Chapter 268: Sowing discord

Damon didn’t rush after that moment of silent confirmation; instead, he allowed himself to blend back into the throng of guests as if he were just another bored nobleman seeking entertainment, adjusting his posture, expression, and even the rhythm of his breathing to perfectly align with his surroundings. He knew that, in that kind of game, haste meant error, and error, in that hall full of watchful eyes and hidden interests, meant exposure. Instead, he began to circulate slowly among the groups, shifting between interlocutors with fluid naturalness, like someone accustomed to that type of social interaction, absorbing names, titles, and subtle implicit rivalries that could be exploited with precision later.

The wine in his hand became a useful prop, not only to maintain appearances but to justify pauses, approaches, and even strategic withdrawals, allowing him to constantly reposition himself without raising suspicion. Each group he approached received a slightly different version of his presence, a comment here, an observation there, always carefully crafted to provoke small fissures in the certainties those people held about the Duke. Damon didn’t make direct accusations; that would be too crude and easily traceable. Instead, he planted subtle doubts, seemingly innocent questions that, once planted, grew on their own within the minds of those accustomed to distrusting everything and everyone.

“Curious how certain recent decisions seem… out of the ordinary,” he commented at one point, tilting his head slightly as he spoke to an older noble couple, his voice low enough to sound confidential, yet clear enough to be absorbed attentively. He didn’t elaborate too much, didn’t offer ready-made answers, simply letting the question linger, like a seed sown in fertile soil, knowing that the human mind had a natural tendency to fill in gaps with its own conclusions, often more dangerous than any direct statement.

And it worked.

He saw it in their eyes. Hesitation.

Doubt.

The slight narrowing of eyebrows that indicated something had shifted internally, even if not yet fully understood. And then he would move away, before he could be pressured, before anyone tried to delve too deeply into the subject, leaving behind only the uncomfortable feeling that something wasn’t right. This pattern repeated itself several times throughout the hall, each interaction carefully calculated to reach a specific type of mind, whether more proud, more pragmatic, or more paranoid.

Meanwhile, his eyes never stopped working in parallel, always returning, albeit indirectly, to the figure of his stepmother, assessing her position, her movements, her interactions. He deliberately maintained a distance, avoiding any prolonged direct line of sight, because he knew she would recognize him immediately if given the opportunity to observe him closely enough. Proximity, at that moment, was not an advantage, it was pure risk. He needed to act as a shadow, as background noise, as something that existed but didn’t attract enough attention to be identified. At the same time, the effect of his small manipulations began to reverberate through the hall in an almost organic way. Parallel conversations began to emerge, low voices exchanging impressions, glances being discreetly cast towards the Duke, as if, suddenly, everyone was beginning to notice small inconsistencies that had previously gone unnoticed. Damon no longer needed to directly fuel all the suspicions, as the environment itself began to do the work for him, transforming individual suspicions into a collective murmur that grew slowly but steadily.

While Damon conducted this social game with almost artistic precision, Morgana operated on another level, far from superficial glances, using her position and influence to move pieces within the very structure of the mansion. She couldn’t simply lead him by the hand to where he needed to go; that would raise immediate suspicions, especially under the watchful eye of her stepmother, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t prepare the ground. His movements were as elegant as they were functional, interacting with servants, adjusting routines, redirecting small tasks in such a natural way that no one questioned it, but which, together, began to create specific openings within the mansion.

A side door that would normally remain closed was left unlocked under the pretext of ventilation. A service corridor was temporarily emptied due to an urgent task precisely relocated by Morgana. One of the internal guards was called to resolve a non-existent issue in another wing of the house, creating a momentary gap in surveillance. Each small action, insignificant in isolation, but together forming an invisible path, a route that only someone attentive and prepared could identify and use.

Damon, even from a distance, began to notice these changes.

Not obviously.

But through patterns.

He noticed the different flow of servants in certain areas, the absence of surveillance where there should be, the time that certain doors remained open for seconds longer than normal. None of this was accidental, and he immediately recognized Morgana’s signature in it all. She was creating a route. Not direct, not explicit, but clear enough for anyone who knew what to look for.

He then began to adjust his movements in the hall, gradually approaching areas that offered indirect access to the mansion’s inner workings, always maintaining his disguise, always sustaining conversations, smiles, and interactions that justified his presence there. Each step was calculated to appear casual, each pause had a hidden purpose, and each avoided glance was as important as those he allowed.

At the same time, he kept an absolute distance from his stepmother.

He could feel her.

Not physically.

But as a constant presence in the room.

Like someone who not only observed but analyzed.

And he knew that a single moment of direct attention would be enough for everything to crumble. She knew his face. She knew who he was. And, more importantly, she knew he shouldn’t be there. This made any approach a risk not worth taking at that moment. The goal wasn’t confrontation. Not yet. It was preparation. Weakening. Creating the ideal conditions so that the confrontation, when it happened, would be inevitable and irreversible.

The murmur in the hall grew.

Small.

But present.

Some guests began exchanging more frequent glances toward the Duke, others leaned in for more discreet conversations, as if trying to confirm something they couldn’t yet fully name. Damon observed this with restrained satisfaction, knowing that this kind of doubt was far more corrosive than any open accusation. It was the kind of thing that couldn’t be easily denied, because it didn’t have a defined form, just a persistent feeling that something was out of place.

And at the center of it all, the Duke continued.

Smiling.

Responding.

Existing.

But increasingly… out of sorts.

Every small flaw was now noticed by more eyes.

Every delay, every empty response, every out-of-place microexpression began to gain weight within that environment already sensitive to power shifts. Damon no longer needed to prove anything to himself. Now, he was beginning to prove it to others.

And that changed everything.

His steps finally led him closer to one of the mansion’s secondary entrances, a door that, under normal circumstances, would be more closely monitored, but which at that moment seemed… neglected. Not completely abandoned, but with enough reduced surveillance to allow a bolder approach, provided it was done carefully.

He stopped near a column, pretending to observe a decorative artwork on the wall, while assessing the flow around him. Two servants passed. A distant guard turned his face in another direction. A group of guests crossed his path, momentarily blocking the line of sight of anyone who might be watching.

It was the window.

The moment.

But Damon didn’t move immediately.

He waited.

He mentally counted the rhythm of the environment.

He breathed.

And then, with the same naturalness with which he had blended into the crowd, he began to move away from it.

Not like someone fleeing.

But like someone who had simply lost interest in the party.

And it was in this seemingly insignificant movement…

That he began to disappear from the room.

Meanwhile, behind him, doubts continued to grow.

And somewhere above…

Morgana watched.

Knowing that the next phase…

was about to begin.

Damon maintained the same calculated pace as he glided between groups of guests, adjusting his posture and expression with almost theatrical precision, assuming different nuances according to the nature of each conversation he traversed, sometimes more relaxed, sometimes more analytical, always adapting his presence to seem to belong in that sophisticated environment without ever standing out excessively. He had already sown the first seeds of doubt, small, seemingly innocent observations about recent changes in the administration of the duchy, subtle comments on inconsistent decisions, and even carefully formulated questions that led others to conclude for themselves that something was… out of place, and this was essential, because ideas planted as one’s own conclusions tend to grow much stronger than direct accusations.

With each new group he approached, Damon adjusted the focus of his speech, never repeating the exact same words, but keeping the essence of distrust alive, like an invisible current that began to connect different circles within the party. He spoke of broken routines, of administrative decisions made at unusual hours, of records that seemed not to follow the rigorous standard for which the duke had always been known over the years, and all this was presented as curiosity, as legitimate interest, never as direct criticism. It was the kind of social manipulation that left no clear traces, but which, when perceived collectively, created a collective discomfort difficult to ignore.

Meanwhile, his eyes continued to work independently, analyzing the room like a patient predator, always attentive to the duchess’s position, the movements of Morgana’s father, and, above all, the chain reactions that his own actions were provoking. He noticed how some guests began to exchange longer glances after certain conversations, how small groups formed again a few minutes later, this time discussing in lower, more cautious tones, as if the atmosphere, once light and festive, was slowly being contaminated by a subtle tension, almost imperceptible to those who didn’t know where to look.

At the same time, Damon took extreme care never to approach the duchess directly, always maintaining a safe and strategic distance, using columns, larger groups, and even the movement of servants as visual cover whenever necessary, because he knew that a single recognition could compromise not only his position there, but the entire plan that had been carefully constructed since his arrival. He avoided any direct line of sight for prolonged periods, naturally averting his face whenever he realized he might be observed, and this constant discipline was what kept his presence invisible even amidst such a dense crowd.

On the other side of the hall, Morgana played her own role with a cold elegance that contrasted completely with the intensity she had demonstrated hours earlier in the mansion, moving among high-ranking guests with impeccable naturalness, smiling when necessary, listening with calculated attention and, above all, discreetly reorganizing the mansion’s internal logistics without raising suspicion. Every gesture she made, every order whispered to a specific servant, every seemingly casual movement through the hall was part of something larger, a silent plan aimed at opening a safe path for Damon to reach the inner areas of the property without passing through the main entrances, which at that moment were saturated with watchful eyes and guards disguised as servants.

She knew she couldn’t act abruptly, couldn’t simply disappear or drastically alter the natural flow of the party, so she used her position as hostess to manipulate the environment with surgical precision, redirecting servants, adjusting small details in the organization, and even creating social distractions that kept certain areas busier while others became progressively emptier. It was a balancing act, where any false move could raise suspicions, but until then, everything was flowing exactly as she had planned.

Damon, for his part, began to notice these almost imperceptible changes in the atmosphere, observing how certain side passages were becoming less busy, how certain servants avoided lingering in specific spots for too long, and how the very dynamics of the hall seemed to organically, yet intentionally, reorganize themselves. He didn’t look directly at Morgana at that moment, but he immediately understood that it was her doing, that the path was being prepared, and that soon he would have the opportunity to advance to the next phase of the plan.

Even so, he didn’t rush. He continued to circulate, continued to fuel the doubts, because he knew that the more unstable the social environment was, the harder it would be for the duchess to maintain absolute control over all the variables at once. He introduced new layers of questioning, now bolder, but still disguised under the veil of curiosity, mentioning recent administrative decisions that hadn’t been publicly announced, raising the possibility of external influence on the duchy’s finances, and even insinuating that such abrupt changes would hardly occur without some kind of pressure or interference. These ideas, launched in a fragmented way at different points in the hall, began to connect on their own, creating an invisible network of distrust that spread rapidly among the more attentive guests, especially those who depended directly on the political and economic stability of the duchy to maintain their own positions. Damon noticed this in the longer gazes, in the conversations that abruptly ceased when someone approached, in the smiles that were no longer as natural as before, and he knew it was working exactly as expected.

Meanwhile, the duchess began to show increasingly subtle signs of discomfort: small delays in her reactions, almost imperceptible changes in posture, more frequent glances towards the duke, as if she were constantly assessing the state of control she exerted over him. Damon didn’t need to observe her directly to notice this; he only needed to follow the consequences around him, because when someone needs to constantly monitor something, they inevitably leave traces, and he had already learned to read those traces with almost instinctive precision.

Finally, after a few more minutes of continuous social manipulation, Damon perceived the exact moment when the atmosphere reached an ideal level of tension—not chaotic enough to raise immediate alarms, but unstable enough to divide the duchess’s attention between multiple points at once. It was then that he began to move in a more focused manner, gradually abandoning the central groups and approaching the edges of the hall, where secondary passages were becoming more accessible thanks to Morgana’s discreet interventions.

He didn’t look back, didn’t hesitate, simply letting his presence dissolve among the guests as he moved towards one of the less busy sides of the mansion, taking advantage of the moment when two servants crossed his path carrying trays to use that brief visual blockage as cover. His pace remained steady, natural, without any trace of urgency, because in that kind of environment, haste was synonymous with suspicion, and he couldn’t afford to make such a basic mistake.

When he finally reached the side passage he had previously identified, Damon paused briefly, just long enough to confirm that no one was looking directly at him at that particular moment, and then crossed the threshold with the same ease with which he had entered any other group during the party, as if simply seeking a quieter place to breathe or to momentarily escape the noise of the main hall.

Behind him, the party continued, but it was no longer the same. The seeds he had planted were beginning to germinate, and although no one yet had a clear understanding of what was happening, the collective feeling that something was wrong had already taken hold. And that was exactly what Damon needed, because while everyone looked outward, trying to understand what had changed, he now moved inward, where the answers were truly hidden.

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