Gunmage-Chapter 213: By another’s authority

Lance stepped forward, but he didn’t say or do anything. His mere presence was enough—a silent promise of assurance to Isolde.

Though he had never once spoken the words aloud, she knew, instinctively, that he was prepared to protect her life if things went awry, no matter the cost.

What she didn’t know, however, was that his protection had been arranged entirely by Selaphiel.

She spoke.

"Nothing gave me the authority."

Siegfried frowned, his body surging faintly with mana. A quiet tension shimmered in the air.

Lance mirrored him, mana rising to meet the moment, though his stance betrayed a lack of the same confidence. He wasn’t Siegfried, and he knew it.

Before the situation could teeter into outright conflict, Isolde continued, her voice smooth but edged.

"But someone did."

Siegfried blinked.

"Huh?"

The elf stopped, his posture stiffening slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing in thought. He studied her, oddly. That phrasing. That subtle shift. It bothered him.

He had asked what gave her the authority, not who. Her response, while technically valid, danced around his question like a shadow. It was correct, yes—but something in him knew the misdirection was deliberate.

He paused. The tension didn’t fade.

"...Who is it?"

He asked finally, flatly. There was no fanfare in his voice—just a growing edge of irritation, the slight grinding of pride against diplomacy.

Elsewhere, the mysterious elf woman—who had appeared at some point, making her presence known yet pointedly avoiding involvement in the confrontation—lounged on a velvet sofa with an expression of lazy amusement.

Reclined, one hand propped beneath her chin, she looked as though she were watching a stage play rather than a volatile power struggle.

All she needed now was a platter of grapes, perhaps a biscuit tin, or a goblet of rich red wine.

While her thoughts churned and her eyes glinted with mischief, Isolde finally answered Siegfried’s question.

"I wouldn’t have done all this if I weren’t endorsed by Lady Selaphiel."

Selaphiel.

The name hit the room like a thunderclap muffled beneath fine silk—silent but devastating. Everyone present felt it in their bones.

Siegfried inhaled sharply, the sound controlled, then exhaled with a long sigh of exasperation.

He raised a hand behind his head in a casual gesture, though the motion did little to hide the frown that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"That troublemaker,"

He muttered to himself, though loud enough for the entire room to hear.

Lance let out the faintest of sighs, a subtle exhalation of relief barely noticeable unless one was already watching him.

The woman on the velvet sofa finally spoke.

"So, what’ll you do now, Siegfried?"

His eyes flicked toward her, narrowing slightly.

"What do you mean?"

"Are you going to tuck tail and run just because Selaphiel’s name was mentioned? Are you scared?"

Isolde flinched inwardly, glancing at the lounging woman with trepidation blooming in her chest. She had sensed it earlier—this woman was an instigator. A fire-stirrer.

And if Siegfried took those words to heart...

Fortunately, the worst did not come to pass. The elf merely brushed the comment off like one would a fleck of dust.

"You’ll have to do better than that to rile me up."

He straightened slightly.

"Unlike us, Selaphiel has always had a deeper understanding—and a stronger connection—to the humans in our family. We should respect her decisions. She’s more experienced in this field."

Then, a pause.

"As for whether I’m afraid of Selaphiel... you don’t even believe that yourself."

With that, he turned to leave. His movements were fluid, deliberate, a controlled retreat rather than a concession. He added, as he reached the door, without looking back:

"Lance. The members of my Third Branch must not be touched. There will be hell to pay if they are."

He stopped, only slightly, glancing over his shoulder.

"If you disagree with this decision, wait for Selaphiel to come back. Then the two of you can confront me together. I’ll be waiting."

Naturally, he knew she wasn’t present in the manor. If she had been, she would have already intervened the moment chaos erupted.

Just before stepping out, his gaze drifted briefly to Isolde. She stiffened under it.

"Send someone to inform me when Lugh Von Heim gets back. That’s an issue we have to deal with."

"Ooh, me too!"

Exclaimed the lounging elf, her voice chipper.

Then, she vanished from the sofa as if she had never existed. Not a whisper of presence remained behind—no scent, no warmth. Just the memory of mischief.

Once they were both gone, Lance allowed himself a real sigh—long, slow, weary.

Isolde walked up to him, voice hushed.

"Who were those people?"

He glanced at her, pausing before answering simply,

"I’ll tell you later."

Then his eyes swept the room, to the crowd of Von Heim nobles still gathered and watching. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

He no longer held the initial awe he had carried when he first arrived before them. That spark had dimmed. His authority had been infringed, questioned, paraded.

That was equivalent to humiliation in his eyes. And judging by the barely restrained smug grin on Grand Duke Emeric’s face, that humiliation had not gone unnoticed.

Lance clenched his fists.

Just you wait.

The thought burned in his mind.

"You are all dismissed."

His voice cut through the murmurs, brooking no argument. He turned on his heel and marched away, boots thudding softly across the polished floor.

Isolde followed just as swiftly. She didn’t even bother to move the trolley with the head. With a snap of her fingers, shadows surged from behind pillars and doorways.

Dressed in plain, inconspicuous garments, her servants wordlessly cleared the area, pushing the cart and vanishing with practiced precision.

She dared not linger. If she did, she feared her hatred for these nobles—their mockery, their arrogance, their insufferable entitlement—would erupt in a venomous outburst she wouldn’t be able to take back.

...

In a massive, solemn graveyard where silence reigned eternal, there stood a resplendent gothic mansion.

A castle in all but name, with towering spires and high-arched windows of glass, it loomed above the landscape like a specter of forgotten times.

The walls were hewn from cold white and ashen stone, matching Pyrellis’ pristine aesthetic, yet exuding an eerie, almost dreadful presence.

The massive grated gates at the manor’s entrance looked less like doors and more like a maw—open, waiting, threatening.

The structure itself felt like a living, breathing entity.

The Cross family manor.

Despite its lifeless exterior, today, the halls within pulsed with activity. Servants bustled through corridors, their steps quickened and eyes alert.

The still, reverent atmosphere that had lingered through decades was shattered by the sudden urgency. Orders were being barked. Supplies carried. Silver polished. Every surface inspected, every speck of dust hunted like prey.

For today, they were to receive guests. A great many of them.

And they had almost no time to prepare.

It had begun at five in the morning. A letter had arrived, bearing the unmistakable seal of the Von Heim family.

Neatly folded, waxed, and wrapped with a ribbon of fine blue silk, it had been handed directly into the hands of the Cross family patriarch.

Its message? Both simple and devastating.

The Von Heims were interested in the duel.

They would attend.

There had been no request. No polite query. No warning.

As was customary with all official Von Heim correspondence, the letter was dressed in elaborate language and veiled pleasantries. Yet its meaning was clear as day:

We are coming. Prepare accordingly.

This style of conduct infuriated Soren Cross, the head of the household. But there was nothing he could do.

Absolutely nothing. Because—

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