Chapter 105: Disrespectful and threatening conversation

The clink of the chalice sounded like a sharpening edge. The room drew a deep breath, as if all the nobility within needed to recalibrate at those words. Duke Armand was the first to regain his composure—and the first to smile again, but with a narrower, less condescending smile.

“You speak with the lightness of someone who knows death firsthand, Lady Deathstriker,” he said, shrugging. “Or fears it.”

Ester didn’t look away. “I know her. And I don’t fear her. Countess Wykes doesn’t send messengers to play diplomacy, Duke. She sends them to shatter the illusions of those who think they can shape destinies with promises and jewels.”

Some of those present grumbled; the clerical advisor pressed his fingers against the fabric of his tunic. Damon, for his part, smirked, amused by the small social storm that was gathering. There was something—a quiet electricity—in the way Ester spoke the words: not theatrical, but inescapable.

Armand leaned back in his chair, studying her as if deciphering a riddle. “And what kind of… end do you suggest, Lady Deathstriker? Punishment? Public shame? A duet of lewd dances?”

“It is not my place to inflict shame for fun,” she replied coolly. “But if the Duke continues to involve the Countess in his games, there will be consequences that will shake the very foundations of Paraphal. Merchants will lose privileges. Artisans will have orders canceled. Allies may reconsider their loyalties. And, of course, there are less discreet means we prefer to avoid, for now.”

The Duke gently slapped his hand on the table—not out of anger, but to show restrained patience. “That sounds like economic coercion.”

“Coercion,” Ester repeated. “If you prefer to call it that, I ask you to consider: which is more civilized—negotiating now, with goodwill, or being forced to act when the courts are transformed into battlegrounds for personal ambitions?”

Armand opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the clerical advisor’s murmur. “Esther, the presence of an incubus among our table is unbearable. Not just for spiritual reasons, but for security reasons. How can we trust someone who flatters demons?” His tone was plaintive, almost hypocritical, coming from a man whose entire life had been dedicated to manipulating fear and faith to maintain power.

Damon raised his glass to the advisor with an air of amusement. “I’m the egalitarian of the party, sir. I’m quietly in my corner, why don’t you shut your dirty mouth and talk to her? I’m just watching. I’m not going to do anything,” Damon said, smiling.

The advisor stiffened. “His words are unseemly.”

“As is the idea of ​​a Duke buying alliances with gifts and letters,” Ester replied. “But I haven’t seen any servant question that. Perhaps because the lead of money is more acceptable than the fires of hell.”

The murmur grew louder. Armand narrowed his eyes. “You attack my actions, but where is the proof that my intentions are deplorable? Perhaps I simply wish to strengthen Paraphal, not to cause harm.”

“Strengthen,” she repeated with a hint of contempt. “We understand similar concepts, Duke. Some strengthen by building walls and welcoming neighbors. Others strengthen by dominating neighbors, reducing their options. The Countess is not a piece to be moved on your board.”

There was a tense silence, followed by a low, unexpected laugh. It was the Duke’s—not of outright contempt, but of curiosity. “So tell me, Lady Deathstriker: what is Elizabeth Wykes’s interest in so protective of her autonomy? What threat is so great that she sent you… and an incubus?”

The question hung in the air like a blade. Ester took a breath, her expression as impassive as ever, but there was a tiny glint in the corner of her eyes—not of emotion, but of vigilance. “The Countess has enemies, Duke. People who don’t respect boundaries. People who believe that ancient privileges give them the right to take what they want. She prefers to resolve matters before they result in bloodshed and scandal. It’s prudence, not paranoia.”

Armand closed his eyes for a second, as if weighing possibilities. When he opened them, a new calculation appeared on his face. “Very well. I accept your… warning. However, what guarantee do I have that the Countess will honor the agreement? How do I know that, once I retreat, Mirath won’t organize a network of hostility against Paraphal?”

“Because the Countess is as practical as you, Duke,” Ester replied. “She doesn’t seek unnecessary conflict, only security. A mutual agreement benefits both of us. And if you truly wish to seal this truce, she expects concrete gestures: a cessation of the sending of ’gifts’ and the immediate withdrawal of insinuating letters.”

Armand tilted his head, considering. “Gestures. Hm. And what does Mirath demand in return? Gold? Territory?”

“Respect,” Ester said, simply and sharply. “And autonomy.”

The Duke smiled. “Easy words to promise.”

“Words the Countess honors,” she said. “If you accept, instructions will be sent. And if you don’t…” Ester let the sentence hang, leaving the rest to the imagination—a silence that seemed as effective as any explicit threat.

The Duke’s face hardened. “You speak as if we were in a cold war. Very well. I offer to let me send a smaller delegation to Mirath to discuss terms. No gifts, no proclamations—just conversations.”

Ester considered the proposal. Beside her, Damon inclined his head, interested. “Conferences are great for preaching intent,” he murmured. “But they can hide daggers.”

“Then bring vigilance,” Ester said. “And let the meeting be neutral. No displays of force.”

Armand smiled slyly. “How can I refuse such a reasonable request? I accept. A delegation will go, and talks will be arranged. However, Lady Deathstriker…” He paused, his voice dropping. “If there is a single lie, a single ruse, the Duchy of Paraphal will know how to respond.”

Ester bowed slightly. “As it should be.”

Dinner continued, the tension easing but leaving a trace. Shallow conversation resumed, and the servants refilled glasses, as if refilling the wine could also replenish their courage. When the formal procession concluded, Ester and Damon were led back to their rooms.

Outside, night had fallen; the snow turned to a gray shadow in the lamplight. The wind carried the distant scent of burning wood.

Reaching the hallway leading to their assigned rooms, Damon stopped and turned to her. “Well, Lady Deathstriker, I think you’ve won the first round.”

Ester didn’t answer immediately. She watched the castle silhouetted against the night sky for a moment, then said, “We’ve bought time.”

“Time is… something I’d like to explore,” Damon said, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “But seriously, do you think he’ll actually back down?”

“He has options,” Ester said simply. “And fear. Fear more subtle than he’ll admit.”

“Subtle fear is my favorite,” he murmured. “Hard to see, delightful to explore.”

She shot him a look.

“Just kidding,” he said quickly. “Maybe.”

They walked on, silence and footsteps echoing. In the hallway, Ester stopped before a door and turned. “Damon… keep to yourself during the night. Don’t provoke the guards, or get too close to rooms where we’re not invited.”

“I promise to try. But I don’t promise time.”

She gave a half-smile—so brief it could be ignored. “Just fulfill what you promised.”

He nodded. “Then fulfill what you promised the Countess. And if you need drama, call me.”

Ester entered the room. Closing the door, she finally allowed herself, for a moment, to lean her head against the wood. Thoughts raced through her: letters, gifts, allies who might falter, merchants who might lose contracts. It wasn’t just the wounded pride of a house, but the fragile political tapestry that sustained lives.

A soft knock on the door made her rise. Damon, carrying a glass of wine, appeared behind the crack.

“I came to fulfill my promise to be discreet,” he said with an exaggerated bow. “I brought wine.”

“Discreet,” she repeated, “with an incubus by your side is an elastic concept.”

“Allow me to expand your vocabulary, then.” He entered, closing the door carefully. “Tell me more about the Countess. Why is she so… obstinate?”

Ester sat in a nearby chair, watching him over the glass of wine she offered. “Because she understands the consequences. And because, unlike many, she doesn’t confuse ambition with entitlement.”

Damon smiled. “Entitlements… so boring. I prefer permissions.”

“You’re lucky,” she said. “That I need allies with more… moral flexibility.”

He raised his glass. “To moral flexibility, then.”

Ester clinked her glass lightly against his. “To limits that should not be crossed.”

And as the wine flowed in sips, the castle breathed around it, full of intrigue and intentions. Outside, under the cold moon, Paraphal began to understand that the game had changed—and that those who played with the lives of others might, for the first time, have an adversary who would not accept being bought.

In the silence that followed, outside…

In the silence that followed, outside, flames flickered in distant corridors—and inside the Duke’s office, the atmosphere was different: a compressed, heavy air, filled with small fissures of anger and apprehension. Reginald Armand closed the door behind him with more force than he intended, the sound echoing through the richly decorated room like a crack of suppressed menace. Maps, letters, and seals lay on the table; portraits of ancestors watched, unperturbed. But the Duke’s expression was anything but unperturbed.

He walked to the window, his hands trembling on the sill, and gazed out at the snow-covered courtyard with eyes that saw nothing but offense. The wine in his glass, forgotten, was already warming. Finally, he turned, took a deep breath, and called out in a low, clipped voice:

“Bring Marcus.”

Shortly afterward, a tall man, wearing dark cloaks and with the look of someone who had passed through many doors he shouldn’t have, entered unannounced. Marcus inclined his head with the respect of someone who knows the lines of command—and the price of disobedience. There was something dry and efficient in his eyes: the look of a professional executioner.

Armand didn’t wait for greetings. He approached the table, braced his hands, and spoke hurriedly, each word a stone thrown:

“Marcus, I need you to… solve two problems for me. Now.”

Marcus regarded him with icy calm. “Two problems, Duke? Explain, and use few words.”

The Duke took a breath, trying to regain control. His anger had been contained, converted into calculation. “Escorts. A messenger from Mirath—Lady Ester Deathstriker—and the… being she travels upon. The incubus. They represent an affront to my house. To my honor.” I want them both eliminated before dawn.

Marcus inclined his head slightly, not surprised by the request itself. Calls for blood were common currency among terrified nobles. What made him look harder was what came next, when the Duke’s expression wavered between defiance and terror.

“But,” Armand continued, his voice dropping to a low tone, almost a whisper, “there’s something I need you to understand clearly: killing Esther will be… difficult. Impossible, perhaps. Some say she carries the Reaper herself on her shoulders. She cannot be eliminated by ordinary means. But the demon… the incubus… he’s vulnerable. I can bring him down.”

Marcus let a silence fill the room before answering, as if weighing every consequence.

“Impossible is a dangerous word, Your Highness. I don’t perform miracles.” Armand slammed his palm on the table, with restrained force, and added, more harshly:

“I don’t ask for miracles. I ask for pragmatism. Do whatever it takes to make the demon die. If Esther remains—and if, for some reason, you can’t touch her—at least let her company not stay through the night to tell stories. Do it subtly. I don’t want scandal; I want results.”

Marcus smiled a little—not out of kindness. It was the sharpening of knives in human language.

“Subtlety is my specialty. You nobles like to clean stains without soiling the rest of the fabric.”

The Duke approached, his fingers brushing the medallion pinned to his chest. There was something driving him beyond the insult: fear. Fear of losing influence, of seeing his name ridiculed. He continued, more vulnerable than he’d intended:

“The incubus… is not human.” There might be ways to lure him—vice, curiosity, fleshly sustenance?—and then… let the rest unfold. If you can’t kill Esther, at least remove that insolent smile from my hall.

Marcus raised his eyebrows. “What if the incubus doesn’t prove so easy?”

The Duke closed his eyes for a moment, his face a brief moment of surrender. “Then make him disappear from sight. While I can still control the narrative.”

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