The Runesmith

Chapter 600: Noble Cat Fight.

“Wait, aren’t those four…”

“Yes, they are. Please be quiet, or you will get us in trouble.”

The nobles turned their faces toward a strange scene unfolding. Four women were speaking together, each well known and prominent within her own circle. Behind them stood small groups of lesser nobles, mostly women, with a few silent servants among them. Lady Scarlet, the one with crimson hair, did not look pleased, yet soon her lips curled into a sharp smile.

“Better poor taste than no taste at all, Lady Celeste. You look like a peacock draped in sapphires.”

Celeste’s eyes narrowed, and the gems in her hair glittered as she mockingly tilted her head.

“And yet, Lady Scarlet, peacocks are still admired. Some of us need not breathe fire like common tavern drunks to be noticed.”

A third voice broke in before Scarlet could reply. It was a refined voice, one laced with a feeling of superiority.

“Bantering like fishermen’s wives already, I see. How predictable.”

The speaker was a tall, slim woman with raven hair, dressed in a gown of dark silk that seemed to be woven from shadows themselves. Jewels glittered at her throat, a deliberate display of wealth and rank. She carried herself like one accustomed to command, her chin lifted as though she looked down upon all others.

“Lady Layla, how nice of you to join us. Your dress looks as gaudy as ever.”

Said Lady Scarlet, her frown plain for all to see. Lady Layla arched a brow at this response, and her dark eyes gleamed with disdain.

“Gaudy? My dear Scarlet, this fabric was woven in the capital by the royal tailors themselves. Not that you would know the difference. Flame burns bright, yes, but it lacks refinement. A pity your son inherited the same vulgar temperament.”

Gasps and muffled laughter rippled through the circle of noblewomen who had gathered like vultures to a fresh carcass. It was rare enough for the duke’s four wives to appear together, rarer still for them to trade insults so openly. Scarlet’s face flushed red with fury, and she was about to unleash a retort when another voice intervened. It was another noble woman, her words smooth and calming.

“Ladies, please, let us remain civil.”

Lady Aurelia stepped forward. Her golden hair shimmered in the chandelier light, and her gown, woven of gold with silver trim, seemed to glow as it caught the rays. The sun motif embroidered across her bodice marked her devotion to Solaria. Every gesture she made carried the grace of a true lady, the kind poets would immortalize in song.

“My dear sisters, we stand in the duke’s hall. Let us show the dignity befitting our station. Let us remember the eyes upon us, and the honor, the burden, our children must one day carry forward.”

Her words drifted through the hall like a calming breeze amid a storm. Where Scarlet’s voice crackled like fire and Layla’s dripped with venom, Aurelia’s floated with poise and restraint. She did not appear to mock or accuse, yet her words were not received kindly by the others.

“Dignity befitting our station? Are you suggesting we are acting unladylike? What audacity.”

Layla’s eyes narrowed, her tone sharp, and neither Scarlet nor Celeste seemed pleased either. The air grew rigid, the atmosphere heavy, while nobles leaned closer to catch every word. For many of them, such gatherings were the only true diversion from their estates. What seemed like polite conversation was, in truth, warfare. At such gatherings, alliances were forged and broken in moments, friends discarded as quickly as rivals were courted.

It reminded Roland of the days he had spent among nobles, though his own time had been brief. In the five years he lived as a noble’s child, he had witnessed such spectacles often. His stepmothers had hosted similar gatherings, and he remembered well how laughter could shift to slander the instant backs were turned.

‘Once you are the wife of a duke, unless royalty is present, there seems to be no reason to hold back.’

From where he stood, he could see the four ladies exchanging insults. He wasn’t sure if Julius’s mother was doing it on purpose, but some of her words came off as rude, though they could also be masked as goodwill. Whether intentional or not, the disruption they created proved useful to him. It gave him the chance to slip away from the knight eager to provoke a fight.

He glanced aside toward Arthur, who lingered at the edge of the hall. Arthur’s expression was distant, his gaze fixed on the four women, though his eyes seemed to search for someone beyond them. His stare roamed across the chandeliers, the jeweled gowns, and the silken cloaks of the assembled nobility, yet it always returned to the shadowed doorways.

Roland had a fair idea of whom Arthur longed to see. Yet such a wish could never be granted, not here, not in this hall, not within the rigid confines of noble society. Arthur’s mother was no human but a moon elf, and though her beauty and grace were beyond question, she had no noble birth within the kingdom. To the lords and ladies gathered here, such a truth was intolerable. It was a stain that made Arthur’s chosen path all the more difficult.

“What do you mean by that?”

An annoyed voice echoed through the hall again.

“Oh? Did I strike a chord?”

The bickering among the duke’s wives resumed, but before it could escalate further, a voice thundered from the far end of the hall. Roland recognized it at once. Ꞧ𝐀ƝꝊBĘs

“Ladies and gentlemen.”

It was the butler. His voice carried through the chamber, boosted by the power of magic that silenced even the most stubborn whispers. A small group of attendants stood behind him, maids and butlers dressed in impeccable attire.

“His Grace welcomes you to his palace.”

At once, the hall fell into silence. Every gaze turned upward, searching. The eyes of the nobility shifted instinctively to the second level, where private booths overlooked the grand ballroom. The vast chamber was divided into two tiers: the main floor with its polished dance floor and banquet tables, and the upper level, where the great and powerful observed from the seclusion of their own chambers.

Each of the duke’s wives possessed a private booth, furnished and reserved for their allies and confidants. At the very center, dominating the highest wall, stood the duke’s own throne-like chair, the seat of the master of the palace. Yet, it remained empty.

‘Where is he?’

Roland wondered at the duke’s absence as he glanced about the hall. Though the man had considerable freedom in how he conducted himself, this was a moment when tradition demanded his presence. He should have been here to greet the assembled nobility. The confusion in the crowd was plain, and even his four wives seemed uncertain of the reason he had not appeared.

“His Grace will join us later. He has been detained with urgent matters of state.”

The butler’s voice carried with its usual polish, steady and composed, yet Roland noticed the shifting of shoulders, the narrowing of eyes. The nobles were not convinced. The explanation rang hollow, too neat, like a line rehearsed to keep unrest at bay. Whispers started almost instantly, and with his enhanced hearing, Roland could hear it all.

“Too busy to greet his own court?”

“Perhaps he grows weary of his wives endless quarrels.”

“Or is this a statement? Does he resent someone’s presence… perhaps the Solarian paladins?”

Speculation spread like fire through dry grass. Some remarks carried little weight, while others made quite a lot of sense. Roland knew the truth beneath it all. Even if Julius was favored in the battle of heirs, there were many who despised the changes he championed. To them, the Solarian church was not a blessing but an intrusion, an outsider’s hand creeping into their duchy, bound not to this kingdom but to the power of the west.

The Holy Kingdom of Alexandria had expanded its influence deep into the realm, and not everyone welcomed it. Paladins now swarmed the land, empowered by the king to investigate even the nobility. Many resented this intrusion but could not openly oppose it, since the church remained essential in the fight against evil beings and forbidden magic. Without a paladin or cleric strengthened by divine power, resisting dark sorcery was nearly impossible.

This was one of the main reasons he kept his progress secret. He had discovered a way to emulate divinity itself. It could serve as a bargaining chip to protect his life, yet it would also paint a target on his back. If his invention were revealed, the prestige of the Solarian Church would surely diminish. If runic equipment could rival the power of priests and paladins, there would be little reason to keep funding them.

He could see the immense earning potential in his work. Nobles would likely pay handsomely for divine cannons or holy grenades that could strengthen their forces against the undead. Yet the venture was filled with danger. He had no way of knowing how far the zealotry of the faithful extended. It was entirely possible that he would be branded a heretic, an enemy not only of the Solarian Church but of every religion. Since he could also replicate necrotic mana and even the essence of black magic, that alone might be enough to condemn him as a necromancer or warlock who deserved execution.

“Please enjoy the gathering, ladies and gentlemen. We have prepared a feast worthy of your status.”

With a graceful sweep of his hand, the butler bowed, and the attendants withdrew, leaving the nobles to murmur and shift like restless birds. The long banquet tables glittered with crystal goblets and silver platters, though no servant dared lift a lid until the guests themselves made the first move. The chamber soon filled with the rustle of silk and the steady tap of boots as the nobles finally began to take their seats.

Roland did not join them. He remained by the wall, his mask concealing his expression as he quietly observed the gathering. Though his helmet was absent, the mask still retained most of its functions. This was an ideal chance to expand his database with the mana signatures of nobles, their trusted soldiers, and their closest advisors.

Arthur, meanwhile, took a tall glass of wine and settled at an empty table, well apart from the other nobility. This was the time for mingling and striking bargains, yet no one seemed interested in approaching the young heir candidate. The other four heirs were present as well, but they did not so much as glance his way. Instead, they clustered around their mothers, surrounded by eager lesser nobles vying for favor. Still, whispers followed Arthur wherever he lingered.

“That must be the half-blood.”

“Yes. His features are handsome enough, I suppose, though it is still elf blood…”

“Some say he has talent. The duke’s son is still the duke’s son.”

“Hmph. Let him climb if he dares. No house will marry their daughters to him. No one wants elf ears on their grandchildren.”

“I heard they vanish by the third generation, so perhaps it would be fine. His exploits are impressive.”

“Mmm… yes. Best to wait until the assembly is finished.”

“Indeed.”

Roland caught the words clearly. Some nobles dwelled on Arthur’s half-elven heritage, others on his growing reputation after capturing a city and extending his influence so late in the heir race. Yet none of them were prepared to offer support. Not until the assembly ended, and they could gauge the duke’s opinion of his fifth son.

Time passed, yet Arthur remained seated alone, the stem of his glass slowly turning between his fingers. His expression stayed composed, though Roland could tell he was listening. Every sneer, every whisper, every word was a dagger meant to remind him of his place. Still, Arthur gave no response. He neither rose to defend himself nor acknowledged the nobles circling like hawks. He simply endured.

‘What is he trying to achieve?’

Hours slipped by with little of note, and Roland began to think the day might end in nothing more than tedious posturing. But once the nobles had settled in and drink loosened their tongues, some began to reveal their true colors. One of them was Arthur’s brother, infamous for his short temper and fondness for wine.

“Brother…”

“Brother? You think you’ve earned the right to call me that, Bastard?”

Ivan Valerian had finally decided to confront Arthur. Roland could not entirely understand the reasoning. There was little to be gained from antagonizing someone so low on the ladder. The most he could assume was that Ivan, desperate to reclaim lost prestige, saw Arthur as an easy target, a convenient punching bag to relieve his anger.

Ivan’s voice carried through the banquet hall like a whip crack. Though half the nobles were already drunk and feigning disinterest, many focused their ears on the encounter. Arthur seemed to be as calm as stone. He raised his glass and took another sip before lowering it carefully and speaking up.

“Isn’t my presence here enough proof for that… brother?”

Arthur made sure to say the last word slowly and deliberately, his voice laced with mockery. He gave Ivan no chance to recover before pressing on.

“Perhaps it is you who should worry about your standing more than me? It was truly a terrible thing, what happened to the city of Reeka, if only their lord had not been so… incompetent.”

Arthur’s words cut like a dagger. He did not raise his voice, yet the calmness with which he spoke made things even worse. Whispers rippled through the hall, turning into stifled laughter and muted gasps. Nobles who had moments earlier feigned indifference now leaned forward, their eyes bright with intrigue.

“Still, perhaps I ought to thank you instead? Because of that disaster, I managed to secure my own lands against the cultists. In truth, I could not have done it without you. You have been one of my greatest benefactors, brother.”

Ivan’s face flushed crimson, his hand tightening around his crystal goblet until the crystal cracked with a sharp snap. Wine spilled across his hand, red as blood, but he seemed not to notice or just didn’t care. His lips pulled back in a twisted grin, the kind that indicated mockery.

“You dare speak to me like that? You… a half-breed mistake?!”

His voice echoed through the grand hall, silencing even the most drunken chatter. Arthur, however, remained perfectly still. His expression betrayed nothing, though the faintest curve tugged at his lips, and Ivan didn’t take kindly to that.

His hand shot forward, aiming at Arthur’s nape. Ivan’s hand cut through the air, his fingers clawed and trembling with rage. The motion was swift, fueled by his drunken fury and his tier three might. But before it could find its target, Arthur’s hand rose to meet it.

A sharp crack echoed across the banquet hall as Arthur smacked Ivan’s arm away, sending the older brother stumbling a half-step backward. Gasps rippled through the hall. Nobles who had been pretending not to watch now leaned forward, their eyes wide, their fans fluttering as whispers darted from lip to lip.

“W-was that aura?”

“That or magic…”

The red haze around Arthur’s hand, which struck Ivan’s aside, was clearly visible and done with intent. Ivan froze, his chest rising and falling as if he could not grasp what had just happened. He had always been taller, broader, and by reputation far stronger. He too had mastered the aura, yet his hand now tingled from the blow.

“You… you!”

His voice broke off, his face twisting in disbelief. For the first time in years, doubt showed in his eyes, but it was quickly consumed by rage. His fist began to glow, crimson aura gathering at his knuckles. Just as he was about to unleash it, a man appeared in front of him, barring the way to Arthur.

“You dare?”

“…”

The man said nothing. He stood firm, blocking the path to Arthur in silence. His mask concealed his features, though several nobles recognized him as Wayland, the knight commander who had accompanied Arthur earlier.

“It is fine, Sir Wayland. My brother has simply had too much to drink.”

Arthur smiled as he rose, placing himself beside Roland, who gave a small nod and stepped back. Soon, Ivan’s knight moved forward. He was the same man who had tried to provoke Roland earlier. Sir Hadrian’s eyes burned with hostility as he took his place beside his master, his armored hand drifted towards the hilt of his sword, ready to be drawn if his master ordered him to…