Xavier stepped away from Lord Aldric mid-sentence, leaving the portly man sputtering about trade routes. The ballroom's intricate dance of politics had begun, and Xavier intended to choreograph chaos.
Time to see how well these nobles handle poison in their wine.
He spotted Lord Garrett Ironhold near the ice sculptures, the man's hawk mask failing to disguise his perpetually sour expression. Xavier approached with the easy confidence of shared misery.
"Lord Ironhold." Xavier's voice carried just the right note of weary frustration. "I don't suppose you've heard the latest about the Thornwood Pass attacks?"
Ironhold's weathered face turned toward him, suspicious by nature. "What about them?"
"My cousin rode through the aftermath yesterday." Xavier's eyes darted around the room, the picture of nervous discretion. "The tracks weren't beast prints. Human boots, arranged to look like Vorthak claws. Someone's been staging these attacks."
