Location: Armathane – The Night Court of the Duchess Time: Day 110 After Arrival
The invitation arrived sealed in black wax.
No crest. No title. Just a ribboned cord and four words etched in silver script:
"Your presence is required."
Alec turned it over in his hands, felt the weight of ritual in the parchment.
Duchess Vaelora was hosting the Night Court — her first in three seasons. A rare occasion where nobles gathered not for decisions, but to observe. To circle each other. To gossip and feed on presence. Masks were mandatory. Allegiance was optional. No oaths, no fealty, only theater.
Alec folded the parchment once, slid it into his coat, and said nothing.
That evening, the west hall of the palace glowed like a trap dressed as a star.
The chandeliers blazed. Candles flickered from alcoves carved into lion-headed pillars. Silver glinted along velvet table runners. Strings of gold-thread banners waved gently with each shift of the crowd.
Music played — soft, detached, courtly.
Nobles circled like predators in heatless orbit.
And in the center of it all stood Alec, masked in black and grey, no crest on his lapel, no visible escort, and no intention of blending in.
He didn't need to.
They saw him.
They always saw him.
"Is that him?" someone whispered near the column alcoves.
"Lord Advisor. The outsider."
"He fought Danrik last week. Dropped him like a sack of wet iron."
"I heard he built a grain ledger that replaced a whole baronial clerkship."
"I heard he never blinks."
Alec moved through the crowd like a vector: calm, self-contained, deliberate.
Every step was studied. Every nod calculated.
He passed by the Countess of Halstrad, who turned and refused to acknowledge him.
He offered a quiet nod to Lady Tren of the grain guild. She flushed and curtsied too low.
He did not smile.
A noble in red brocade, mask shaped like a fox's snarl, stepped into his path.
"Lord Advisor. How refreshing. I've been dying to meet the duchess's favorite investment."
Alec's head tilted slightly. "And you are?"
The fox-mask chuckled. "Ah. An honest man. Dangerous in court."
"You're bleeding condescension," Alec said flatly. "Wipe it off before you embarrass yourself."
The noble blinked. "Excuse me?"
Alec stepped closer.
"I've reviewed your contracts, Lord Eran. The bridge you funded in Delsagade was cited for falsified weight certifications. If you were half as clever as your tailor, you'd have forged better reports."
Eran's mouth worked but no words came.
Alec didn't wait for them.
He walked past.
A few nearby nobles murmured.
One laughed — short, involuntary.
From the edge of the upper balcony, Serina watched with a glass of white wine untouched in her hand.
"He's not playing their game," she said quietly.
Vaelora stood beside her, hands behind her back.
"He is the game," the duchess replied.
Serina glanced sideways. "How long before they realize that?"
"They already have," Vaelora said. "They're just hoping he doesn't."
Back below, Alec stopped near a table where three lesser barons clustered with wine and mock importance.
He listened — not visibly. Just enough.
One spoke softly: "He's brilliant, but rootless. The kind that rises fast and burns out harder."
Alec leaned over, picked up a goblet, and said without turning:
"Some roots rot. Others dig until the earth reshapes around them."
They fell silent.
He left the goblet untouched and moved on.
A moment later, a tall man with a silver half-mask approached Alec near the center of the room. His presence was different — quiet, clean, somehow distant from the preening and posturing of the others.
He offered a bow that was just shy of polite.
"You're causing unease," he said.
"Is that a problem?" Alec asked.
"For some."
"And for you?"
The man straightened.
"I'm no one. Merely a watcher. A whisperer. An envoy."
Alec studied him. "You're Edenian."
A pause. "Perhaps."
"Which house?"
The silver mask smiled.
"The one that reports to others."
So. Intelligence. Possibly Royal Watch.
Alec didn't flinch.
"I'm sure your report will say I'm ambitious."
"No," the man said. "It will say you're inevitable."
Then he vanished.
By the third hour of the night, Alec had spoken to thirty-seven nobles.
He remembered every name, every cadence, every heartbeat that shifted under a false smile.
He had no allies. He already knew that
But he had their attention.
That was better.
But he noticed. No countess of Oslo in attendance.
And Lord Halven seems to be missing also.
He didn't know the countess game was yet but.....
Maybe he should start gathering information on her. An unknown variable is a good cause of probability.
__
Near the far garden archway, Serina met him in private.
"Was it what you expected?" she asked.
"No," he said. "It was easier."
"You don't enjoy it."
"I don't play to enjoy," Alec replied. "I play to win."
Serina looked down at her glass. "You terrified half the western barons."
"They'll survive."
"Will they?"
He didn't answer.
She stepped closer. "Why do you wear black?"
"It doesn't show blood," Alec said.
Then, softer: "And it doesn't ask for attention. It claims it."
The music quieted.
Vaelora stepped into view atop the marble stair, flanked by two honor guards.
The room fell still.
"Thank you for your presence," she said. "Midgard thrives in silence, in strength, and in sight."
She looked directly at Alec.
"And tonight… in ambition."
Then she raised her glass.
A toast.
To the man who never knelt, never flattered — but had all of Midgard kneeling anyway.