Two days after that silent night, the Vayne March was still busy licking its wounds.
The communal kitchens continued to puff out steam, feeding thousands of mouths that no longer shouted insults but were instead occupied with dredging mud from clogged drains.
The fishy stench of black vomit began to erode, replaced by the bitter aroma of firewood and thick beef stew fat.
The people were finally starting to close their eyes, though their hands still often trembled from the remnants of last week’s mass bad trip.
Azura sat behind the massive oak desk in the Marquis’s study when a sound pierced the air.
It wasn’t the heavy blare of a war trumpet.
Prett!
It was a silver trumpet.
High-pitched, melodic, and full of ornate flourishes at the end—like the opening of a high-class theatrical performance.
The sound bounced off the damp stone walls of the castle, creeping arrogantly into every corner.
Azura lifted her head from the pile of logistical reports.
Her eyes narrowed sharply.
[System: Scanning…
Sound frequency: 440Hz.
Visuals detected: A procession whose taste is far too flashy for a territory that just underwent an embargo.
Boss, is this a condolence party or a traveling circus?
Narcissism Score: 12/10.]
Tsk.
Azura didn’t respond.
The double doors opened with a soft thud.
Arthur stepped in, his pace fast yet controlled.
“Your Grace.
The banner of the Magnovar family has just passed through the city gates.”
”Magnovar.” Azura set down her pen.
The cold metal of the tool clinked against the desk.
“Exelion.”
”Correct, Your Grace.
He brings a full escort unit and a royal carriage.
His reason…
an official condolence visit for the late Marquis.”
Azura stood, adjusting the wolf-fur cloak on her shoulders.
“Condolences?
Two months after the funeral was over?
He either has a terrible sense of timing or a calculation that is far too good.”
”It seems he waited for Vayne to be stable enough not to dirty his boots,” Arthur muttered flatly.
Azura walked toward the balcony, gazing at the main road.
“Or he wanted to ensure this lion was dead before he came to scavenge the remains.”
At the city gates, the citizens of Vayne, still caked in mud, stopped their work.
They turned, their eyes widening at the sight of an anomaly of luxury pushing its way in.
A gold carriage moved slowly like a shiny parasite over the grey streets.
Its wheels were plated in silver, reflecting the sunlight in a way that stung the eyes.
Peacock carvings adorned its wooden panels, so detailed that the feathers seemed alive.
Six guards in silver armor marched around it, carrying woven baskets in their hands.
Every few steps, the guards scattered something.
White rose petals.
Hundreds of petals fell, covering the remaining stains of black vomit that the rain hadn’t yet washed away.
A holy white atop a raw rot.
A visual insult wrapped in aesthetics.
The people remained silent, frozen in confusion.
A small child reached out to pick up a fragrant petal, but his mother immediately yanked his hand back.
“Don’t touch it.
That doesn’t belong to us.”
The carriage stopped right in front of the castle gates.
The door opened.
A young man stepped out with practiced elegance.
His golden-blonde hair was perfectly styled, with not a single strand daring to go against the wind.
His silk cloak was gold with imperial purple thread embroidery—a color that screamed dominance.
Around his neck, a peacock pendant with ruby eyes flashed red, like the eye of a predator assessing its prey.
Exelion Magnovar.
A smile designed for a camera, not for empathy.
”The legendary Vayne March!” he exclaimed, his voice projected with perfect vocal technique.
“I have come to offer my deepest sorrows for the Marquis…
and my admiration for the woman who now holds the reins!”
On the second-floor balcony, Alaric Varentis leaned lazily against the marble railing.
His hand was busy digging a handful of peanuts from the pocket of his scruffy linen shirt.
Snap.
Peanut shells fell scattered at his feet.
Alaric had been there since the first trumpet note broke the silence.
”Hmm…
the circus is here,” he murmured, grinning until his fangs showed.
“Bringing roses and all.
All he’s missing is a red carpet to make him feel like he’s in heaven.”
[System: Scruffy Duke detected performing observations.
Boss, he seems annoyed because there’s a new clown who’s even tackier.
Jealousy Level: Undetected, but Hunger Level: 100%.]
The castle gate creaked open.
Azura emerged in a heavy deep blue gown, contrasting with her bluish-silver hair tied in a stiff bun.
Arthur stood by her side like a shadow ready to strike at any moment.
Exelion puffed out his chest, adjusting his posture as Azura approached.
Azura’s steps were steady; every strike of her shoes against the stone sounded like an execution countdown.
”Lord Exelion Magnovar,” Azura’s voice was flat, cold as a blade of metal.
“Vayne’s streets are far too dirty for carriage wheels that expensive.
Have you taken a wrong turn?”
Exelion chuckled, a hollow laugh.
“Quite the contrary, Marchioness.
Beauty shines brightest when placed atop imperfection.” He bowed—a gesture whose degrees were calculated with political mathematics.
“Thank you for receiving me.
I know my arrival is…
a bit late.”
”Two months late,” Azura corrected without preamble.
”Exactly two months and twelve days,” Exelion straightened his body, his eyes staring at Azura with an unnatural glint.
“I was counting.
I needed certainty that Vayne was stable enough to visit.
And I heard you have done a…
remarkable job.
Surprising, even.”
He extended his hand.
Azura gave hers, a boring investment in protocol.
Exelion kissed the back of her hand.
[System: Scanning…
Contact duration: 3.7 seconds.
Standard protocol limit: 2 seconds.
Boss, this man is either too smitten or trying to mark territory via saliva.
Danger detection: Medium.]
Azura pulled her hand away with a subtle, insulting jerk.
“Come inside.
I don’t have time for street drama.”
Exelion smiled broadly.
“I like a woman who gets straight to the point.”
They crossed the main hall.
Exelion stared at every stone pillar and Silver Lion banner with the eyes of a collector appraising an antique.
”This castle has character,” he commented, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
“Different from my palace.
Too neat.
boring.”
”Did you come to mourn or to appraise the property?” Azura dictated the conversation, giving Exelion no room to lead.
”Condolences, of course.” Exelion stopped, turning to face Azura.
“But not just for your late husband.”
Azura stopped.
She turned slowly.
Her eyes fixed on Exelion like a predator looking at a prey that was being too loud.
”I also wish to express my sympathy,” Exelion continued, his voice lowering.
“For what happened with the Church.
The poison.
The embargo.
And a Saintess who is now…
your ally?”
”A prisoner,” Azura corrected sharply.
“An ally is a pragmatic choice.
She is a prisoner I’ve forced to invest.
Do not misuse the diction.”
Exelion gave a thin smile, this time with a cunning glint in his eyes.
“An interesting choice of words.”
In the small banquet room, the table was set.
Only for two.
However, as they were about to sit, the sound of casual footsteps echoed from the corridor.
Creak.
Alaric Varentis appeared at the door, his hands still busy peeling the last peanut.
Exelion turned, his smile not fading in the slightest.
“Alaric.
I thought you had returned to the South to tend to your peanut farm.”
”I also thought you were still cooped up in your glass tower, Exelion,” Alaric countered casually.
“But it seems we both share the same hobby: disappointing people’s expectations.”
Alaric pulled out a chair between them, sitting uninvited with a style that was extremely impolite.
Azura didn’t kick him out.
To Azura, Alaric’s presence was a useful disruptive variable to suppress Exelion’s ego.
”I didn’t know Duke Varentis had become…
part of the Vayne inventory,” Exelion sneered.
”I’m not part of Vayne,” Alaric replied quickly.
“I just like the beef soup.
And perhaps…
watching a peacock circus for free.”
Azura sat at the head of the table.
At her side were two of the kingdom’s greatest Fangs.
One draped in blinding gold silk, the other in scruffy linen with the scent of soil.
[System: Situation analysis: Two Fangs at one table.
One in shiny shoes, one in sandals.
If this table suddenly explodes, please make sure my data is backed up, Boss.
Tension Score: 9/10.]
Azura ignored the System.
Her eyes bore into Exelion, cold and unreadable.
”State your business, Lord Exelion.
I despise guests who circle around like pawns who have lost their board.”
Exelion leaned back.
His stage mask slipped slightly, revealing his true face—sharp and ambitious.
“Fine.
I’ll speak plainly.
I came because I wanted to see with my own eyes…
exactly who the woman is that managed to crush the Church with nothing but a few pots of soup.”
”Now you’ve seen her,” Azura said flatly.
”I have.” Exelion stared deep into Azura’s eyes, this time with the gaze of a predator assessing a rival.
“And I haven’t been disappointed in the slightest.”