There was nothing he could do about it. That was simply the reality when dealing with the Von Heim family.
Their na carried weight — the kind of weight that sank kingdoms, like an anchor cast into a bottomless sea.
Truth be told, if that had been the only thing he needed to worry about today, he wouldn’t have been so irritable.
The real problem was that a re thirty minutes after the Von Heim family’s letter arrived, another ssage made its way into his office — this one from House D’Aramitz.
It was short and direct.
"We heard Lugh Von Heim will be attending the duel. We want to et him and, as such, will be arriving shortly."
At first, he had assud there’d been a leak — soone within his staff must have seen the Von Heim invitation and reported it to others.
Perhaps a spy had slipped into the household under his very nose. But no, he quickly shook the thought away. He was being paranoid.
His staff may have had their faults, but betrayal was not one of them — and besides, the security asures in place made such infiltration all but impossible.
No, thinking logically, it was obvious: the Von Heims had leaked the information themselves.
After all, their letter didn’t even specify that Lugh Von Heim would attend.
It was a generic, politely worded notice. But the D’Aramitz letter? It was specific — it nad Lugh directly. That could only an they had been tipped off.
He could have chosen to ignore that letter.
He could have rejected the chain of logic outright and continued as if nothing were amiss. But the truth was, there wasn’t any real choice at all.
He couldn’t refuse the Von Heim family. And if he accepted their attendance but rejected D’Aramitz, it would be a public admission that his family was being pressured —bullied, even—by the Von Heims.
Which, of course, was exactly what was happening.
He knew it. Everyone knew it. But admitting it openly would be another matter entirely.
There was a difference between suffering humiliation and announcing it to the world.
But that wasn’t the end of it. No, that was just the beginning.
The news had sparked a chain reaction. One noble house after another followed suit. Letters flooded in, faster than they could be sorted. Requests—if they could even be called that—began piling up in his study.
So didn’t even bother with formalities.
"We’re coming."
That was it. No honorifics. No greetings. Just a bald statent of fact.
"Don’t they have anything better to do!?"
He roared, voice echoing off the walls.
The shout startled the maids in the hall outside, causing several of them to flinch. But they quickly returned to their work. There was no ti to waste—not today.
Inside the office, the patriarch of the Cross family stood hunched over an oak desk, fists clenched.
His knuckles had slamd down in frustration only a mont before, and now he recoiled, shaking his hands from the pain.
His eyes, red-rimd from lack of sleep, burned with simring hatred as he glared at the rising mountain of correspondence.
Still, he didn’t leave. He hadn’t abandoned the task. He couldn’t afford to.
And it was a good thing he didn’t. Sowhere amidst the countless noble seals and embroidered envelopes were letters from the press—underground outlets like the Ophris Daily Oracle, declaring their intention to send reporters to witness the event.
Reporters!
What event? This was never supposed to be an event.
It was ant to be a simple affair. A father reprimanding his unruly daughter—a girl who had, for years, stubbornly rejected the teachings of magic, only to return from the frontlines thinking herself wise.
She had learned a few tricks in force control and now believed she was ready to challenge him—a Crown-level expert, a master of the arts.
Ridiculous.
The matter had never been ant for the public eye. And yet now...
Now it had grown beyond containnt.
There was nothing they could do about it. The Cross family had never been known for hosting social events—and for good reason.
One look at the location of their manor was enough to discourage even the most seasoned courtier.
But none of that seed to matter anymore.
The nobles were ravenous—still high from the spectacle of the last Von Heim ball. They were addicted to intrigue and drama.
With the Jade Tower’s selection looming and the grand auction just days away, there were plenty of chances for excitent on the horizon.
So why this?
Why now?
The old man sighed, deep and weary.
If there was one silver lining in this ss, it was that the Church had remained silent.
Just then, a knock ca at the door.
"Sir, another letter."
"...Don’t tell ."
"It’s from the Church."
"F*ck!"
...
Elsewhere, Victor Aelhurst was sipping beer in a rented room at a temporary inn. It was early morning—far too early for most—but what sort of degenerate would he be if he didn’t drink whenever and wherever he pleased?
He glanced down at his stomach, which had taken on an unmistakable roundness. It pushed against his shirt like a loaf rising in an oven.
Perhaps he was taking this ’staying in character’ thing a little too far.
Still, so habits died hard.
A knock at the door interrupted his musings.
"Who is it?"
"It’s ."
The voice didn’t offer any real identification, but Victor recognized it imdiately.
"Co in,"
He said, raising the bottle lazily to his lips.
The door creaked open. A sharply dressed man entered, clean-shaven and refined in bearing. He slled faintly of alcohol—not in the way of a drunkard, but like soone who knew his vintages and blends intimately.
Victor glanced at him over the lip of the bottle, his voice slurred but his eyes sharp with calculation.
"What’re you doing here?"
He muttered. A stream of beer ran down his chin as he took another swig, the bottle tilting carelessly in his grasp.
The man didn’t flinch. He rely took a seat across the room—a surprisingly tidy room, given the man who lived in it—and spoke evenly.
"Lugh Von Heim is attending the duel between Lyra Cross and the patriarch of the Cross family."
Victor froze mid-sip.
The bottle hit the table with a dull thud.
He wiped his mouth and adjusted his posture, all signs of drunkenness vanishing as his deanor hardened.
For a long mont, he was silent. Then:
"What do you make of it?"
The man across from him leaned back, folding his arms.
"I don’t know. I can’t read their intentions. Dealing with elves is always tricky, and Selaphiel herself is... formidable."
"So..."
Victor said slowly,
"What now?"
The man’s tone turned businesslike.
"You—along with several other unnad operatives—will attend the event. Your goal is to confirm whether the Lugh who appears... is the real one or a fake."
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