Chapter 161: Preventing a fight

Demon let out a single sigh—short, almost inaudible—as he closed the compartment again, replicating with absolute care the exact order of the runes the Duchess had activated. There couldn’t be even a glimmer out of place, an incorrect interval, a click that sounded different from the original.

If she came back later to inspect and noticed any irregularity…

Very well. He preferred not to die inside an elegant suit.

When the latch slid back into place with a slight, almost too polished sound, Demon touched his lapel and made sure the small folded map was firmly inside the suit, aligned against his body so as not to be noticed even if someone embraced him.

Elizabeth… The name flashed through his mind like a cold blade.

The connection with her voice—that venomous softness, that command disguised as gentleness—was so clear he could almost hear her whispering:

“Take whatever is in the Duke’s safe. No matter how.”

He chuckled to himself, a quiet, low laugh.

“It was obvious…” he murmured.

Elizabeth wasn’t one for bluffs.

Nor for sending someone to a lair without knowing exactly what was inside.

So of course she knew about the map. Maybe not explicitly, but… Elizabeth rarely wanted “objects.” She always wanted secrets.

And that map was too big a secret to be hidden in a secret office.

Mission accomplished.

That’s what he should have been feeling.

But instead of satisfaction, Demon felt a strange tension coil in his stomach. Not fear… but a feeling that he was carrying something that would create waves—deep waves, capable of sinking entire ships.

He ran his fingers along the metal panel frame, checking once more to make sure he hadn’t left any marks.

Nothing.

Time to leave.

Demon opened the office door so slowly that it made no sound. The corridor was empty, but the silence was tense. The walls seemed closer, as if the palace were now… watching.

The young man took a deep breath.

“Don’t think about it. Just move.”

He walked down the grand corridor with soft steps, taking advantage of the shadows cast by the columns and the gaps between the light fixtures. Now that he was carrying something valuable, every sound seemed amplified: the discreet creaking of the floorboards, the rustling of his clothes, even his own breathing sounded too loud.

At the end of the corridor, he heard the sound of the patrol again.

The guards were returning.

Great. Perfect. Of course.

Demon pressed his hand into the inside pocket of his suit, making sure the map wouldn’t bulge, and then moved quickly to the side door he had entered through before.

But this time, it was closed.

Not locked—just ajar.

If he opened it too quickly, the sound would attract attention.

If he opened it too slowly, the guards would close in before he could disappear.

The patrol’s distance decreased: step, step, step—the military rhythm marked like clockwork.

Demon closed his eyes for a moment, listened to the pattern of footsteps… and, when the beat of boots reached the exact point where it echoed loudest in the corridor, he pushed the door open at the same time.

The soft creak was completely swallowed by the sound.

He slid inside.

He closed it.

And the guards passed on the other side of the wall, without even imagining that a freshman from the Arven Academy was carrying a secret that would make the Duke himself pale.

Upon entering the service wing again, the smell of soap and wood greeted him like a familiar embrace. It was tighter, simpler—and, for that very reason, safer.

No one was looking for intruders here.

No one was watching here.

He descended the stairs carefully, now keeping pace with the noise of the staff. He needed to fit into their routine, just like before.

When he reached the lower floor, he heard voices further ahead:

“…quick, quick, the wine in the hall is gone again—”

“I told you to get more boxes!”

“It’s not my fault if half the ladies are drinking like it’s the last event of the year!”

Demon took advantage of the flow.

They passed by with trays, napkins, and boxes. He simply walked along, carrying his empty tray as if he were still part of the team.

A maid glanced quickly at him—and offered a brief, friendly smile.

“Oh, you’re here too? They’re desperate for more waiters today…”

He nodded slightly.

He didn’t answer—busy waiters didn’t talk.

She passed by him and continued walking, unsuspecting.

Perfect.

The flow of people carried him straight to the service door connected to the hall. When he opened it, he had to control his expression:

The atmosphere of the event had changed.

The murmur was louder.

The music was more lively.

And the nobles were, honestly, much more drunk.

Even Instructor Helvar seemed a little impatient on stage, trying to organize the students for the announcement of the next part of the ceremony.

“Great, they’re more distracted than before.”

Demon blended naturally among the servants crossing the hall. When he reached the darkest and least crowded corner, he discreetly dropped the tray onto a side table—as if he were just returning from a shift—and straightened his suit.

No one noticed his return.

No one glanced twice.

Except one person.

A girl in the same row of students he should have met earlier—a newcomer who had no reason to notice his absence—turned her head slightly toward him, frowning as if trying to remember something.

But before she could say anything…

Helvar slammed his baton on the ground.

“STUDENTS! FORWARD! NOW!”

Everyone’s attention immediately shifted.

Demon let out an almost discreet sigh.

He even seemed to relax, but it was only an appearance.

Inside, his heart still pounded in his chest.

He had done what he needed to.

He had obtained the map.

Now only one thing remained:

To survive the rest of the event without drawing attention.

And, of course…

To deliver the map to Elizabeth without anyone noticing he was carrying it.

The second-floor corridor was silent, illuminated only by the lamps attached to the wall—lights too warm for such a cold place.

Damon had climbed calmly, his steps firm, his posture impeccable. He didn’t attract attention; no one looked at a simple Academy student wearing a suit that seemed too expensive for his status. Which, let’s face it, was to Ester’s credit—perhaps exaggeration was an understatement to describe what she did.

He wasn’t in a hurry. Not until he heard the sound of voices just before he finished climbing the last step.

The first voice was firm, laden with the artificial authority that only someone not truly powerful needed to force.

Duchess-Regent Arven.

“You need to take responsibility for your actions, Morgana,” she said, in a tone that seemed polished to any distant listener… but the thread of venom was evident.

The second voice… Damon would recognize it even in the dark.

Morgana.

Calm.

Icy.

And tired.

“Responsibility?” she laughed, but without humor. “Why? Because a coward wet his pants when he saw me?” The duchess gasped, offended.

Damon didn’t move yet. He remained in the shadows of the stairs. Watching. Listening.

“Your engagement is ruined,” the duchess continued, approaching Morgana like someone tightening the leash of a rebellious animal. “And it’s your fault. You’re destroying this family with your reckless, impetuous, and… unworthy behavior.”

A heavy silence.

Damon saw Morgana in profile: impeccable, posture erect, hair elegantly styled, a bored expression—as if listening to a child whimpering.

“If the Arven family is so desperate,” Morgana said softly, “perhaps you should have had another daughter. Or better yet: marry some decrepit old man yourself. Who knows… maybe it will save the family name.”

The duchess’s face turned white.

Then red.

Then purple.

She lost her self-control. “How dare you—?!” and raised her hand.

And it was at that instant—the exact second the duchess’s hand was descending—that Damon moved.

Quick as a snap of his fingers.

His hand firmly enveloped the duchess’s wrist, but without visible violence. Enough to stop her. Enough to impose his presence.

The silence that followed was cutting.

The duchess stared at him, surprised. Indignant.

“Who… you—”

Damon inclined his head, politely, a slight smile on his lips. The kind of smile that provokes without saying anything.

“Don’t be like that, Your Excellency.”

His tone was soft, almost cordial.

“The elders should set an example for the younger ones… right?”

The duchess opened and closed her mouth, unable to articulate an immediate response. She wasn’t used to being interrupted—much less physically restrained.

Damon released her wrist slowly.

Not out of fear.

But with the kind of confidence that said, “I let go because I want to. Not because I have to.”

Morgana stared at him as if he had broken every social rule of nobility at once.

And as if she were enjoying it.

The duchess finally found the words:

“You… dare to lay hands on me? A mere student?”

Damon gave a slight bow, polite to the point of provocation.

“I only prevented a scandal. Surely you wouldn’t want the guests to see the regent so lost as to raise her hand against a future Arven bride. Or… ex-fiancée.”

He glanced at Morgana.

“I haven’t decided which sounds better yet.”

Morgana almost smiled.

Almost.

The duchess felt the tug of humiliation creeping up her neck. Wounded pride. Challenged authority.

She took a deep breath, straightened her posture, and said,

“I’ll remember that.”

Damon blinked slowly.

“Count on me, Your Excellency. My memory is excellent too.”

She left.

Stiff.

Almost tripping over her own dignity.

When the sound of footsteps faded into the hallway, Morgana let out a sigh that clearly tried to sound irritated… without much success.

She crossed her arms, not looking directly at Damon.

“…You’re crazy.”

“Maybe.” He stepped off the last step and stood beside her, leaning on the banister. “But I admit you have a special talent for attracting angry people.”

“Me?” Morgana raised an eyebrow. “If anyone in that room attracts trouble, it’s you.”

“Flattered,” he smiled.

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