark sensing blood in crystalline waters. Her emerald gown caught the volcanic light as she approached Lady Morwyn Ashford, whose rivalry with Duke Haverford was legendary among Hearthome’s social circles.

"Lady Morwyn," Naomi said, executing a curtsy that spoke of expensive finishing schools and careful study of aristocratic etiquette. "How lovely to see you again. Though I must say, the evening has taken quite an interesting turn."

Lady Morwyn’s mask was a creation of black pearls and silver wire that resembled a spider’s web, turned toward her with predatory interest. "Has it indeed, Lady...?"

"Blackwater. And yes, the most fascinating rumors are circulating." Naomi’s voice carried the breathless excitement of shared gossip, each word carefully chosen to hook her listener’s attention. "Lord Aldric has been telling everyone who’ll listen that Duke Haverford has been corresponding with Winter Court agents. Can you imagine? The scandal would be delicious if it weren’t so serious."

Lady Morwyn’s fan fluttered like a dying bird. "Lord Aldric said this?"

"Oh yes, he was quite passionate about it. Something about trade documents and suspiciously convenient timing." Naomi leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried to nearby conversations with perfect acoustics. "He mentioned evidence—letters, I believe. Though of course, one mustn’t repeat such serious accusations without proof."

The older woman’s eyes glittered behind her mask like stars reflecting off black ice. Lady Morwyn had been waiting years for ammunition against Haverford, and Naomi had just handed her a loaded crossbow with the target already sighted.

"How... illuminating," Lady Morwyn murmured, her tone suggesting she was already planning how to weaponize this information. "I believe I should speak with Lord Aldric myself. Such concerns require immediate attention."

Naomi watched the woman glide away, her black gown cutting through the crowd like a blade seeking its target. Within minutes, Lady Morwyn was deep in animated conversation with Lord Ironhold, their heads bent together in urgent discussion while other nobles began gravitating toward their growing circle of discontent.

Three conversations, six new enemies, Naomi thought with satisfaction. Let’s see how the Duke handles a wildfire in his own ballroom.

Margaret had positioned herself near the musical ensemble, her blue gown and delicate mask making her appear like just another young noblewoman enjoying the entertainment. But her eyes tracked movement patterns, counting guards and noting the increasing tension that rippled through clusters of conversation like stones thrown into still water.

She caught sight of a servant carrying wine toward the head table and intercepted him with a brilliant smile. "Oh, how wonderful! I was just thinking how parched I was becoming from all this dancing."

The servant hesitated—she clearly wasn’t important enough to be served directly—but Margaret’s enthusiasm was infectious. "Of course, my lady. Though this particular vintage is reserved for the Duke’s table..."

"Then I’m sure it’s absolutely divine." Margaret accepted the goblet with both hands, her fingers brushing against the servant’s in a way that sent a subtle pulse of her Essentia through the contact. "You look exhausted, poor dear. Have you been working all evening?"

The man blinked, suddenly feeling inexplicably lighter despite his long shift. "Since dawn, actually. Big event like this... well, His Grace demands perfection."

"I’m sure he does." Margaret’s voice carried genuine sympathy that made the servant want to confide in her. "It must be difficult, especially with all the extra security tonight. So many more guards than usual."

"Oh yes, miss. Double shifts for everyone. Something about... well, I probably shouldn’t say."

Margaret’s smile grew warmer, her Essentia working to ease his stress and loosen his tongue. "Of course not. Though I did notice some commotion earlier near the lower levels. I hope everything is alright?"

The servant glanced around nervously, then leaned closer. "Between you and me, miss, they’ve got the old ritual chambers lit up like a festival down there. Haven’t seen that much activity since... well, since His Grace’s first wife passed."

Margaret’s blood ran cold, but her expression remained perfectly composed. "How fascinating. I’ve always been curious about the historical significance of such places."

"Historical, yes miss. Though tonight’s business seems rather... immediate, if you catch my meaning."

Before she could ask more, another servant appeared and hurried the man away. But Margaret had heard enough. She caught Xavier’s eye across the room and gave him the subtlest of nods.

The ritual is tonight. Whatever they’re planning for Calypso, it’s happening soon.

On the dance floor, Duke Haverford spun Calypso through another turn, his silver hair catching the light from the molten rivers beneath the crystal floor. His sun-mask gleamed with each movement, but behind the gold and black design, his eyes had grown cold as winter nights.

"You’re quite quiet tonight, my dear," he said, his voice pitched for her ears alone. "Nerves about the announcement, perhaps?"

Calypso’s white gown flowed around her like liquid starlight, but the golden threads woven throughout seemed to pulse with each heartbeat, creating visible ripples of suppression magic that made her divine nature flicker like a candle in wind. "Simply overwhelmed by the grandeur, Your Grace. Such occasions are... intense."

"Indeed they are." Haverford’s grip on her waist tightened almost imperceptibly, his fingers finding the pressure points where the suppression enchantments converged. "Though I suspect the intensity has only just begun."