Chapter 6: The Masquerade of Masks
The ancient halls of House Wesker's estate were alive with music and flickering torchlight. Nobles in embroidered masks floated through the ballroom, their laughter sharp as rapiers beneath the gilded chandeliers. Aurelius strode into the heart of it all, clad in jet-black finery adorned with a single burnished golden lion—the crest of Davian—unmasked and unflinching.
He scanned the whorls of color and swirling dancers, noting each cluster of whispered intrigue like a strategist surveying a battlefield. Calista, disguised as a court scribe, circled the perimeter, eyes vigilant. Sir Lucien mingled with the lesser knights, hand never straying far from his hilt.
A servant glided over, offering Aurelius a goblet of spiced wine. He declined, cool and inscrutable, letting the crowd's speculation swirl. For all his wealth and renown, tonight presented a new test: in this den of rivals and opportunists, one false move could endanger his house's fragile alliances.
From across the room, the Duke of Wesker approached—towering, silver-maned, eyes appraising. Their exchange, though polite, throbbed with subtext.
"How fares Oakwood Hamlet, Lord Aurelius? Rebuilt so swiftly, I hear. Your resources are truly… astonishing."
"They serve the realm, as always," Aurelius replied, his gaze steady. "House Davian's wealth is no mystery. Only our intentions seem to trouble some."
The Duke arched an eyebrow. "Intentions—and means. There are whispers, you know, of conjured gold, of powers unfit for mortal hands. I must ask directly: will you support the Crown's coming reforms?"
Aurelius's system flickered with warnings. This was the true contest—a subtle duel of loyalty and cunning. He chose his words with precision.
"We serve the realm's unity and prosperity. My house will not be cowed by rumor, nor will we defy necessary change. But House Davian is no pawn. Our loyalty is freely given, never bought or extorted."
The Duke studied him, then nodded, conceding nothing but revealing respect in the narrowing of his eyes.
A sudden commotion rippled through the chamber. A minor noble accused another of theft—a distraction, Aurelius realized, orchestrated to draw eyes away from his own conversation. Through his system's sense for hostile intent, he caught the glimmer of magic—a veiled spellcaster working near the treasury alcove.
In a heartbeat, his mind raced:
Expose the plot in public, risking greater political upheaval?
Handle the offending mage quietly, asserting silent dominance?
Use the moment to test the loyalty of his own allies beneath the gilded masks?
He acted swiftly, signaling Calista with a subtle gesture. Within moments, she dispelled the veiling illusion, exposing the would-be saboteur—one of Wesker's own household mages.
The crowd gasped. The Duke's face turned to stone.
Aurelius inclined his head. "It seems there are those among us who would manufacture evidence, sowing discord. House Davian deals in gold and honor, not deceit."
In the stunned silence that followed, Aurelius felt the balance shift. Accusations would not stick so easily now; his enemies had revealed their hand and been caught, while he remained standing—confident, untouched, and ever more untouchable.
As the masquerade's music faded into the night, Aurelius realized the games ahead would demand as much wit as might. But tonight, amid masks and secrets, House Davian's legend shone brighter than ever.
To be continued...