NOVEL NEXT Chapter 167: [167] My Wife, My Weapon
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Xavier spun toward the entrance, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at his belt. The journal pressed against his ribs like a guilty secret, its unnatural cold seeping through his shirt.
Duke Cedric Haverford stood framed in the doorway, his silhouette cutting a sharp line against the corridor's amber light. Two guards flanked him—not Hearthome soldiers with their flame insignia, but men in unmarked steel whose faces remained hidden behind visored helms. The Duke's dark hair caught the volcanic glow from the chamber's crystal matrices, and his blue eyes held the satisfied gleam of a chess master who'd just achieved checkmate.
He wasn't surprised. He wasn't angry. He was smiling.
"Thank you, Thornslayer." Haverford's voice carried the smooth polish of aged wine, each syllable perfectly measured. "I had my theories about what our dear High Burner was hiding down here, but I needed confirmation."
The cage is closed, little king, the Gaze whispered, its voice resonating with cold amusement. Probability of tearing your way out through these two guards and the Duke is 3.2%. Their probability of turning you into a more permanent specimen for study is substantially higher. I recommend you learn to smile on command.
"Shut up," Xavier muttered, earning a raised eyebrow from the Duke.
Haverford stepped into the chamber, his polished boots clicking against the stone floor. His gaze swept across the ritual circle carved into the ground, the crystal matrices humming with volcanic energy, the laboratory equipment that spoke of years spent perfecting impossible magic.
"To think," the Duke continued, his tone conversational as though they were discussing the weather over dinner, "a vessel capable of containing a divine spark. Torval sees a second chance for his beloved niece. I, however, see an opportunity to control a god."
Xavier's blood turned to ice water in his veins. The casual way Haverford spoke about Calypso—about controlling her—made every protective instinct he possessed scream for violence. His hand tightened around his dagger's hilt.
"You knew." The words emerged as a growl.
"Oh, my dear boy, I've suspected for years." Haverford approached one of the crystal matrices, running his finger along its surface with the reverence of a collector admiring a prized artifact. "Lady Selene's miraculous recovery from her 'fever'. The subtle changes in her mannerisms, her speech patterns. The way she flinched from fire despite being a Flameheart. People don't simply become different people overnight—unless, of course, they literally become different people."
The Duke turned back to Xavier, his smile never wavering. "But suspicion isn't proof. I needed to understand the mechanism, the stability of the binding. How does one control a displaced soul? How does one ensure compliance from a consciousness that remembers being something greater than mortal?"
Xavier's mind raced through the implications, each realization hitting like a physical blow. "The dinner. The betrothal announcement. You've been—"
"Testing variables, yes." Haverford's interruption carried the patient tone of a professor correcting a slow student. "Every interaction between you and Selene was carefully orchestrated. I needed to observe the bond between her current consciousness and the vessel she inhabits. How strong was the connection? How much of the original divine nature remained intact?"
The chamber's heat pressed against Xavier's skin, but he felt frozen from the inside out. Every moment of tenderness between him and Calypso, every whispered conversation, every desperate glance across crowded rooms—all of it had been theater for this man's entertainment.
"The caravan attack was convenient," Haverford continued, his voice taking on an almost dreamy quality. "I'd been wondering how to arrange for Selene to encounter someone from her previous existence. Then you appeared, bearing soul marks and dimensional scars, practically announcing yourself as one of the displaced. Perfect."
Xavier's vision narrowed to a tunnel focused entirely on the Duke's face. "You orchestrated the Thornbeast attack."
"Heavens, no. I'm not omnipotent, merely observant." Haverford waved a dismissive hand. "Though I did ensure the surviving caravan members were directed to Hearthome rather than the closer settlements. A few coins in the right pouches, a suggestion to the right ears. Simple economics."
Hot rage built in Xavier's chest, but the King's Gaze whispered cold calculations. Subject displays tactical superiority. Guards positioned to prevent escape. Recommend feigned compliance until—
"Get out of my head," Xavier snarled.
"Talking to yourself?" Haverford's smile widened. "How fascinating. I've read about soul marks, of course, but to see one in active use... Tell me, does the entity provide tactical analysis? Strategic recommendations? I imagine having an ancient intelligence as an advisor would be quite useful."
Xavier said nothing, but his silence apparently confirmed the Duke's suspicions.
"Marvelous. Another variable to account for in the final calculations." Haverford gestured to the journal Xavier had tucked against his ribs. "I assume you've read that man's confessions? Touching, really. A father's love driving him to commit magical atrocities. Though I suppose 'atrocity' depends entirely on one's perspective."
"Seven children," Xavier said through gritted teeth. "Seven souls ripped from their bodies and cast into the void."
"Seven volunteers for a greater purpose," Haverford corrected. "Though admittedly, volunteers who weren't consulted about their participation. Still, what are individual lives weighed against the opportunity to harness divine power? To reshape reality itself according to human will rather than cosmic whim?"
The Duke moved to another crystal matrix, his fingers dancing across its surface with practiced familiarity. The device responded to his touch, humming louder as energy patterns shifted within its crystalline structure.
"You see, Xavier—may I call you Xavier? Xavien seems so... limiting for someone of your actual nature—you've provided me with invaluable data. The bond between displaced consciousness and borrowed vessel. The retention of otherworldly abilities. The psychological triggers that activate divine memories."
Haverford turned back to face him, and for the first time, Xavier saw something genuinely frightening in the man's eyes. Not malice or cruelty, but the cold, clinical fascination of a researcher who'd discovered the perfect test subject.
"Your infiltration tonight wasn't a theft," the Duke continued. "It was a diagnostic procedure. I needed to confirm that Selene's current consciousness was stable enough to survive what comes next."
"What comes next?" Xavier's voice came out rougher than he'd intended.
"The Masquerade, naturally. Where I'll announce my betrothal to Lady Selene Flameheart—and simultaneously trigger the binding ritual that will place her divine essence under my direct control." Haverford's smile took on the quality of a blade. "A god as a wife, a goddess as a weapon. Imagine what one could accomplish with such a tool."