The man before me was portly, the kind of soft that comes from indulgence rather than misfortune. His mask was molded into the face of a mastiff—broad muzzle, drooping jowls, heavy-lidded eyes that made the wearer seem perpetually tired and faintly irritated.

But the mask wasn't the loudest thing about him. His outfit—if it could even be called that—was an explosion of clashing silks, gilded embroidery, and a cape so heavily beaded it probably required its own footman just to keep it from strangling him mid-step. Every square inch shouted for attention. It was loud, it was obnoxious, and it carried one singular, blaring message: I am overcompensating for something.

Wallace didn't need to whisper a name in my ear; I had my Gloss do the work instead. The moment I fixed my gaze on him, the information shimmered into clarity in the back of my mind.

Lord Wilstead Karhile.

Perfect.

"Lord Wilstead Karhile," I said aloud, allowing my tone to be cordial without committing to warmth. "It is my utmost pleasure to see you here tonight." I made sure the words dripped with polite ambiguity—neither accepting nor rejecting the duel he had hurled at me moments ago. "You'll be happy to note that, under my dominion, the Everis Hills are flourishing at a rampant rate. I am projected to offer the Queen a full waxing silver this cycle."

The effect was immediate and delicious.

A ripple of gasps shuddered through the surrounding crowd. Even behind their masks, the shock was visible in their posture—the stiffened spines, the slight recoil, the whispering that trailed like sparks through dry grass.

They all knew the truth of the matter. When the Everis Hills had been dropped—rather unceremoniously—into my lap, the territory had been a bleeding wound in the royal ledger, producing a pitiful fourteen waning silvers. Now, in barely a year's time, I had turned it into a thriving domain worth nearly ten times that.

Lord Karhile, unfortunately for him, did not seem impressed. His hands clenched at his sides, the mastiff's jowls staring down at me as if they could convey righteous fury through papier-mâché.

"Prince Duarte-Alizade," he said, and the way my name left his mouth was more a curse than an address, "you have used the Queen's authority to besmirch my name, disgrace my honor, and drag my finances into ruin." His voice rose, dripping venom with every syllable, until it spat from his lips like sour wine.

I raised one hand, palm outward, cutting the air between us like a guillotine's drop.

"Mey shemhekh methet legshem, Rain-Maker," I said, invoking his courtesy name with deliberate care, letting the formal syllables wrap around the insult they concealed. "I request evidence of my supposed transgressions—evidence that I, personally, have ever done anything so grandiose as to topple your fortunes."

My voice carried easily, smooth but firm, pitched so every ear in the growing circle could hear it.

"I can verify, via my Gloss—and with no edits, no omissions, no convenient redactions—that I have never contacted you. I have never ordered anyone to contact you. Nor have I interfered in your holdings, your trade, or your personal affairs in any way."

I took a deliberate step closer, my gaze locking on his through the mastiff's glassy eyes.

"Truthfully, Lord Karhile… you have been an afterthought. Now—" I gestured toward him with the faintest trace of a smile, "can you verify your claim that I have besmirched the good nature of your family name?"

The air between us grew taut—dense, almost suffocating—the kind of silence that hangs before steel is drawn or a reputation is shredded in public. The gathered onlookers seemed to lean inward without realizing it, as though their curiosity alone might tip the balance.

Behind the mastiff's fixed papier-mâché snarl, Lord Karhile's jaw flexed. The subtle movement was enough to betray the struggle warring in his mind: accept the sting of my words and retreat into obscurity… or double down and risk everything in the open.

When he finally spoke, his voice was loud enough to carry across the masked assembly, every syllable dripping with condescension.

"No," he admitted at last, "I have no proof—" he emphasized the word as if speaking it cost him—"however, my honor demands satisfaction. A duel between you and I."

He stepped forward, the ornate beading of his ridiculous cape catching the light in ripples. "I refuse to allow a whelp like you to take command under royal authority. A Walker playing at being a military lord. A Walker, I might add, from another sovereign nation."

There were murmurs at that—sharp, thin, and hungry.

I did not flinch.

"The Alliance of Free Cities," I said evenly, "is not a nation, Lord Karhile. Legally, it is a consortium of duchies, baronies, and independent city-states—as the name suggests. We answer to a central governance only in matters of sentience."

I let that linger for a breath before stepping closer, letting my tone cool to the sharpness of cut glass.

"The Queendom of Bast may not be a formal ally of the Free City of Marr, but we are certainly not enemies. My presence here is not some foreign intrusion—it is representation. I stand as a bridge between two powers that could be at odds… but are not."

I swept a slow, deliberate glance across the crowd, making sure my voice carried beyond him.

"I represent a growing union, Lord Karhile. A union meant to prevent further… altercations—" I let the word hang like a guillotine blade—"committed by a certain splinter who would rather stir chaos than maintain the peace her Majesty has worked so diligently to secure."

The murmuring grew sharper now, threaded with curiosity, suspicion, and the faint crackle of scandal. Karhile's fists tightened at his sides. He knew exactly which "splinter" I referred to—and so did everyone else within earshot.

The shift in the ballroom was almost palpable now—masks turning in our direction like sunflowers toward the dawn. Every Baron of Bast worth their title was here tonight, and every one of them was listening.

Perfect.

I gave Lord Karhile a slow, measured bow—not deep enough to convey submission, but just enough to feign respect.

"Lord Karhile," I began, voice pitched so even those feigning conversation could hear, "you speak of honor, yet offer no evidence to support your grievance. You challenge me in public, during a gathering explicitly called to strengthen Bast's internal unity, in front of the Queen's chosen representatives, and—" my gaze cut deliberately toward Admiral Ravis and his dragon-masked sister, "—before our most lucrative mutual partners."

A ripple of shifting feet and rustling silks spread through the crowd. I didn't let them breathe before twisting the knife.

"Were I to accept this duel without cause, I would be seen as a rash upstart—an impression I will not allow. But if you insist upon this duel without proof, then every Baron in this room will know that you are willing to risk fracturing the very stability of Bast over a personal slight that cannot even be substantiated."

Karhile's posture stiffened, but I pressed forward, drowning him in words before he could interrupt.

"I speak as a Walker in service to the Queendom—your Queendom—at the direct appointment of the Queen herself. If you attack me, you challenge not just my claim to the Everis Hills, but the Queen's judgment in granting it."

I let that statement hang, letting the weight of it sink into every corner of the ballroom.

"Now, if that is what you intend, by all means—declare here, before your peers, that you believe her Majesty is unfit to bestow titles. Say to them, plainly, that you stand against her will. I assure you, the record will be preserved."

There was no sound except the soft breathing of masked nobility.

Karhile's hands clenched so tightly his gloves creaked. He could not back down without humiliation, nor proceed without branding himself as the man who challenged the Queen's authority. The trap was sprung, and everyone here knew it.

I smiled politely, as though we were discussing the weather.

"Or," I said, "you may retract your challenge, and instead bring your grievance before the Queen's court in proper form. That way, the matter will be settled honorably, and without bloodshed. The choice is yours, Rain-Maker."

The last two words cracked through the air like a hammer on glass.

Every eye in the ballroom was on him now. His answer would be his undoing, one way or another.

Karhile's jaw flexed behind his mastiff mask. I could almost hear the sound of his teeth grinding, a low, private thunder he probably thought no one else could hear. His breathing grew heavier, shallow enough that I suspected his temper was strangling him.

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I didn't let him speak.

"You see, Rain-Maker," I said, my tone smooth and patient, "the Everis Hills were not a gift to me—they were a burden I was willing to shoulder when others would not. Fourteen waning silvers, a decaying infrastructure, and a workforce too demoralized to care. That is what I inherited from your stewardship."

Several masked nobles shifted in place, murmurs rustling like leaves. The word your was deliberate—publicly tying the decline to Karhile without outright accusation.

"And now?" I continued. "The roads are repaired. The mines produce again. Wool merchants bid against each other for rights to transport our goods. My Everis Hills are no longer a scar on the Queen's ledger, but a jewel she can display before foreign courts."

Karhile stepped forward, shoulders bunched, fists trembling. "Your Hills?!" His voice cracked like a whip. "They were mine long before the Queen saw fit to—" He stopped himself, too late. A hush fell again, the kind that meant every soul here had just heard him skirt dangerously close to insulting the Queen.

I leaned in, close enough that only he could hear my next words—but my posture, the stillness of my body, let the crowd see the intent.

"Careful, Lord Karhile. One might almost think you resent her Majesty's judgment."

He jerked back as if slapped. "I—No! I will not have my name sullied by a foreign whelp playing lord because he can wave a Walker's seal!" His voice rose, cracking slightly at the edge, but I kept my tone calm, patient, unshaken.

"Then prove me wrong," I said softly. "Prove to them—" I gestured to the semicircle of barons who had now formed a silent ring around us, "—that your stewardship would surpass mine. Do not duel me over honor alone. Duel me for competence. The right to show the Queen who truly deserves the Everis Hills."

It was the final bait. No man in his position could resist it—now, refusing the duel would imply he feared losing, both in battle and in governance.

Karhile's mask twitched toward the crowd, toward the dozens of gazes pinning him in place.

"You will regret this," he hissed. "By dawn, you will kneel."

I gave him a court-perfect bow, the very image of grace. "Then I look forward to your lesson, Rain-Maker."

The murmur of the onlookers rose into a fever pitch as Karhile stormed away to make preparations, every noble in the room knowing two things with absolute certainty:

Prince Alexander Duarte-Alizade had already beaten Lord Wilstead Karhile tonight. And by sunrise, he would do it again with steel.

The music resumed in cautious spurts, like a wounded bird testing its wings. Conversations started again, but they were fractured—half-genuine, half-whispers dissecting what had just happened between Lord Karhile and myself. I could feel the eyes. Every masked gaze in the ballroom seemed to flicker toward me, then away, as if afraid to be caught staring too long.

Wallace, standing just behind my shoulder, leaned down with a voice as low as a blade drawn in darkness. "You've just gutted him without drawing steel."

"Yes," I murmured, accepting a glass of pale amber wine from a masked attendant. "And that's why I suspect he'll try to spill mine before the night is done."

We moved along the gilded floor, speaking with other barons and ministers as though nothing had happened, but each conversation carried a subtle undercurrent. People spoke of weather and trade, but their bodies leaned in, their masks tilted forward, their words calculated to slip in a quick, harmless-sounding question about the Everis Hills.

It was perfect. Every time Karhile's name was mentioned, it was in the shadow of my accomplishments. I didn't need to embellish—the numbers spoke for themselves. But I did allow the smallest, most artful hints to escape, the kind that could be repeated later in private chambers: The mines running at threefold output. The harvest festivals returning. The Queen's tax collectors smiling for once.

Karhile was nowhere to be seen. Either sulking or planning. Both suited me.

As the night wound on, I found myself drawn toward the dais where High Queen Lillianne sat, a quiet pillar amidst the swirl of masked courtiers. Her mask was simple—white porcelain with a thin rim of gold—and it only heightened the regality of her presence. She was not one to speak unless it served a purpose, and her silences could bend lesser lords into apology without her lifting a finger.

Wallace caught my sleeve just before I approached. "Alexander. Careful."

"I am careful," I said. But my feet still carried me forward.

When I reached her, I bowed—not the shallow nod of formality, but a deep, deliberate bend from the waist, one hand across my chest.

"Your Majesty," I began, "I owe you an apology."

The courtiers nearby hushed, scenting blood. Even masked, I could feel the Queen's eyes narrow slightly. "Oh? And what crime is this, Star-Writer?"

"I fear I've caused you unnecessary spectacle. While my defense of the Everis Hills was in earnest, it was… spirited. And perhaps more public than it should have been." I lifted my gaze to meet hers fully, letting sincerity—not meekness—sit in my voice. "I did not mean to turn your ball into a court of judgment."

Her fingers tapped lightly against the armrest of her chair, the sound sharp in the air. "Lord Karhile's wounds were self-inflicted," she said at last, voice like glass on stone. "You merely gave him the mirror."

A few muffled laughs rippled from the nobles at her side, quickly silenced when her gaze swept past them.

"Still," I said, lowering my voice, "I serve at your pleasure. And while I cannot promise that my tongue will never cut, I will promise to aim it only at those who would harm your realm—or mine."

She studied me for a long moment. Then, without smiling, she said, "See that you win tomorrow morning, Alexander Duarte-Alizade. I will not have my newly restored Hills returned to a man who would bury them again."

I bowed once more. "It will be my honor."

When I stepped back into the swirl of dancers and masked faces, the tension that had clung to me all night loosened—not because the danger had passed, but because the Queen had given me her wordless blessing.

The music shifted—slower, deeper, the strings curling through the air like a ribbon of moonlight. The kind of melody meant for whispered conspiracies and deliberate steps.

Fallias stood near the edge of the dance floor, her mask feathered in pale lavender, the same color that dusted her hair. She was speaking politely with two minor barons, but her eyes—those faintly luminous irises—flicked toward the dancers as though she wished to be among them.

I caught Wallace's faint smirk as I handed him my wine. "Try not to outshine the Queen this time," he murmured.

"No promises," I replied, already moving.

The floor seemed to part for me as I crossed it. The gazes that followed me tonight carried new weight—no longer just suspicion after the duel's provocation, but curiosity. What would the Star-Writer do next?

I stopped before Fallias and bowed—not the shallow dip of a passing invitation, but the deep, formal gesture of a partner about to make the night memorable. "Lady Fallias," I said, voice low enough that only she could hear, "may I have this dance?"

Her brows lifted slightly, the question catching her off guard. "You?" she asked. "I wasn't aware—"

"That I could dance?" I let the corner of my mouth curve in a quiet smile. "You'll see."

I reached inward. Stage of the Starborne.

The air shifted around me, just enough for her to notice—the faint prickle of performance magic as my posture, breathing, and every line of movement slipped into Celeste's persona. Celeste moved like starlight poured into human shape, each step deliberate, each gesture polished.

The music cued our entry, and I extended my hand as a male lead—not to draw attention to myself, but to frame her, to make her the celestial centerpiece she deserved to be.

When we stepped onto the polished marble, I began the turn that set the pace—my hand at her back, my other guiding hers with effortless control. I matched her weight perfectly, every step creating a rhythm that lifted her movements into something more than just dance.

The murmurs began immediately.

"Who…?" "That's Duarte-Alizade." "Didn't know he could—"

Fallias caught on quickly, her movements fluid as she let me take the lead. Every twirl I gave her was deliberate—angled so her gown caught the light, so the cascade of silk rippled like flowing water under moonlight.

She laughed—quiet, genuine—when I pulled her in close for a sharp turn before spinning her out again. Celeste's precision carried us through every measure as though the floor had been designed for us alone.

By the second verse, the court's focus had shifted entirely. The earlier tension of political maneuvering had softened into a shared awe at the sight before them. This wasn't just a dance; it was presentation.

As the music swelled toward its final rise, I guided her into a long sweeping arc, my steps closing the space until I drew her into the final dip. Her lavender feathers brushed against my cheek, the faint scent of lilac following as the applause burst from the edges of the floor.

I straightened, letting her take the bow—because the dance had never been about me.

Fallias's cheeks were faintly flushed, and when she glanced at me, her voice was barely a whisper over the crowd. "You did that for me."

I smiled faintly. "No, my lady. I did that with you."

And as we stepped away from the floor, the courtiers' stares followed—not just for the duel, not just for the Everis Hills, but now for the knowledge that Alexander Duarte-Alizade could command both the blade and the stage.

That evening, Wallace, Fractal, and V stood watch over my assigned chambers. I trusted them implicitly, but trust did not erase the lingering certainty that Karhile would not take his humiliation quietly. I doubted he would stain his own name with the dishonor of attempting violence before the duel—Bast's nobility has too much pride for that—but I would be a fool to believe his hands were clean of agents who might.

Bast has four recognized avenues of political advancement: the blade, the pen, the stage, and the vial. Each as dangerous as the other, and all of them already at play.

The blade was obvious. Every noble in Bast—myself now included—was tied to the military. Here, military might did not merely support right; it was right. The duel itself was proof enough of that truth.

The pen belonged to those with strength in debate, oration, or verbal maneuvering. I had already demonstrated my own skill with it, dismantling Karhile in full view of the court. Words, properly wielded, could leave wounds far deeper than steel.

The stage was the realm of image and perception, where mastery of performance could cement one's place in the hierarchy. I had taken my turn there as well, leading Fallias across the floor to thunderous applause. I was certain that the more discerning guests—those with cores strong enough to feel the shift when I invoked Stage of the Starborne—would have recognized my use of a Skillcube to perfect my steps. Some might have whispered "cheating," but those of true influence would have seen it for what it was: a clever use of resources, the sign of someone who knew how to win regardless of the arena.

And then there was the vial—the shadowed path of poisons, cures, bribes, and the quiet removal of obstacles. I would never claim mastery over it, but I had an asset in Jasmine—a black market broker, a pirate, and a mistress of illicit affairs. In her hands, the vial could be as sharp as any sword, and far harder to guard against.

I knew Karhile would not sleep easily tonight. The same was true for me.

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