Ch#159
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The situation had veered sharply from the script. In Macauliffe’s mind, the Duke was a simpleton—a man who might possess certain talents but was ultimately blinded by a soft heart and misplaced loyalty. He had been certain that trapping such a naive soul would be effortless.
Had his assessment been a total failure? Was the Duke merely wore a mask of ignorance while seeing through every deception?
How was that possible?
Macauliffe shook his head, trying to dispel the sudden paranoia. He shouldn’t let himself be rattled by shadows. His eyes drifted forward, searching for clarity.
Then it clicked.
“……Adrina.”
The strings were being pulled by a master conductor.
That woman was a Grimaldi, yet she had infiltrated the ducal household under a false identity, seizing a spot in the Escort Knight Division and a place at the Duke’s side. She was the one who had served the Duke the Poison.
“Sir.”
Had that innocent expression been a lie all along?
“I requested that you address me that way, Viscount.”
A terrifying thought struck him: what if this wasn’t a Grimaldi scheme at all?
“Adi, over here.”
If the Woodpecker was the one setting the trap, Macauliffe’s every instinct told him to run. Yet, if he fled like a whipped cur now, his reputation in high society would be annihilated for the rest of the social season.
The Duke and Adrina moved past him. As they did, a sudden, icy shiver raced down his spine. He looked up sharply, but the Duke and the knight were focused on the crowd. The source of that murderous chill lay elsewhere.
Macauliffe scanned the clearing, unable to find the origin of his dread. He felt as though a thousand eyes were boring into him, but every guest he looked at was preoccupied with their own business. It was unnerving; he knew he wasn’t imagining the weight of that gaze.
There was no other way to look at it—he had been outplayed. The Duke had downed the Poison with a calm that bordered on the impossible. Perhaps it wasn’t even lethal? No, the sharp, metallic sting on his tongue had been unmistakable. Had the Duke swallowed an antidote before the toast?
How long had Lev Zid been in their custody? If they had known everything from the start, it explained the Duke’s icy demeanor. But why go to the trouble of hosting this grand event just to humiliate him?
Macauliffe had been careful. He hadn’t made a single overt move against the Duke—mostly because he hadn’t found the chance. This level of hostility felt disproportionate. It made sense if they knew about the Oak Forest fire, but the atmosphere suggested a much deeper grudge.
Was he walking straight into his own execution?
Macauliffe drained his glass in one desperate gulp and shoved the empty vessel at a passing servant.
Night had fully claimed the woods, and the air turned biting. Silver moonlight bled through the leaves, painting the Land in pale light and stretching the shadows of the Oak Forest into distorted shapes.
Servants moved to ignite the massive candlestick. Yellow fire bloomed, swaying in the breeze and casting a flickering glow over the guests. The Lamp light softened the faces of the nobility, while the sound of the wind in the trees mingled with the low drone of gossip. In the center of it all stood the Duke and Adrina. They were deep in a private conversation, their faces bright with what looked like genuine joy.
Macauliffe looked toward Claude, who had quietly taken a seat nearby.
Music began to swell through the trees. The Duke and Adi broke off their talk and began to move, their steps perfectly synchronized with the rhythm. They looked less like they were walking and more like they were performing a choreographed dance.
They reached the center of the clearing, standing beneath a towering tree that had been transformed into a makeshift stage.
“In that direction.”
A voice cut through Macauliffe’s spiraling thoughts.
“We have located Lev Zid.”
Macauliffe jerked his head around. A head chamberlain he had seen once or twice was standing at his elbow, having appeared as silently as a ghost.
“Ivan.”
Claude acknowledged the newcomer. Ivan gave the Crown Prince a respectful bow before fixing a sharp, calculating look on Macauliffe.
Macauliffe gave a stiff nod, which Ivan returned with practiced grace. A head chamberlain in a house like this was a man of power; usually, they were high-born or the scions of influential families. The way Ivan moved through the party without a specific task suggested he might hold a title as prestigious as Macauliffe’s own.
“I understand your roots are in the East, Viscount,” Ivan remarked smoothly.
“As are mine.”
The statement felt heavy with unspoken meaning. To anyone else, it was small talk, but Macauliffe felt the underlying threat.
“The East, you say?”
To Macauliffe, it sounded like a warning from a man who knew his secrets. Ivan took a drink from a tray as a servant walked by.
“Is that so?” Claude asked, playing along with the charade. “The Viscount is from Dunbar, but where did your family originate, Ivan?”
“Tuberosa, in the northeastern region. Our trade with the Eastern Continent means I grew up immersed in their ways.”
The “East” of the kingdom. Compared to the rest of Dalcatir, that region was indeed the eastern frontier.
“The traditions there are quite unique compared to the South. The mountains keep the North isolated, after all.”
“The South always seems to have more gold, regardless of the land,” Macauliffe countered.
“In the Southern Continent, the wealth actually stays in the North,” Ivan corrected.
“Because the southern tip of that continent is a frozen wasteland,” Claude added.
“I’ve heard the Eastern Continent is the opposite if you travel far enough,” Ivan said, nodding. “The North is the paradise there, warm and welcoming.”
Ivan took a slow sip of his drink.
“A cold South… quite a strange concept, isn’t it?”
“It’s a different world with its own set of rules,” Macauliffe said, trying to stay in the conversation.
Ivan raised his glass toward him, his eyes turning cold.
“Just like the way a desert night can freeze a man to the bone, right?”
“……”
Ivan handed the drink to him with a fluid motion. Macauliffe took it instinctively, his body locking up. He couldn’t drink it, and he couldn’t put it down. Their eyes met in a silent, violent struggle until Ivan finally looked away, completely unbothered.
A sharp, clear ring echoed from the stage. Gavin was tapping his spoon against a glass.
The crowd fell silent, every eye turning to the Duke. Yuls took Adi’s hand and raised it high. The red stone on her finger caught the Lamp light, throwing off a brilliant spark.
“My thanks to all of you for joining us on this beautiful evening,” the Duke began.
The wind picked up, pulling a few locks of hair from Adi’s hairstyle. Her dress billowed around her legs, and she quickly pressed her hand against the fabric. The wind was tugging at the very spot where her sword was concealed, threatening to reveal the weapon to the entire assembly.
“I wanted to use this moment to formally present my fiancée… Adrina Dean.”
Yuls pulled her close, his arm firm around her waist. Claude watched with a smirk, finding the Duke’s sudden shift into a romantic, formal persona hilarious. It wasn’t just the words; the Duke’s entire face had changed. He was looking at Adi with a level of raw devotion that seemed almost theatrical.
“She has brought a sense of quiet to my soul, much like the peace found in these woods.”
Macauliffe wondered if this was a meticulously crafted performance or the honest truth.
Which version was more dangerous?
It didn’t really matter, Claude thought, stifling a laugh. Adrina Dean was now a recognized figure of the social season. He imagined the look on Count Grimaldi’s face when he heard the news—assuming the Count was still in a position to care about social scandals.
The Count was currently drowning in much deeper waters.
“I have to say, knowing how much this will enrage a certain individual makes this a wonderful night,” Claude remarked.
“Your evening is likely to get even better, Your Highness,” Ivan replied instantly.
Was the ‘better mood’ a reference to Grimaldi’s ruin, or a direct promise of Macauliffe’s demise?
“Then I shall look forward to the coming hours with great interest.”
Macauliffe was certain it was the latter.
“Don’t you agree, Macauliffe?” Claude asked, lifting an empty glass in a mocking salute.
“Yes, Your Highness,” Macauliffe forced out.
He wasn’t looking forward to anything. His only goal now was to find a way to use his Poison to create a distraction and vanish into the trees. Ivan gave him one last, predatory smile before melting back into the shadows.
*
The edge of the forest was a wall of ink, a sharp contrast to the glowing banquet. Ivan moved through the dark as if he could see every root and branch, his pace steady and sure. He purposefully stepped on a dry branch to announce his arrival, and Bert turned immediately.
“You’ve arrived?”
Dozens of hidden figures shifted in the darkness behind Bert. The Watchman’s territory was now a ring of steel around the party.
“What’s the verdict?”
“Just garbage,” Ivan said, his voice unusually harsh.
“The high-ranking sons of the Assassin guilds don’t risk their own skins. They think they are too important for the front lines.”
It was a clear jab at Macauliffe Pasalis and his true standing.
“They prefer to kidnap Boys and force them to handle the blood and the filth.”
“The way they did to you?” Bert asked quietly.
Ivan didn’t answer. He just let out a cold, joyless breath that might have been a smile. In the dark, his face was a blank slate. He looked out at the lights of the party.
“The Royal Family’s hounds are in position as well.”
“Confirmed,” Bert whispered.
“That’s why he insisted on this forest stage.”
The woods provided the perfect cover for a small army to wait in silence.
“We just need the word to strike.”