Gunmage-Chapter 209: Collateral nobility

In the grand capital estate of the Von Heim family, tension hung in the air like a blade suspended by silk.

The manor, an opulent maze of pristine white halls and high-vaulted ceilings, buzzed with nervous energy. Beneath its polished grandeur, unease simmered.

Dozens of members from the extended Von Heim family—nobles from the branch houses, minor lords and ladies, dignitaries with vested interests—had been summoned here.

Not just by Isolde herself, but with the authority of elven endorsement at her back.

This would be the first time Isolde showed her face to many of them since the incident. And they were ready—ready to unleash the storm brewing behind closed doors.

To them, Isolde was an outsider. She had not been born of Von Heim blood but had married into it from House Caldreth, a family infamous for their peculiarities and fearsome reputation.

Her close and oddly cordial relationship with Selaphiel, the elven matriach and a power in her own right, only deepened their suspicions.

Many among the branch families felt threatened, their influence slipping through their fingers like grains of sand.

Their fears had only grown when Isolde did the unthinkable—breaking a tradition older than the estate itself.

She had successfully removed, without warning or explanation, the majority of servants and guards assigned by the third branch, the branch entrusted with internal security.

These personnel were not just staff; they were the eyes and ears of the house, protectors of the Von Heim legacy and assets. And in their place, Isolde had brought in people from House Caldreth.

Selaphiel hadn’t said a word in protest. That silence was louder than any reprimand.

This, however, was just the latest in a chain of infractions. The incident after the ball—the mysterious explosion that rocked part of the estate—had led to a lockdown.

No one was allowed to leave. While some could understand the necessity for investigation, it was the manner of execution that drew ire.

Isolde hadn’t deigned to offer explanations. Instead, she used threats and armed patrols, treating nobles as if they were common thugs.

There was no courtesy, no dialogue—only commands and consequences.

Naturally, resentment had festered.

Their grievances had built up day by day.

Protests were met with indifference. Their letters went unanswered. In a show of blatant disrespect, Isolde hadn’t even rejected them in person—she sent servants to do it. And not just any servants—Caldreth ones.

It was hard to ignore the change in atmosphere. The Caldreth staff moved like shadows through the halls, silent and unreadable. Everyone knew the rumors: House Caldreth specialized in assassination and espionage.

They were unpredictable, emotionally unbound by the norms of nobility, and terrifyingly precise.

Meals were eaten in silence. Beds remained untouched through restless nights. Even a casual cough could be interpreted as a warning, a sign.

Under this oppressive cloud, the noble guests could only grit their teeth and endure.

Escape hadn’t even crossed their minds—any attempt to flee would mark them as traitors or, worse, accomplices in the explosion. That would be a true tragedy.

Then, amid this storm of paranoia and frustration, came the summons.

A formal letter arrived in each room. Simple. Unadorned. Yet sealed with the personal sigil of Selaphiel—the elf whose authority none could ignore.

Attendance was not optional. A gathering would take place in one of the estate’s large formal halls, and Isolde would be present in person.

Tension crackled like lightning.

One by one, they arrived—lords and ladies of the Von Heim lineage, dressed in ceremonial garb or whatever they could manage under the circumstances.

The hall was vast and richly decorated, lined with thick carpets and gold-trimmed furniture.

Elegant sofas had been arranged to accommodate them all, yet most remained standing, pacing or tapping their feet in clear irritation.

The air was thick with restrained fury.

The potted plants, ever-present in the Von Heim estate as a symbol of cultivated legacy, did nothing to ease the collective agitation.

If anything, their vibrant greens now seemed mocking, out of place in a room brimming with political venom.

Then she entered.

Isolde pushed a food cart—an ordinary-looking trolley, the kind used by kitchen staff—covered with a heavy tarp.

The wheels squeaked faintly against the floor as she moved, the sound quiet but sharp in the tense silence. She walked slowly, deliberately, her posture graceful, her expression unreadable.

She brought the cart to a halt at the front of the room, facing the gathering storm.

"Thank you all for coming,"

She began, her tone calm.

"Isolde, what is the meaning of this?"

A voice snapped instantly from the crowd.

"How long are you going to keep us confined, you wretch!"

Another spat, loud and venomous.

Isolde turned her gaze toward the speaker, holding it for a moment with a flat, unchanging expression. Then, with a slight bow of her head, she answered.

"I’m sorry for the discomfort and disrespect you might have faced during these past few days.

However, you must understand that this is a turbulent situation, and protocols must be put in place to prevent matters from spiraling further out of control."

Silence fell.

That wasn’t what they had expected. They had expected defiance, arrogance—a tyrant who wouldn’t deign to justify herself.

Instead, she offered an apology, even if it felt mechanical. A flicker of uncertainty rippled through the crowd.

The truth was, Isolde didn’t want to apologize. She had to. The Von Heim family was vast, with a hierarchy that extended beyond mere bloodlines.

Many of the attendees here were not direct descendants of the main family but held positions of influence in the branch houses—powerful, strategic positions.

When the first male child of the main family succeeded as heir, his siblings were customarily appointed to lead various branches.

It was how the family maintained its dominance across regions and interests.

These people were the roots of the Von Heim tree. They needed to be shown deference—whether or not it was genuine. Politics wasn’t about truth; it was about presentation. And Isolde was well-versed in that language.

So long as she extended the proper courtesies, no one could blame her for what came next—if they continued to act against her interests, that would be on them.

"I still—"

The same noble tried again, emboldened.

"That’s enough,"

Came a sharp voice from the side.

It was Lord Cedric, the acting patriarch. His scowl carried weight, and the would-be protester fell silent.

"Why have you gathered us here?"

Asked another voice—this one measured, authoritative. Lord Emeric, the Grand Duke.

Though technically still part of a branch, his official standing was higher than nearly everyone present.

Isolde turned her eyes toward him, emotion flickering beneath her carefully neutral face.

Then, wordlessly, she stepped aside and gestured toward a closed side door.

"He has an announcement to make,"

She said dryly.

The door creaked open.

Into the hall marched an elf—tall, perhaps 5’11, with flaxen hair tied into a traditional bun. His steps were precise, and his cold gaze swept across the crowd like a blade slicing through fog.

Without acknowledging them further, he approached the cart.

He yanked the tarp aside with no hesitation.

Beneath it lay the severed head of a man.

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