He stood again, dusting his gloves. “Send the letter to three people. Lord Kershal of the Western Reach—he’s a coward, but a loud one. Lady Verden, who’s already hanging on by a thread thanks to that scandal with her steward. And lastly, Duke Mavros… because I want to watch that arrogant fossil burn everything around him just to feel powerful again.”

He turned, hands behind his back, as he walked a slow circle.

“In exchange, we’ll let your house stand. You’ll be our inside man in the coming purge. Provide information on troop movements, resource caravans, hidden strongholds. You’ll pin targets for Rahna and her kin to gut when needed.”

He stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

“And in return, your lands will be untouched. Your name… salvaged. Maybe even cleansed, if you play the noble martyr well enough.”

Zynara chuckled. “Play your part, and who knows? Maybe you’ll even be remembered as the one who tried to save them.”

Aerion’s face was pale, his throat dry.

“You… you want me to start a civil war.”

Dazmar gave a slow, cruel smile.

“No, Lord Virell. I want you to light the match.”

Aerion coughed again and shook his head, dragging a shaky breath through his lungs. “All this sounds simple,” he muttered, “but tell me—how exactly do you plan to bring back my burning home? My dead guards? My charred reputation?”

He raised his eyes, bloodshot and desperate. “If word spreads about what happened tonight, I won’t have any influence left. No allies. No holdings. Nothing to base this fake claim on.”

Dazmar gave a low hum, then smiled.

“Indeed. And yet, you still don’t need to worry about that.”

He raised his hand.

Aerion flinched—but instead of striking, Dazmar’s golden ring—a wax-sealed insignia depicting the Goboros Moon—shattered into glowing fragments. The particles of light whirled in the air and coalesced into a floating scale of shimmering gold. On one end, a miniature replica of Aerion’s burning estate flickered to life: smoke curling from its spires, the flickers of dying guards etched in eerie detail.

Aerion’s breath caught.

Dazmar tilted his head slightly. “Tell me, Lord Virell—have you ever heard the saying, ‘money can’t buy happiness’?”

Aerion swallowed, still staring at the scale. “…Yes.”

Dazmar’s grin widened, cruel and amused. “Well, I for one… don’t believe in such lunacy.”

He reached into the pocket of his deep violet coat and produced a handful of radiant golden coins, each etched with ancient glyphs pulsing faintly.

“One of the oldest lies ever peddled by the miserable and the weak,” he said conversationally, dropping a coin onto the opposite scale plate.

Clink.

Then another.

Clink.

And another.

The burning castle began to fade, its light dimming slightly.

“I believe those who say it simply don’t know how to spend their money properly. Or rather—don’t know what to spend it on.”

More coins.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

Until at last, the scales balanced—perfectly equal. The burning castle vanished entirely, swallowed into the golden glow of the weighed-down side.

Dazmar stepped closer, his voice lowering into something darker, hungrier.

“If there is one thing Mother Nature makes painfully clear, Lord Virell…”

He leaned in, eyes gleaming like polished emerald.

“There is always a price to be paid for everything.”

—

The golden scales shimmered—then dissolved in a burst of warm, radiant light.

And suddenly… everything changed.

The night air shifted.

The distant roar of flames vanished, replaced by the calm, rhythmic sound of boots against cobblestone. Aerion blinked, his body frozen with disbelief as he twisted to look behind him.

His estate—just moments ago reduced to smoke and ash—stood tall and whole, as pristine as it had ever been. The flags of House Virell fluttered in the breeze. Lanterns flickered calmly on the outer walls. Guards—his guards, men he had seen butchered—were alive, moving along the ramparts, chatting, yawning, patrolling.

Aerion staggered back a step. “No… That’s impossible. That has to be some sort of illusion. Magic smoke. A trick—”

Suddenly, a hot jolt of pain burst in his abdomen.

“Ghh—!”

Zynara’s boot drove into his gut with casual cruelty, knocking the wind out of him. He doubled over, groaning, before a cold blade kissed the side of his face.

“Oh?” Zynara purred, crouching next to him with a sharp-toothed smile. “You suggesting what the boss did was just an illusion?”

Her fingers tangled into his muddy hair and yanked his head back, the dagger glinting near his eye.

“Maybe I should cut away the part of your brain that doubts him.”

Aerion froze, a bead of blood running down his cheek.

“Enough, Zynara.”

Dazmar’s voice cut clean and firm through the tension, but still with that lilt of amusement.

“He’s an important piece on my board. I won’t have you damaging my toys when I’ve spent so much money on them already.”

Zynara scoffed, annoyed, but obedient. She gave Aerion a little shove, letting him slump to the ground before dusting off her gloves and stepping back with a sulky scowl.

Dazmar adjusted his coat sleeve and clapped once, as if clearing the air.

“Now then.”

He looked down at Aerion with a mockingly gentle smile.

“Get up, little lord. You have a letter to write.”

He turned, the edge of his coat trailing in the dirt like a curtain drawn on Act One.

“Let the rest of the kingdom know,” he added over his shoulder, voice smooth as wine. “Lord Aerion Virell still lives. His house stands untouched. And he’s preparing to make a very interesting claim.”

He paused.

“Oh, and do remember to thank your mysterious benefactor for saving your sorry bloodline.”

His smile returned, cold and thin as a razor.

“I do love it when nobles owe me… everything.”

Dazmar suddenly laughed. The sound echoed like a ripple across still water—too rich, too relaxed, too assured for a man who had just rewritten reality with a handful of coins.

Aerion remained on his knees, eyes wide, chest rising and falling with shallow, disbelieving breaths. The warmth of the restored estate before him suddenly felt foreign, like a stage set built for a play he hadn’t rehearsed for.

And in that moment—it hit him.

He wasn’t a player in this game.

Not even close.

He was a pawn.

A fragile piece pushed forward by a hand far more cunning than his own.

Dazmar’s laughter faded, but the weight of it lingered in the air, like the scent of blood after a massacre.

Aerion had always thought himself clever, born into a noble line, tutored by seasoned strategists, groomed for influence.

But standing in the wake of a man who could bend reality with wealth, who could resurrect the dead with a gesture, who spoke of owning people with the same tone one used for livestock…

He realized how utterly outclassed he was.

He was a small fish in a massive pond—no, an ocean. And around him, unseen, swam sharks with silver tongues and gold-lined jaws. One wrong move, one show of weakness, and he wouldn’t just be devoured.

He’d be erased—rebuilt, resold, repurposed for someone else’s game.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep