A.N. Apparently, Patreon is experiencing issues, so I apologize if there are any problems.
The sound echoed through the hall, bringing the proceedings to a sudden halt.
The room itself was a marvel of woodworking, carved directly from the hollowed-out trunk of an ancient oak, its curved walls polished to a warm, honeyed sheen. Sunlight filtered through high windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing over the gathered court and lending the scene a fairy-tale quality.
Ignoring the stares and whispers, Nick strode down the center aisle, striking the polished floorboards with arrogant aggression.
At the far end of the hall, Lady Candra sat on a raised dais in an intricately carved chair. She wore a corset of deep emerald silk that pushed an ample bosom dangerously high, paired with a flowing velvet skirt. Her lips were painted a bold scarlet, and her pearly white teeth flashed as she looked up from the parchment unrolled before her.
Below the dais, a magistrate in dark robes stood beside a wealthy-looking merchant. The merchant, a plump man in imported silk, was still beaming, as if he hadn’t even noticed the interruption.
Nick let his esoteric senses brush the room and was unsurprised to find the ether greasy. It carried an oily residue that coated the minds of the men present. The merchant was practically vibrating with joy, staring at Candra with the unquestioning devotion of a hound waiting for a scrap from the table.
"…and thus, the Blackwood trading fleet, its warehouses, and all associated tariffs are hereby transferred to Lady Candra’s stewardship,” the magistrate droned, pausing only to look down the hall when the man didn’t slow his approach. "Master Blackwood, your seal, if you please.”
The merchant eagerly reached for the wax stamp, overjoyed to sign away the wealth his family had accumulated for generations for a smile from the woman on the dais.
“Halt!" Nick commanded, channeling the authority of a noble accustomed to instant obedience. He forced the courtiers to scatter from his path, halting ten paces from the dais, where he rested a hand casually on the pommel of a mundane hunting knife at his belt.
Four soldiers stepped forward, unsheathing their swords in quick motion.
Candra raised a delicate, manicured hand, and the guards froze, retreating into the shadows.
"I am Nicholas Crowley," Nick announced, projecting his voice so everyone in the room could hear him. "And I find it highly irregular that a vassal of my father’s house bars the gates to his own son and demands writs of passage from the ruling family. Explain yourself, Lady Candra, before I lose my temper and do more than take it out on your men.”
Tim shrank behind Nick, playing his part perfectly. He looked genuinely terrified, shoulders hunched, refusing to meet his stepmother's gaze. Claudius stood a pace behind, head bowed.
Though in truth, they are genuinely scared. Everything hinges on me, and if I fail, it’s over for them.
Candra stood up calmly. She descended the wooden steps with slow grace, so smoothly it looked like she was floating.
She is stunning, Nick noted, observing the flawless symmetry of her face and the predatory confidence in her stride. It makes the poison that much easier to swallow, I suppose.
"Lord Nicholas," Candra said softly. Her voice was a rich, melodic purr that carried effortlessly across the hall, calming people and making it seem as if she were still in control. "Please forgive the gate watch’s ignorance. They are simple men, overly zealous in protecting the town during my husband’s absence. Had I known Timothy was fetching the Crowley Heir, I would have lined the streets with rose petals to welcome you.”
Nick kept his face locked in a haughty sneer, though his mind raced. The Crowley Heir. It was a deliberate slight against Devon, an unspoken assumption that the most powerful son would naturally inherit the Barony. It was meant to stroke his ego.
Devon would find that amusing, for all that it’s an insult, Nick thought dryly. But a spoiled prodigy wouldn't care about his older brother.
"Your guards aren’t the only ones lacking discipline," Nick said, ignoring the jab for now and raising his chin. "And your stepson claims you have seized his inheritance. I came to see whether Oakenhollow requires a new castellan to manage its affairs. In my father’s name, of course.” He added the last phrase at the end, hoping it sounded hurried and not very believable.
Candra sighed, a sorrowful sound. She looked at Tim with deep maternal pity.
"Timothy has always been a sensitive boy," Candra murmured, shaking her head. "The sudden loss of his mother, the pressures of the Tower and all its troubles… I’m afraid they have strained his delicate nerves. He misunderstands the burdens of administration. I am merely managing things until Armand returns, as is proper. If he had been an adult in the eyes of the Law, I would have relinquished the position to him, of course, but I’m afraid he has yet to graduate from the Tower or reach the proper age.”
Without any visible signal, yet clearly spurred by something, the magistrate in dark robes stepped forward, bowing low to Nick. "If I may, my Lord. Master Timothy has been... erratic. He wandered the halls at all hours, shouting at the servants. Lady Candra has simply taken the reins to spare him the stress of rule. We have the records to prove that her administration has brought nothing but prosperity, and Sir Poules’ seal to guarantee its righteousness.”
Nick took a moment to study the man, noting fewer scars than expected around the man's emotional core. It seemed the man was more of a willing accomplice than a mere puppet, and he corroborated her story seamlessly, building a narrative of an unstable heir and a dutiful, burdened stepmother without so much as a glance at her.
Candra stepped even closer, stopping just a few feet away. The scent of jasmine and spiced honey washed over Nick, mingling with the greasy taint of her ambient magic.
Though he almost expected mana to surge, she was far too cunning to attempt a total subjugation in a crowded hall against an unknown variable. Instead, she released a subtle, probing tendril of charm magic—a gentle suggestion of comfort, trust, and mutual understanding.
Nick was ready for it. He reached into his own soul, cordoning off a fraction of his aura, and constructed a false mental projection, wrapping it around his consciousness like a hollow shell. He shaped it to resemble the mind of a mortal prodigy—brilliant, dense with mana, yet brittle, bloated with vanity, and desperate for validation.
Candra’s probing tendril slid into the false shell, and Nick let his shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. He let his sneer soften, as if the sudden wave of trust had mollified his anger. He looked at her, letting a hint of arrogant curiosity show in his eyes.
Candra’s scarlet lips curled into a dazzling smile, the only sign of her triumph.
Again, he expected her to go for the kill, and again she showed more restraint, content, for the moment, with that small measure of control.
Given how high her Charisma has to be, it would probably be enough anyway.
"A man of your caliber should not be subjected to the tedious whining of merchants or petty disputes," Candra said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper meant only for him. "I have heard rumors of your power, my Lord. The bards from Alluria sing of the boy who commands the elements as if he were born to them, but it seems they do not do you justice.”
Nick allowed a smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth, even as he filed that nugget away. He’d known his actions in retaking the Tower would become known, of course, but he suspected that, in this case, it was more a matter of Candra having spies in the city than any organic song reaching this far West. "Rumors rarely grasp the full truth.”
“I’m sure they do. Let us set politics aside for the day," Candra proposed, her eyes gleaming with calculation. She gestured toward the staircase. "Stay as my honored guest, as is proper for a man of your talent. I will host a feast in your honor tonight, and we can discuss Timothy’s future, the Barony’s prosperity, and perhaps... how Oakenhollow might better serve a mage of your extraordinary talents.”
It was a blatant promise of power and influence. She intended to spend the evening breaking his mind piece by piece, weaving her loyalties into his ego until he was nothing more than a weapon she could point at her enemies. But if he had truly been the person he was pretending to be, it would have been irresistible.
"A feast in my honor," Nick drawled, pretending to consider the offer. He let his gaze sweep over her emerald corset before meeting her dark eyes again. "See that the wine is of a decent vintage, Lady Candra. I have little patience for cheap hospitality.”
“Only the finest for House Crowley," Candra purred, bowing deeply.
"Show us to our quarters, then,” Nick commanded, waving a dismissive hand at the magistrate. "And let no more of these matters take place without my say-so. I shan’t want to be bothered if I’m to feast tonight.”
The steward scrambled forward, bowing frantically, and led Nick, Tim, and Claudius out of the hall even as Candra dismissed the court behind them. As they climbed the sweeping wooden staircase toward the guest wing, Nick felt the greasy magic recede, and he let out a soft sigh.
She might be a bit annoyed that I delayed matters with the Blackwoods, but I’m too tempting a morsel to risk my wrath.
With that, the first stage of the trap was set.
———
As evening fell over Oakenhollow, the town took on a magical atmosphere, with sunset hues shimmering across its ancient trees like a painting.
It wasn’t long before Nick was summoned by servants, who informed him that the proper feast would take place the next day and that, as an apology, Lady Candra had arranged a private dinner.
Having expected it, Nick barely contained his eye-roll, but still put up a pretense of annoyance.
The dining room exuded luxurious intimacy, with a crackling fire illuminating the tapestries. The table featured hefty silver plates, crystal goblets, and an array of dishes that would rival House Crowley’s. Aromas of roast quail in rich plum sauce, honey-glazed root vegetables, and dark, spiced wine from southern vineyards wafted through the air.
Candra sat across from Nick. She had changed into a midnight-blue silk gown that clung to her curves, her hair pinned up with silver combs that cascaded down her shoulders, drawing attention to her neck without being too forward.
After apologizing for the change in plans and promising a magnificent feast in exchange, she played the perfect host, pouring his wine, laughing at his dry remarks, and subtly feeding the bloated ego of the fake mental shell that Nick projected.
Tim and Claudius were absent, banished to their rooms under the guise of "allowing the men of true power to discuss the future.”
Nick cut a piece of the quail and chewed slowly. It was genuinely delicious. At least the witch employs a competent cook, he mused, taking a sip of the spiced wine.
“I have heard ever so many things about Floria," Candra said, resting her chin on her hand, her dark eyes fixed on him. "The merchants speak of safe roads and bursting granaries, and your name is on every lip. Your father might command the forces, but everyone knows who their future is. It must be exhausting, carrying the weight of the Barony on such young shoulders.”
"Power carries its own burdens," Nick replied, leaning back in his velvet-lined chair, adopting the weary tone of a misunderstood genius. It was a fiction within a fiction, a mien of gravitas put on to draw forth more compliments.
Candra smiled, her expression soft and sympathetic. She reached beneath the table and produced a long, polished wooden case, which she set on the linen cloth between them and opened.
The lid swung open, revealing a bed of crushed black velvet. Inside lay a mage’s staff of breathtaking craftsmanship. The wood was dark, petrified ironwood, carved with flowing silver-inlaid runes that glowed with soft power. At the head rested a sapphire the size of a robin’s egg, cut with masterful precision.
"A token of my esteem," Candra murmured. "I commissioned it from a master artificer in the Free Cities. I’m told the wood channels spells without degradation, and the sapphire can even serve as an external reservoir of mana. A tool worthy of the Crowley Heir.”
Nick reached out, lifting the staff from the velvet. He let a small pulse of his mana flow into the wood. The silver runes flared to life, casting a cool blue glow across the dining room.
It was a princely gift. To a mortal mage, it would mark the culmination of a decade of saving and bargaining.
Internally, Nick felt a dry surge of amusement. Next to the Shard of Human Ambition, this staff was little more than a shiny stick. He could probably use it to stir a cauldron, provided the ironwood didn't snap under the strain of his true power.
Externally, he let his eyes widen slightly. He ran his fingers over the silver inlays, projecting a greedy satisfaction into the false mental shell.
Her smile took on a predatory cast, and he prepared for the next act.