CHAPTER 177: [177] THE ANOINTING AT KNIFEPOINT

The Duke’s gaze swept the ballroom, cataloging each cluster of conversation that had formed around the edges of the dance floor. Lord Ironhold’s suspicious glare burned through his bronze mask, while Lady Morwyn’s animated gestures drew an ever-expanding circle of listeners, her fan cutting through the air with increasing urgency.

The atmosphere had shifted like a tide turning. What had begun as careful political theater now teetered on the edge of genuine uprising, each whispered conversation adding weight to the growing rebellion.

Haverford’s smile remained fixed in place, but his hand pressed against the small of Calypso’s back with increasing force. Through the golden threads of her gown, he could feel the suppression enchantments pulsing in rhythm with her trapped divine essence. Her power fought against the binding like a caged star, beautiful and terrible in its contained fury, each pulse sending tremors through the delicate magical framework that held her.

"Tell me, Lady Selene," he said, guiding her through another turn while his eyes tracked the spreading chaos, "what do you know of loyalty?"

Calypso’s purple eyes met his through their masks, and for a moment, the goddess beneath the mortal facade seemed to peer directly into his soul. "I know it must be earned, Your Grace. And that once broken, it can never be truly restored."

"How philosophical." Haverford’s voice carried an edge sharp enough to cut crystal, each word precisely weighted. "Though I wonder if your perspective might change once you understand the true scope of tonight’s festivities."

The music swelled around them in a mockery of celebration, but Haverford’s attention remained laser-focused on the growing disturbance spreading through his guests like a plague. Lord Aldric had abandoned all pretense of discretion, his voice rising as he spoke with two other mine owners, their conversation punctuated by aggressive gestures and increasingly heated exchanges. Lady Morwyn had positioned herself like a general commanding troops, her fan orchestrating whispered accusations with the skill of a master conductor.

Near the ice sculptures, Xavier continued his methodical campaign of strategic poison, having moved on to Lord Theron Blackwater—a man whose shipping interests had suffered a series of mysteriously convenient raids. The young man’s casual posture belied the deadly precision of his words.

"The timing is what troubles me most," Xavier said, accepting a glass of wine from a passing servant with theatrical reluctance. "Three of your vessels hit in as many weeks, yet Duke Haverford’s new trade routes remain completely untouched. Either he’s blessed by the gods themselves, or..."

Lord Blackwater’s scarred hands—battle-worn souvenirs from a lifetime of naval warfare—clenched around his goblet until his knuckles went white. "Or what, boy?"

"Or someone’s been very selective about which ships to target." Xavier’s voice carried the weight of reluctant revelation, each word dropped like a stone into still water. "My cousin serves in the harbor watch, you see. The patrol schedules for the Duke’s vessels... they don’t match the official records. Not even close."

The implications hung in the air like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Lord Blackwater had lost good men to those raids—sailors who’d served him for decades, men with families and dreams and futures that had been cut short. His weathered face had gone pale beneath his bronze mask, rage and understanding warring in his expression.

Haverford felt the shift like a physical blow to his carefully constructed plans. The whispered conversations were spreading across the ballroom like wildfire, each shared suspicion and voiced accusation adding fuel to the growing conflagration. His perfect evening was unraveling with mathematical precision, each thread of his political web snapping under the weight of coordinated revelation.

The Duke’s grip on Calypso tightened as he guided her through what should have been the waltz’s climactic turn. But instead of completing the dance with the flourish that tradition demanded, he stopped abruptly in the center of the floor. His sun-mask caught the volcanic light like a fallen star, reflecting the room’s chaos in its polished surface.

The sudden halt sent ripples of confusion through the other dancing couples. Musicians faltered, their instruments trailing off in confused discord as the carefully orchestrated performance collapsed into chaos. The entire ballroom seemed to hold its breath as Duke Haverford stood motionless in the center of it all, his hand still possessive on Calypso’s waist, his power radiating outward like heat from a forge.

"Your Grace?" Calypso’s voice carried just the right note of confused concern, though her eyes held depths that spoke of divine amusement. "The music hasn’t ended."

Haverford’s smile was sharp enough to draw blood, all pretense of courtly charm finally abandoned. "No, my dear. But our dance has."

He turned toward the dais where Lord Torval waited, the older man’s obsidian mask reflecting the room’s growing tension like a dark mirror. Without ceremony or explanation, Haverford began walking Calypso off the dance floor, each step deliberate and final, leaving shocked whispers and abandoned protocol in their wake.

The breach of etiquette slashed through the ballroom like a ritual dagger. Ending a dance before the final notes died away wasn’t merely rude—it was a declaration of war wrapped in velvet and lace, a calculated blow that struck at the very foundations of Frostfall’s elaborate social architecture. The assembled nobility stared in slack-jawed horror, their painted faces frozen in expressions of delicious scandal.

Not even during the Crimson Court rebellion had anyone dared such a flagrant violation of the sacred dance. Haverford hadn’t simply broken protocol—he’d taken it by the throat and strangled it before the entire aristocracy, his intentions unmistakable as a bloody handprint on white silk.

Xavier watched from across the room as Haverford’s mask caught the light, the stylized sun design now looking more like a target painted in gold than a symbol of divine power. The Duke’s jaw was set in lines of barely controlled fury, his careful political theater abandoned in favor of direct action. Every line of his body spoke of a predator preparing to strike.

He knows, Xavier realized with crystalline clarity. He knows exactly what we’ve been doing, and he’s done playing games.

Haverford reached the dais and turned to face the assembled nobles, his hand still gripping Calypso’s arm like a claim of absolute ownership. Lord Torval stepped forward, confusion evident even behind his elaborate obsidian mask, his movements hesitant and uncertain.

"Cedric, what in the seven hells—"

Haverford raised his free hand, the gesture cutting through the ballroom’s confused murmur like a blade through silk. The last of the musicians fell silent, their instruments lowering as if compelled by some invisible force that pressed down on the entire gathering. Even the servants along the walls seemed to freeze in place, becoming living statues in the suddenly crystallized moment.

The silence that followed was absolute, heavy with volcanic heat and the weight of unspoken threats. In that crystalline instant, every mask in the ballroom turned toward the dais like flowers following the sun, every breath held in anticipation of whatever revelation was about to shatter the evening’s careful facade into a thousand glittering pieces.

When Haverford’s voice finally came, it carried across the vast space with the authority of absolute power and barely leashed violence, each word echoing off the volcanic stone walls like the pronouncement of a god.

"My lords, my ladies. There has been an unexpected change of schedule. The anointing must commence at once."