Gunmage

The driver let out a dry chuckle, but said no words to refute it.

They had already arrived at their destination, after all.

The events that followed happened in quick succession: the killing of the engine, the waiting chauffeur stepping forward to swing open the doors, and the two noble ladies being ushered into the grand stone façade of the main building.

They were guided across a marble-floored hall into a spacious parlour, where a high-ranking representative of House D'Aramitz awaited them.

The man straightened as they entered, his posture polished yet slightly weary. He opened his mouth

"It's a pleasure to—"

But was quickly cut off by Sheila, who took on a hardened attitude as she addressed him solemnly.

"There's no time for pleasantries. This is a matter of grave importance. Your house has offended the Von Heims, and we're here to settle accounts. The presence of your family's leadership is required."

Then her voice dipped, turning cold.

"It is in your best interests not to waste our time."

The representative visibly paled, but impressively kept his composure. He flashed a tired smile before bowing and speaking.

"I'll make sure your words are known."

After that, he quickly left the room, leaving the two strange women behind.

Once the man was out of earshot, the lady with the ponytail spoke.

"Impressive, Sheila. For a moment there you actually seemed respectable."

Sheila scoffed.

"What are you talking about? I'm always respectable."

Then her voice trailed off, replaced by silent contemplation. It didn't take long for her to speak again.

"Do you think everything will go smoothly?"

Her partner tilted her head to the side, giving a half smile that was followed by a blunt reply.

"Probably not."

After a beat, she added.

"But we can't mess this up though."

"I know,"

Sheila muttered, just in time for the sound of the first footfalls to reach their ears.

Within moments, the parlour began to swell with new arrivals. To call the room crowded was relative. The chamber itself was vast, ceiling arches rising high above them, gilded chandeliers scattering light across columns of polished stone.

Yet the sudden influx of bodies shifted the balance. Nobles and dignitaries of House D'Aramitz—those currently in Pyrellis—filed in with stony expressions, their faces masks of cautious hostility.

Servants followed, carrying trays and notes, accompanied by what seemed to be guards, who wielded strange stick pipe-like objects of polished wood and steel. What the hell was that?

The ladies couldn't tell. However, from the care with which they were handled, they could only guess it was some kind of weapon.

Once everyone was settled down, Sheila was about to step forward when her partner held her back.

"I have a script"

She whispered. Sheila arched a brow but allowed her to step ahead.

The ponytailed woman's tone shifted instantly, becoming warm and oddly inviting as she addressed the assembled figures.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. What I'm about to say can be considered confidential, so if there is anyone here you'd rather not expose these matters to, I suggest you dismiss them now."

Her words, spoken with such sweetness, flowed through the room like honey mixed with venom.

The nobles, who had entered expecting a clash, softened slightly at her manner. But it was only on the surface. Their eyes remained guarded, their postures rigid with distrust.

Still, the suggestion worked. After brief, hushed exchanges, the servants were dismissed with reluctant bows.

The guards, however, remained. A detail Sheila noticed. Her eyes narrowed but she kept her silence.

When the chamber settled again, the lady with the ponytail reached into her wide sleeves, and pulled out a piece of folded parchment. The rustle filled the tense air as she unfolded it.

"It has come to our attention"

She began evenly

"That House D'Aramitz played a major role in the wicked plot to assassinate a promising member of the Von Heim family, a boy who goes by the name of Lugh."

There were a series of gasps in the room. Expressions of surprise, hostility, and wariness abounded. A man even shot up from his seat, his voice rising in outrage.

"That is preposterous!"

But the woman reading didn't pay him any heed, continuing without so much as a fluctuation in her voice.

"Irrefutable evidence of your involvement has been unearthed, and as such, we have been dispatched here to deliver judgment upon these vile characters, whose identities we can verify with our list of names."

A storm erupted at once.

"A list of names?"

"What madness is this?"

"We've no dealings with assassinations! Do we look like House Caldreth?!"

"This is unacceptable!"

"On whose authority do you speak?"

Voices overlapped in angry cadence, rising higher and higher until the parlour was a cacophony of outrage.

Meanwhile, the elven lady reading from the script stared at her next words, written in bold letters:

Execution.

She sighed. Selaphiel had given her this script. She kept silent.

The rowdy atmosphere lasted only a short while before a man raised his voice.

"Silence! All of you! Do you intend to drag our name through the dirt?!"

The authority was unmistakable.

The voices of dissent gradually quieted as a man of stern bearing stepped forward. His presence radiating both weight and weariness

He must be the patriarch, Sheila thought to herself as the man approached her partner.

"Forgive our conduct, madame,"

He said, his tone civil yet edged.

"But when faced with accusations so grave, can you truly blame us for reacting as we did?"

Then he took a brief pause, his eyes narrowing before continuing with deliberate precision.

"When you say you've come here to 'deliver judgment,' what exactly do you mean?"

The answer came swift and heavy.

"Execution"

The expressions of the people in the room underwent a drastic change, outrage faltered into silence. Even the speaker herself sighed within.

To predict exactly how the conversation would unfold, Selaphiel was truly terrifying.

Either way, her job just got easier. All she had to do was follow the script.

While she felt elated, the situation on the side of House D'Aramitz was the exact opposite.

The patriarch's mind raced. These Von Heim women had come with a clear mission. To threaten execution in their own hall, it didn't matter if he was truly offended.

The position he bore, the esteemed post of patriarch, couldn't accept such an insult.

He was forced to speak. Yes—forced. Both women remained dangerously confident even in hostile territory. They hadn't even removed the wide-brimmed hats that obscured their features indoors. A telling sign no doubt.

His instincts screamed at him not to oppose them, but his status wouldn't allow silence.

"I'm afraid I can no longer humour you,"

He said coldly.

"Not only do you threaten us in our own home, but you do so with false accusations."

The Von Heim speaker stole a glance at her script. Her lips twitched. She read, she spoke.

"False?"

The patriarch followed through.

"Lugh Von Heim was revealed to us on the night of the ball. Prior to that, no one in this city even knew of his existence. How then could we have plotted an assassination attempt that very night? Isn't that absurd?"

"Yes, tell them!"

"Exactly!"

"It makes no sense!"

Emboldened by their leader, their voices echoed. Only growing louder once they saw the Von Heim lady falter into silence.

What they didn't know was that her silence wasn't hesitation—it was the chilling realization of how precisely the script had foreseen this moment. To predict such slip-ups was something beyond ordinary strategy.

Nevertheless, she collected herself and read straight from the parchment.

"Let's ignore the fact that you know exactly when the assassination attempt occured, even though I never mentioned it. Even though the Von Heim family poured immense resources into ensuring that knowledge never left our walls."

Her words fell like stones into the crowd. People frowned, their eyes betraying confusion and alarm.

"Such knowledge—"

She continued smoothly

"—might be explained by high-level spies, or even claimed as deduction. Which is why I won't dwell on it. But tell me, how do you explain the assassins' use of gunpowder that night?""

The words landed heavily.

Neither Sheila nor her partner knew what gunpowder meant. However, judging from the distorted expressions on the faces of those present, they could tell it mattered. Deeply.

The patriarch stepped forward, attempting to seize control of the conversation again.

"The use of gunpowder is not enough evidence to accuse us."

He countered, his voice steadier than before

"Yes, our firms oversee its production and distribution. But smuggling, theft, and black markets exist. You wouldn't blame the swordsmith for a murder committed with his blade, would you?"

He pressed on quickly, afraid she might corner him with another cutting retort.

"Besides, the recipe for gunpowder is hardly a state secret. Anyone could have crafted their own variation to pin blame upon us. Am I wrong?"

His people responded in unison, affirming him loudly.

But their voices were hollow. Lacking the fire of conviction.

Because doubt had already wormed its way in.

Damn. This was what they wanted.

Her earlier statement about how he knew the exact time of the assassination must have left his household skeptical.

The mention of gunpowder, a resource over which their family practically held a monopoly, only worsened matters.

The patriarch could see their wavering eyes, and hesitant voices. He cursed.

Because they were right.

There was no easy way for someone to get their hands on gunpowder.

But there was a way.

Which was why the patriarch of House D'Aramitz had supplied the assassins with it—choosing to provide raw powder rather than a fully functional firearm.