The Runesmith

Chapter 603: Duke Arrives.

“Everyone thinks I am a fool. Julius and that bastard, every single one of them refuses to take me seriously.”

Ivan stormed across the room like a caged animal, his steps uneven, his hands still stained with wine. His face was twisted, his jaw clenched so tightly that the veins in his neck bulged. He paced back and forth, muttering curses under his breath. The memory of the other noblesʼ laughter was still vivid, and it drove him closer to madness.

“Ivan, my dear son, please calm down. Everything will be fine.”

Lady Scarlet’s voice filled the chamber, which had once looked luxurious but now resembled the aftermath of a brawl. A chair lay overturned, plates lay smashed in the corners, and tables had been reduced to splinters. Fist-shaped holes scarred the walls. Her son no longer looked like a noble but like an angry child who had been denied his favorite toy. Scarlet could only frown and shake her head, though she showed no anger at his outburst.

“Let us calm down for a moment. Not everything is lost yet.”

She tried to reason with him, but his anger still boiled over.

“You saw them!”

Ivan roared like a beast and spun toward her.

“They laughed at me. At me! As though I were some clown to be mocked while that rusted thing humiliated my knight in front of the entire duchy!”

He snatched a teacup from one of the few tables still standing and hurled it against the wall. It shattered instantly, and he continued to shout.

“I am the duke’s son, and they dare laugh at me. I will have all of their heads!”

His mother sighed in disappointment. Yet he was still her son, and she would not give up on his right to the duke’s position. She stepped closer, cupped his face in her hands, and forced him to meet her gaze. Her eyebrows drew together as she finally revealed that she would not tolerate more of his childish behavior.

“Ivan Valerian, you stop with this whining now! I did not bring you into this world to watch you throw tantrums like a child!”

Lady Scarlet’s voice cracked like a whip across the wrecked chamber. Ivan froze for a moment, but the anger in his face did not vanish. He was ready to throw another object at the wall when a hand smacked his cheek.

“M-mother?”

“I told you to stop!”

She would not accept a refusal. After releasing her grip on his other cheek, she struck him with her opposite hand. For someone like Ivan, a tier three class holder, the pain was little more than a sting. Yet the wild look in his mother’s eyes brought back memories from the past, and he instantly quieted down. When silence finally returned, Scarlet’s frown softened, and she let go of his face.

“Good, that’s better.”

Lady Scarlet’s voice softened, though the force behind it remained. She smoothed the sleeve of her gown and let a smile return to her face.

“You think tonight is ruined because of one duel? Fools laugh, Ivan. Let them laugh, let them choke on it. In the end, we will have the last laugh. For now, wipe that look from your face and get ready to return. We can’t have a duke candidate not take part in the assembly.”

It was not a request. It was an order, and Ivan, a man who never accepted orders from anyone, lowered his eyes.

“Yes, Mother.”

“That is my son.”

She adjusted his clothes and brushed her knuckles across his cheek.

“The event is not finished. When your father arrives, his will shall be the only voice that matters in this hall. Do you understand?”

Ivan’s jaw tightened. His lips trembled. The humiliation still burned in his chest, but his mother’s words gave him something to hold on to.

“I will crush them…”

He muttered, a trace of rage still in his eyes.

“No.”

Lady Scarlet shook her head.

“Not yet. Until you wear the ducal mantle you will not touch them. Not a single one. Do you hear me?”

He swallowed and forced the answer out. Without the title of duke, he had no power over the nobles gathered there. They lived under his house’s banner, but authority would not be his until the mantle was placed on his shoulders. He understood this. 𝙍ÅꞐộ𝖇ЁṢ

“What about that bastard?”

“Not even him, not until we see what your father intends to do with him.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Behind them, his wife stood in silence, her presence as delicate as ever. She did not speak, and she did not interrupt. When Scarlet’s fiery eyes swept over her, she bowed her head, then shifted slightly toward the door. Neither Ivan nor his mother noticed or cared as she slipped away.

The moment she stepped into the hall, her demeanor changed. What seemed to be a gaze filled with compassion and warmth was replaced with vitriol. The mask of a dutiful wife slipped away quite easily. Her steps were careful and did not generate any sound at all. At the end of the corridor, a servant boy lingered in shadow, waiting as though he had anticipated her. She produced a folded letter from her sleeve and passed it into his hands. Her voice, no louder than a whisper, carried the weight of command.

“Deliver this. No one must see you.”

The servant’s eyes didn’t change; he just bowed once, clutching the letter to his chest. Without a word, he disappeared into the shadows of the manor, vanishing as though he had never been there. The duchess’s daughter-in-law exhaled softly, gathering herself before she returned, her expression shifting once more into that of a meek, loyal wife.

******

Meanwhile, back in the arena, the nobles had gathered in clusters, whispering amongst themselves like a flock of birds. Some praised Roland’s astounding display, others whispered suspiciously about his mysterious power, and more than a few began to reconsider their alliances.

Arthur rose to his feet and set his glass onto a tray that a servant carried away. By now, Roland was making his way back toward him, while Hadrian had already been removed from the arena. The rusty armor was gone, replaced by his earlier attire, which made him stand out less, though many eyes still followed him. The nobles gazed at him as if he were a prized horse, one they longed to claim for their own service.

“Sir Wayland, what a magnificent duel!”

“Quite the good show you put on, good Sir Knight. Would you be interested in having a chat?”

Some nobles called out to him as he passed, but he gave no reply. The mask concealed his face, and he moved steadily through the crowd. Their expressions soured at the cold shoulder, yet he understood their frustration was not truly directed at him. By ignoring their greetings, he made it clear that their behavior was an affront to Arthur. Their true aim was to lure him to their side, and such attempts were rarely carried out so openly.

“You had me worried for a moment there, Sir Wayland.”

“My apologies, my lord.”

Arthur’s lips curved into a measured smile as Roland joined him. With his knight at his side, it was finally Arthur’s moment to speak. Every eye turned toward him. Some of the nobles who had lingered around Ivan still remained, while others who had kept neutral now began to show interest.

“A toast to my knight, for giving us such a fine display.”

Arthur declared, lifting a tall glass of wine.

The nobles smiled and began to gather closer. Their curiosity had been piqued, and Arthur knew this was the time to reel them in.

“Hear, hear!”

“Indeed, hear, hear!”

One of the older counts echoed, his mustache trembling as he raised his cup. The nobles around him followed suit, their voices joining in reluctant but growing cheer. Crystal clinked, wine sloshed, and Arthur’s toast became the event on which the mood of the hall turned.

Mostly the younger lords stepped forward, many of them hired retainers or the children of local nobility, but for Arthur this was enough. This was his chance to gain a foothold. If he could win the favor of some of these people, the possibilities for future business would be immense. Nobles were naturally capricious, and they usually preferred to form alliances with those they liked or with those who showed promise. Arthur now needed to convince them that he was a worthwhile investment.

“Lord Arthur.”

A young man said.

“Who is this, Sir Wayland? His strength is quite… dazzling. Even a Valerian knight, famed for his aura, could not stand against him.”

Another noble chimed in, his tone conveying both awe and suspicion.

“Does he train in some secret knight order? That strike at the end, my word! It was as though the heavens themselves had lent him strength!”

Arthur chuckled as he gestured casually toward Roland, who remained still, mask hiding his features, giving him the image of a silent sentinel.

“My Sir Wayland?”

Arthur said, his tone amused.

“He is not as mysterious as you make him out to be. He is just a man of loyalty, discipline, and unyielding will, but…”

Arthur trailed off at the end

“But?”

The nobles leaned in, curious about how such a powerful knight had appeared out of nowhere. Relations between high-ranking nobles and their knights were unique, bound by loyalty, sworn oaths, and at times even bloodlines. Some nobles would offer their daughters to exceptionally strong knights to preserve those bonds.

For someone to acquire a figure like Sir Wayland without any rumor or record of his existence seemed unimaginable. Their imaginations ran wild, and the mask that concealed his face led them to believe he might be a fallen noble, perhaps from another country, who had once reached the pinnacle of knighthood but was now forced to retreat into the service of Arthur, a man in need of aid. Arthur had expected such speculation, and he chose to embrace it.

Arthur let the silence linger for just a moment, the faint curl of his lips suggesting he knew more than he was willing to say. A single pause, carefully timed, was all it took for the assembled nobles to hang upon his next word.

“But perhaps this is not a conversation we should have here in the arena, where blood was just spilled. Let us return inside and continue our discussion there.”

The nobles glanced around, some nodding in agreement while others scanned the crowd as if afraid someone might be listening. Before long they moved back indoors and gathered around Arthur, who was finally drawing attention to himself in a favorable way. They chose a more private booth, which naturally attracted even more curiosity, and soon a small circle of nobility was enthralled by Arthur’s tale of how Sir Wayland came to his abode.

“He certainly knows how to sound convincing.”

Roland stayed close behind him, occasionally flexing his hand or entertaining a few nobles with small displays of magic while Arthur continued the story of how they met. Much of it was invented, yet some details were rooted in truth. He concealed his true identity and instead claimed that he had discovered him in the forest, beaten, bruised, and without memory.

It was a tale that no one should have believed, yet it carried just enough truth to sound convincing. He admitted that his knight-to-be had once worked as a blacksmith, though he downplayed his talent for controlling runes and suggested that most of their advancements had come from people like Bernir or the Dwarven Union.

He spoke of the magic city of Albrook, a place filled with runic marvels that most could only dream of. The nobles pressed him with questions, but instead of answering, he withheld details and invited them to visit his estate if they wished to see more. In doing so, he planted a seed of curiosity in every listener, a clever move that soon made him the center of conversation throughout the gathering.

As time passed, Roland grew restless, standing idly in the corner while the nobles drank more heavily, and Arthur joined in. The conversation shifted in many directions, and before long, some of the guests began to warm to Arthur as a legitimate noble. He had managed to create the possibility of being seen as worthy, yet without the duke’s approval, most of them would likely continue to keep their distance.

‘When will this assembly even start? It’s almost nighttime.’

A lot of time had passed, but the duke had not made his appearance. The assembly could not begin without him, and some of the other nobles started to appear restless. The murmurs spread like ripples through a pond. Cups clinked as nobles began to drink less out of joy and more out of impatience. Some glanced toward the doors at the far end of the hall, ones leading to the castleʼs inner quarters where the duke resided. Others whispered about the duke’s absence, wondering if something had transpired that they were not aware of.

“Where is he?”

“The duke never keeps us waiting this long…”

“Has something happened?”

Speculation festered. Every passing minute felt heavier than the last. Even Arthur noticed that his carefully spun momentum began to waver as attention shifted back to the elephant in the room: the missing patriarch of House Valerian. Roland, however, remained still like a stone, his masked face betraying nothing.

He used this time to analyze everything and steady his mind. When things like this happened it usually did not end well, and he wanted to be prepared if matters turned against them. As he was calculating their escape route, the doors that had been shut for almost the entire day finally swung open.

The massive doors at the end of the hall groaned as they moved, their hinges straining beneath the weight of ancient oak and mystic metal. A hush spread instantly among the nobles as they realized it was finally time. Every head turned, and every gaze was now fixated on the figure who now entered the chamber. It was the Duke, the leader of house Valerian.

Alexander Valerian entered in garments of deep crimson and black, embroidered with threads of gold that shimmered faintly in the torchlight. A long cloak, made out of snow white fur, trailed behind him. At first glance, he still carried the dignity of a ruler: tall, broad-shouldered, a body that had once been the envy of warriors and nobles alike. His silvery-white hair gleamed, perfectly combed, his mustache immaculately styled, and yet…

‘Something is wrong…’

Roland listened as the nobles erupted into cheers. Relief and reverence filled their voices. Many of them were already drunk, yet once the duke appeared, they miraculously seemed to recover. Cups were raised and toasts rang out in his honor, echoing against the vaulted ceiling. However, while the hall celebrated, Roland’s sensors told him a different story.

‘There is something off. Is he wearing something to conceal his true face?’

Roland’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. His gaze traced every detail of the duke’s movements. Something about them felt wrong. This was not how a tier four class holder was supposed to carry himself. Roland had met several in his life and they all exuded a distinct aura. The duke’s presence was diminished, as though he were injured or not in full health.

His face seemed to be covered with something, as if he did not want these people to see the condition of his skin. To most, his walk appeared steady and dignified, but to Roland and perhaps a few other high level tier three class holders, the flaws were obvious.

The majority of the crowd remained blinded by the duke’s striking appearance. Even Arthur failed to notice anything unusual about his father as the man stepped forward to make an

Announcement

. The sluggishness in his movements was ignored, perhaps out of fear of speaking aloud what they saw.

Roland could not tell exactly what was happening, yet his attention was caught by secretive glances and shifting figures. Those he had already marked as potential enemies were beginning to move. Some slipped behind columns, others reached into their pockets. Something was beginning, and Roland doubted it was the duke’s will.