Gunmage-Chapter 212: In the shadow of gold

When the Grand Duke spoke, it wasn’t as though he were offering an opinion—but rather as if he were reciting a universal truth.

Theoretically, Isolde ranked far higher than him. As a member of the main family, she married into a bloodline that carried weight.

But the Grand Duke offered her no such deference. Her influence, in his eyes, was confined to the insular realm of the Von Heim household.

Beyond those walls—across the vast expanse of the Kingdom of Ophris—he was a Grand Duke.

He ruled sprawling lands, commanded deep coffers, and held immense sway. The law may have barred nobles from maintaining private militaries, but that hardly mattered.

His power was ancient, rooted, and untouchable. She, on the other hand, was a widow. A slightly exotic one, perhaps, but a widow nonetheless. With the war raging, women like her were far from rare.

That was how he looked at her—and everyone else in the room—with veiled disdain and thinly cloaked arrogance. He dismissed their arguments, their suspicions, even their grief, as the childish flailing of lesser minds.

But that deeply ingrained sense of superiority cracked—just for a moment—when he felt it.

Lance’s aura flooded the chamber like a crushing tide.

The murderous intent he had been quietly nursing now surged forward, focused with surgical precision on the Grand Duke alone.

The man’s knees buckled beneath his own weight. He fought to remain upright, clutching the antique, gold-inlaid cane at his side like a lifeline.

Yet, even then—even when the air itself turned to stone around him—there was no fear on his face.

Lance frowned.

Just then, a voice boomed across the hall.

"That’s enough, Lance."

The pressure broke instantly. Lance’s eyes narrowed, and he turned his head toward the large double doors at the far end of the room.

They had just creaked open.

A man entered.

He moved with effortless poise, a lean figure with long ears and golden hair, braided into twin cords that hung down across his shoulders.

He wore a flowing white robe of high make, its neckline plunging low enough to reveal the sculpted definition of his chest and abdomen.

Sandals clicked rhythmically against the marble floor as he walked.

Lance bowed his head and offered the custom greeting without a trace of warmth.

"Lord Siegfried. It’s an honor to be in your presence."

The elf—Siegfried—didn’t respond to the courtesy. His sharp eyes were fixed on Lance.

"What were you just planning to do?"

Lance’s tone remained flat, cold, his gaze returning to Emeric.

"I was about to mete out punishment to a traitor."

Siegfried stepped forward, his eyes glinting.

"On whose orders? What gave you the right to pass judgment?"

"With all due respect, sir,"

Lance replied evenly,

"I am a member of the 12th Branch. Our duty is to uphold law and order within the family. I don’t need permission."

"Is that a challenge?"

Siegfried’s tone was suddenly sharp, cold as frost.

The rest of the room had fallen into a silence so complete it felt almost supernatural. No one dared breathe too loudly.

Lance paused for a moment before answering.

"It is not a challenge. Nor need it be seen as one. I’m merely stating the facts."

The tension between them grew thick enough to be carved with a knife. Their locked stares exuded weight; power clashed invisibly in the space between them.

Then, at last, Siegfried exhaled slowly. He waved a hand in a languid, dismissive gesture.

"You can leave. The matter of the Third Branch will be handled by its own. You need not interfere."

"I can’t."

Lance’s response was immediate, unflinching

"He harbors ill intent toward members of the main family. This cannot be overlooked—"

"Do not test my patience, Lance."

The shift was instant. Siegfried’s voice turned savage, low and dangerous, like a blade halfway drawn from its sheath.

"Give the kid a break. He’s just doing his job."

Another voice joined in—not Siegfried’s, and certainly not Lance’s. It wasn’t any of the humans, either.

"Over here."

The voice called again, and a hand rose lazily into view.

All eyes turned toward one of the velvet-lined sofas along the side wall. A woman reclined there as if she’d been present the entire time—golden-haired, like the rest of her kind, but with a mane so voluminous it spilled all the way down to the floor.

"When did you get back?"

Siegfried asked.

"A while ago,"

She answered breezily.

"Why?"

"Why?"

She echoed playfully, then smiled.

"I heard about an interesting human kid. Thought I’d come see for myself."

"Are you talking about Lugh?"

Siegfried asked.

She gave him a sidelong glance.

"Seems you’ve already met him."

"I haven’t."

Siegfried’s expression darkened. He looked between Lance and Selaphiel.

"But I’m here today to address that issue"

Isolde nearly couldn’t hide her glare. She noticed the barely disguised relief that passed across the Grand Duke’s face the moment the unknown elf had entered.

She didn’t need confirmation to know—it was no coincidence. This had been arranged.

Siegfried raised his voice.

"Where is Lugh? Bring him to me. Now."

Isolde stepped forward, bowing slightly, her voice calm and measured.

"Lugh Von Heim is not present at the moment. He, along with others his age, has gone out to observe a duel."

Siegfried’s gaze sharpened.

She had chosen her words carefully—addressing him as Lugh Von Heim, subtly invoking his lineage and status.

"I suppose I’ll start with you, then."

Siegfried’s words were quiet, but they struck like a hammer.

Isolde froze.

He spoke again, now with visible irritation.

"Why are the guards and servants of this manor from House Caldreth? Can you explain what gave you the authority to change this?"

She steadied her breathing and answered with calm poise.

"Security concerns."

Before he could interrupt, she continued fluidly, a verbal shield raised.

"Guards are meant to protect. Having nearly lost my life to the very ones assigned that task, it should come as no surprise they’ve been replaced."

"I care not for your drivel,"

Siegfried snapped, cutting her off.

"I asked what gave you the authority to make such a change."

His voice had dropped lower now—dangerous and sharp.

This is bad.

Isolde’s thoughts churned as she realized just how precarious her situation had become.

Then, without warning, Lance stepped forward.

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