Veronika followed the Master as he moved deeper into the main room where the politicians gathered to enjoy the services of the red-ribbon maids. The air was heavy with perfume and wine, mixed with the scent of expensive tobacco that barely managed to disguise the stench of sweat and ambition. Laughter wove itself through murmurs of pacts and promises, as if in that room agreements were signed as easily as glasses were emptied.
Daryan returned his gaze to the Master, ignoring the exhibitionism around him. His steps were slow, calculated, like someone who had seen the same spectacle too many times and only pretended interest out of courtesy.
—Yes... nothing has really changed here, —Daryan spread his hands slightly, as if taking in the whole room.
—The goal of tonight hasn't changed. Neither have the methods, —the Master replied calmly.
Veronika watched him, trying to read some emotion on his face. The Master kept his usual restrained expression, but his gaze seemed to cut through the hall with silent disapproval.
—Though it seems only about half of them even showed up; those northern terrorists are being strangely effective.
Daryan's comment made several heads turn, though no one dared to intervene.
—There will always be revolts. That won't destabilize the Great Union.
Veronika looked at the Master with unease; she couldn't fully grasp what they were talking about. At the back of the room, a maid stumbled and spilled wine on a guest, which set off laughter at the table. No one helped her back up.
—That's true, but you must agree with me that we don't have a monopoly on violence, and we're wasting unnecessary resources on a war we should have ended immediately.
The Master swirled his glass at Daryan's reasonable remark. The golden light of the wine cast a reddish glint in his tired eyes.
—I no longer have any influence over the militia since Makarov retired. I don't think I can help you with whatever you have in mind.
Daryan accepted the glass of wine a maid handed him. As he took a sip, he said:
—In fact, it does help me, because I'm not looking for anything from the militia. I'm looking for your influence; after all, you are our "Master." —Daryan let a smile slip as he said the last word, dragging the final syllable like someone playing with a dagger.
Veronika turned her gaze aside, trying to understand anything they were saying, but strange moans coming from the back of the room unsettled her. They were muffled moans, mixed with nervous laughter and the sound of glass clinking against marble. She felt the urge to look away, but she didn't.
—I don't understand what you mean, Daryan, —the Master said, lifting his glass before taking a sip.
Their dialogue became an exchange of perfectly measured cuts, each word an elegant thrust.
—I'm proposing something concrete: an escape route. Safe passages abroad for each one of these politicians. They'll pay their price. I would handle everything.
—You trust the sheep to follow me like a shepherd?
—I trust that everyone who learned from you holds you in as much esteem as I do, enough to take your advice, —Daryan replied with a theatrical, almost comic tone.
The Master didn't smile. He only watched him, as if the young man in front of him were nothing more than a projection of his own past ambition.
—I refuse. It's absurd to turn your back on the enemy and think he won't strike.
—We don't have to win every battle to win this war, Master.
Veronika caught a slight shift in the Master's voice, barely a note of irritation.
—On the other hand, if you give them your hand, they won't hesitate to cut off your arm. Weakness is not a reliable tool. I never managed to correct that part of you, Daryan.
The tension in the air rose. Daryan's calm expression twisted as he heard the Master's scolding. The air thickened, and the room's laughter began to fade, as if everyone understood they were witnessing something more than a simple conversation.
—Collateral damage is acceptable as long as victory is assured. The ways of making war have changed since your time.
The Master closed the distance between them in a threatening way. The reflection of the lights in his now-empty glass made it look like he was holding a weapon.
—I have lived more war than you have read.
—Certainly... But it is the artist who ruins the canvas, not the brush. It's a bit cruel to condemn the rest of us to fall with you this time.
The Master looked at him gravely, but held back from replying. His silence was heavier than any words.
—Even if the price per head might be very high, I'm willing to negotiate a more than generous reduction... of course, for an equivalent value.
Veronika felt a chill without knowing why. Daryan's tone had changed; now he sounded more like a merchant than a politician.
—Oh, really? —the Master said with sarcasm.
—Yes. I've always found my Grand Master's exotic collection interesting. —Daryan turned toward the crowd, which amused itself with perversion in the shadows—. Any one of them would be the crown of a great collector, worthy of being displayed...
The Master didn't answer, but Veronika noticed his jaw tighten.
Then Daryan turned his gaze directly to her.
She didn't realize when Daryan closed the distance between them. His presence was suffocating, as if the very air bent to his will.
—If it's her, I'll reduce the payment to zero.
She could see Daryan's blue eyes from that close. He leaned in to whisper something in her ear.
—I never liked this kind of event when I lived here, but a dessert like you... it would be a sin not to taste it.
The smell of wine mixed with his perfume turned Veronika's stomach. Disgusted, she took a step back.
—Piece of shit. Wipe that damn smile off your disgusting face.
The Master turned toward her, surprised she couldn't hold herself back, but Daryan reacted faster: he let out a low laugh, almost amused.
—You see, Master? You've gone soft. Now you take the muzzle off the help.
The comment rang in the air like a slap. Some guests turned with curiosity, thinking they were witnessing a private scandal.
—The help? —Veronika burned with rage—. I'm Veronika, Veronika Kensington, —she replied, chin raised—. Remember my name well, damn you.
Daryan regarded her for a moment in silence, like someone evaluating a work of art he didn't expect to find there. A shadow of recognition crossed his eyes.
—No wonder... her beauty comes from bloodline.
The Master stepped in, placing himself between them. His voice, though low, was enough to bring order back to the contained chaos.
—My staff is not negotiable.
Daryan looked him straight in the eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation, but found none. What he found was a conviction that unsettled him more than he would have admitted.
—Anyway. It's a shame, Master. I expected nothing else, though I would have enjoyed a different answer.
The Master didn't respond. His silence was a sentence.
Daryan headed toward the exit of the hall and, before leaving, cast one last look between them.
—Those terrorists have been organizing themselves very well lately. It almost seems like they have someone from us on their side.