Translator: Nox

Chapter 23

Chapter – 24

Baron Jean Pierre scanned the lavish assembly with heavy-lidded fatigue.

Guests concealed motives beneath polished veneers.

Chatter grazed surfaces without depth, voices ringing false.

“That’s incredible,” a light tone floated. “Hilarious, even.”

Pure fabrication. No humor lingered there.

His judgment settled on her clumsy facade.

She had cornered him before, her shrill chatter drying his throat to dust.

That hungry stare reignited his ancient urge.

Crowds always drove him to spirits, drowning specters from the past.

His healer blamed the liquor itself, yet renouncing it left no refuge from those hauntings.

One full bottle of champagne later, nerves steadied, he hugged shadows along the wall, evading notice.

Nobles drifted past, murmurs trailing.

“Isn’t that Louise? Penniless, she auctioned this fortress, but that necklace screams fortune—the Empire’s finest diamond.”

“Her betrothed gifted it. Yet she arrives arm-in-arm with performers, ditching him. Befits the ‘Delinquent Duchess.’”

“Word is, she’s staging her scandalous production right here—the onstage kiss with that leading man.”

“Today’s show skips that one, they say.”

Delinquent Duchess.

He knew her reputation, whispered since his invitation to Catherine’s stronghold.

She had rescued White Friars theater from ruin, crafting a blockbuster that captivated the realm.

Details escaped him, yet the essence shone clear.

Likely a parade of favored studs in some lascivious spectacle.

Prospect of such indulgence here stirred fresh thirst.

He scowled toward the raised platform ahead.

Detouring wide from it, he raided the refreshment table for another flask.

Gripping it covertly across the expanse…

A figure grazed his path.

Intriguing presence.

Uncommonly striking features.

Irresistible allure pulled his gaze involuntarily.

Baron Jean Pierre, once overseer of an international stage, sensed beauty’s pull keenly.

Others nearby gawked too.

Only then did ornate garb register: gold-hued ensemble, intricate foreign regal motifs.

Before confusion cleared, crimson eyes sparkled alongside a radiant grin.

“Welcome, all, to my celebration,” the voice rang pure. “Prince Edward offers personal salutations.”

Stunned clarity pierced him.

Flawless diction, regal poise, graceful gestures cradling the stem.

No choice but to fixate on this enigmatic royal.

Expected, really.

Common folk might dismiss madness, but his eye discerned truth instantly.

Masterful theater.

Beyond mere mimicry—total command, limb by limb, digit by digit.

Amateurs betray tics: fidgeting legs persist onstage.

True performers purge quirks, wielding flesh like instruments.

Such precision demands utter submersion.

Conviction transforms rags to finery, drab halls to thrones—you inhabit the illusion wholly.

This performer embodied it.

Gazing upon the throng, yet blind to them.

In this Catherine-hosted gala, he beheld his own dominion’s revelers.

Prince Edward’s court.

Chills prickled his skin.

So the drama unfolds amid the feast, not confined ahead?

Dazed…

The figure dipped in noble obeisance, then lifted sharply, scarlet gaze ablaze.

“Truth be told, your presence barely stirs me.”

Tension snapped taut.

Suave courtesy vanished; arrogance and malice cloaked him now.

Chilled guests edged back.

Perplexity gripped them—what sorcery?

A voice broke through.

“So this launches the performance.”

“Really? Such antics…?”

Chaos rippled, carving isolation around the central enigma.

An impromptu arena crystallized.

Revelation struck the Baron breathless.

Theater forged from presence alone?

Sheer force of craft compelled acceptance: here, now, drama reigns.

Bold evolution.

Old-guard troupers he knew would scoff.

Not the Duchess’s whim, perhaps this performer’s vision?

Captivated, he tracked every nuance, innovation gleaming.

Thirst faded entirely from mind.

“Palace feasts blur into tedium,” he purred slyly, drifting to the nearest lady, toasting her vessel.

Her eyes ballooned under his direct allure.

Ineffable charm at work.

Seamless rapport with onlookers.

Minutes in, the Baron championed this royal’s gambit.

Eager for the crescendo.

As she yielded, entranced…

Fresh timbre cut from the dais beyond.

“Dawn brought Father’s bellows. ‘Tom, you wretched cur—show yourself!’”

Spotlights swung floorward, voice disembodied.

A battered visage peered from rear drapes.

“Terror sealed my lips. Father’s rage terrified me.”

Torn rags clung to a cowering frame, fear etching every line.

This Tom diverged utterly from princely splendor.

“Daily blows rained down. Endless pleas escaped me. ‘Father, forgive—I’ve erred!’”

Arms shielded as phantom strikes fell.

“Deep down, no fault stained my conscience.”

Uplifting…

Tom’s mask twisted sinister, venom icing spines.

Polite heir had soured cruel; wretched youth now sneered disdain.

“Murder tempted me, yet restraint held. Singular motive: he merits no such effort.”

Glacial timbre.

Uncanny kinship struck him.

Matching craft this keenly?

Rehearsals alone falter syncing cadences amid passion’s throes.

Solo feats impossible. Direction demands an outsider’s hand.

That outsider—the Delinquent Duchess?

Musing swirled as scenes advanced.

“Claiming fresh air, I slipped beyond ramparts. This stifling gala begged brief flight.”

Princely steps traversed the chamber, ascending naturally—as if breaching true gates.

Fluid exile.

And upon that perch, noble and outcast converge…