Magical Soul Parade

Chapter 290: Underestimation

He dropped into a vacant seat near the circle with a casual ease that bordered on insult, his gaze traveling from her boots to her face as if he were sizing up a delectable prize.

"It really is a waste," Riley said, lacing his fingers behind his head. "You’ve grown. Stronger. More refined. A genuine shame that I’m going to have to kill you anyway."

A low, warning sound came from the head of the table. Malakor was watching Riley with the expression of a man considering whether to let his beast have a snack.

"Amadeus," Malakor growled low. "You are in my tent. You are here only because of your family’s name. You are not here to settle your childish grudges on my rugs. Remember where you stand."

Riley raised a hand in a peace gesture, the smirk staying in place.

"Of course. My apologies, Lord Malakor. I wouldn’t dream of staining such fine craftsmanship with Seneschal blood. Not today." He turned back to Althea, his eyes darkening. "Besides, I would like to enjoy Althea at least once before she dies. It would be a tragedy to let all that... go to the grave unappreciated."

Althea stared at him. She didn’t blink. She didn’t let the revulsion she felt show in her posture. She simply watched him, letting the silence stretch until it had weight. Then she closed her eyes, exhaled slowly, and opened them again. The anger that was building was gone. Only cold clarity remained.

She let a small, thin smile touch her lips.

"I see you’ve managed to get a new arm, Riley," she said, her voice almost conversational. "Though judging by how you’re holding it, it isn’t quite as good as the original."

The reaction was instant. His hand flew to his right arm, fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his sleeve. For a split second, the mask came off entirely. Raw, jagged hatred flashed behind his eyes. He looked like he was about to lunge across the table.

He caught himself. He breathed, forced his fingers to relax, and the grin came back, though it was tighter now and visibly brittle. He had no retort. He turned away from her stiffly and addressed Malakor.

"The Aethelosian camp has sent me as their representative," Riley said, his voice recovering its practiced steadiness. "We are here to discuss the final terms for the fortress."

Malakor looked at him with an amused chuckle, glancing at his fellow Feraxians as if they were all sharing a private joke.

"You speak for all of them now, boy? I count at least six different family flags out there. House Vane, the Jothan House, the minor coastal lords. They all sat down and decided a hot-headed Amadeus scion was the best voice for their interests?"

Riley didn’t flinch. He sat forward, his expression turning serious.

"The Amadeus family is the greatest power in that camp. We have the most practitioners, the most resources, and the most to gain. If the Amadeus family puts forward a representative, who in that camp dares to say he does not speak for them? The others will follow because they know that without us, they are nothing more than targets for your hunters."

Malakor seemed somewhat impressed by the directness, though his mocking edge stayed.

"A brave claim," he said. "But by the laws of your kingdom, are not all families equal before your Queen? Is that not the great pride of Aethelos? That birth and power do not grant you a louder voice than your neighbors?"

Riley smiled. It was a knowing, cynical expression. He couldn’t contradict the Queen’s law without committing treason, so he didn’t. He let the silence do the work. His eyes said everything.

Malakor chuckled and sat up straight. The casual atmosphere evaporated, replaced by the focused energy of a real negotiation.

"Fine. Let us talk seriously. What is the Amadeus position? Do you still intend to make a charge for the fortress? Do you really want to spend hundreds of lives just to sit on a pile of calcified bone, lives that the surviving Ossuarists would be happy to add to their own collections?"

Riley met Malakor’s eyes with a sudden, sharp challenge.

"Is this the famous boldness of the Feraxians?" Riley asked. "You sound like an old man counting coins, worried about the cost of losing a few of them."

Malakor’s expression went cold. The feline-avian beast beside him stood up, feathers ruffling as it let out a low, guttural hiss at Riley. It watched the young man with a quiet hunger that made his confident posture falter for just a moment.

"Boy," Malakor said, his voice dropping. "I appreciate vigor in young men. I even appreciate boldness. But I detest stupidity. Watch your tongue. My hospitality has limits."

Riley said nothing, but he reined himself in, jaw tight.

Althea pressed the opening. She leaned forward, eyes fixed on Riley.

"If a battle is what the Amadeus family wants, you still would not get one," she said. "You are posturing as if this is a fair fight between two groups. It is not. A Preceptor-ranked Ossuarist is in that fortress. Preceptor Odette is not interested in a long siege. If you launch a charge, she will not wait for you to reach the gates. She will end it before you cross the plains."

Riley shook his head with a dismissive wave.

"A Preceptor," he said, his voice carrying deliberate skepticism. "You Ossuarists love your titles. You have wrapped your Masters in so much mystery that everyone has started equating them with Archons. But it is not so. I have studied the records. A Preceptor-ranked Ossuarist is powerful, certainly, but not absolute. They can be overwhelmed by numbers and brought down by superior skill."

He looked at Althea with a smug, knowing grin.

"With a Preceptor, there is still a fighting chance. In fact, it is much more than a fighting chance. We have calculated the odds. We have the numbers and the elemental counters. Your Preceptor is a formidable woman. She is a mountain. But mountains can be climbed."

Althea stared at him.

She had stood in the presence of Preceptor Elias back in Aethelos. She had seen him move against the Undying Flame, the Queen herself, a woman who was a living embodiment of power. She knew what a Preceptor could do when they stopped holding back.

To hear Riley speak of them as high-level obstacles to be handled by sheer numbers was like watching a child explain how they planned to put out the sun with a bucket of water.

She considered whether he was simply probing her, trying to goad her into revealing specifics about Odette’s power. But as she looked into his eyes, she found the truth, and it was more frightening than any bluff. He actually believed it. He genuinely thought the gap between a Caretaker and a Preceptor was a matter of degree rather than a shift in the nature of power itself.

It was a delusion so complete that it made her wonder if this was how the whole Arcanist world saw the Ossuary’s highest ranks, simply because those ranks were never seen in public.

If that was so... then these Arcanists were simply walking into a slaughterhouse, convinced they were the ones holding the knives.