Gunmage-Chapter 246: Boiling water, boiling blood

Between all the dirt, blood, and dust, Lyra, despite already having bathed once, found herself heading back again.

Her body felt grimy, her skin uncomfortable beneath the layers of sweat and grime, and her hair—gods, her hair—was a knotted mess of dust and dried blood.

The thought of untangling it made her groan aloud. There were guests waiting downstairs, important ones, and showing up in her current state would be disgraceful.

But the effort it would take to return to a presentable form made her shoulders sag with dread.

She stepped into the bath chamber—a massive, domed structure separate from her main room, more like a private indoor spring than a mere bathhouse.

Steam hung thick in the air, rolling off the wide surface of constantly replenished hot water. The scent of lavender and juniper clung to the humidity, calming yet heavy.

And then she saw someone else already there.

A lone figure soaked up to the shoulders at the far end of the bath, the surface rippling faintly around her still form.

Xhi.

The priestess.

Lyra froze mid-step.

"You’re here?!"

She blurted, her voice laced with disbelief and an edge of hostility.

"What are you doing here?!"

Xhi turned her head lazily, as if the question were an inconvenience.

"What else?"

She said, tone calm and detached.

"I’m taking a bath."

The answer, delivered with such nonchalance, only made the moment more absurd.

"But what—huh?"

Lyra sputtered, caught off guard. Her mouth opened again but no words came out.

This was the same person she’d fought mere hours ago. Not a spar. Not a friendly scuffle. A real clash, one where Lyra had been fighting to injure—perhaps even kill—her opponent.

Yet Xhi had remained terrifyingly calm the entire time, as though choreographing the battle for some unseen audience.

The only time her demeanor had shifted had been when the elves arrived. Up until then, Lyra was certain not even a crease had formed on the pristine nightgown the priestess had worn.

Now, she sat comfortably in the steaming water, unbothered by Lyra’s presence, her long hair trailing like ink across the surface.

After fumbling for words, Lyra finally asked,

"Why did you do all that?"

Xhi said nothing at first. Only the gentle bubbling of the water broke the silence between them. Then, after a few long moments:

"It was necessary."

"Necessary?!"

Lyra snapped, heat rising in her chest again.

"Yes."

Xhi’s answer was simple. Factual. Unapologetic.

"Leaving him in that kind of state without intervention would lead to serious danger—for him and for those around him."

Lyra’s anger ebbed, replaced slowly by a budding confusion. Her brows furrowed.

"Wait... you’re telling me everything you did... was for his sake?"

Xhi tilted her head slightly, catching Lyra in the corner of her eye.

"Of course not,"

She replied.

"I have my own agenda."

The bluntness of the admission stunned Lyra into silence.

No hesitation. No attempt at denial. Just... yes, I did it. So what?

"Of course"

Lyra burst into fake laughter

"After all,"

She pressed, her tone steady until the final spike,

"you tried to get him to kill his stepmother!"

Xhi exhaled, as if bored.

"I didn’t try to get him to kill anyone."

"But—"

"I only asked him why she’s still alive."

"...Isn’t that the same thing?"

"No, it’s not,"

Xhi said firmly.

"When he can answer that question, his condition will stabilize even further."

"Ah?"

Lyra blinked, now completely lost.

Xhi sighed audibly, her exasperation unmistakable.

"Lyra, you ought to study some more. Read a book, any book."

...

Elsewhere—

"Lugh Von Heim. I challenge you to a duel."

Lugh paused the instant he heard the words.

They rang out clearly, resonating across the grand hall with the weight of a formal declaration.

It was a voice laced not with camaraderie or mutual respect, but with veiled scorn.

Getting challenged to a duel by a prince was never a good thing—especially not when the challenge stemmed from irritation rather than tradition.

But that wasn’t what unsettled Lugh this time.

Around him, murmurs erupted like wildfire. Mirelle facepalmed loudly.

"Of course this would happen..."

The Von Heims who had accompanied Lugh to the Cross Manor had long since dispersed and mingled with the crowd.

It was an effortless task—being members of one of the most ancient and prestigious houses meant doors opened before they knocked.

Nobles practically fell over themselves to make a good impression.

Even Lirienne, usually a solitary presence, was surrounded by peers—some of whom she seemed to know well.

Aveline had corralled a subset of younger nobles into an obedient colony, lording over them like a smug tyrant. They sat prim and proper at one edge of the hall, a chess game half-finished between them.

Now, however, every eye was trained on the confrontation unfolding in the center.

Prince Wittmann had issued a challenge. Lugh’s name had been called out for all to hear. And all the Von Heims were uneasy.

In another corner of the sprawling hall, Rochelle—who Mirelle had introduced to her peers and who had endured questions like, "What’s your cousin Lugh like?" and "What are his hobbies?"—frowned when she heard Wittmann’s voice.

Reactions varied wildly. Most of the attendees were young nobles—freshly arrived in Pyrellis for the Green Towers selection or similar opportunities.

Some hadn’t even gotten the chance to meet Lugh at the ball. To them, a duel was thrilling. Expected. Natural even.

But for it to be Prince Wittmann issuing the challenge?

That was the true shock.

In the eye of this growing storm, Lugh’s mind spun rapidly.

He’d already concluded that Victor Aelhurst wasn’t the only person sent to test him. Others would follow. Others already had. And now, it seemed, he’d found another one.

He turned back toward the prince, dipping into a mock bow, tone perfectly measured.

"Thanks for the invitation,"

He said.

"But I respectfully decline."

Gasps rose from the crowd.

His cousins looked stunned. What kind of opportunity was this? Why decline a chance to cement his status publicly?

Wittmann’s voice rose again, more confident now.

"Oh? Running away, are you? You provoke me and then retreat with your tail between your legs? Isn’t that a bit too shameless?"

Lugh regarded him in silence, eyes calm, tone flat.

"Putting aside the question of who is more shameless—between a twenty-five-year-old challenging a fifteen-year-old—I declined for one reason only."

"Oh?"

The prince mocked.

"And what might that be?"

"Well, that’s easy,"

Lugh replied.

"I’m not good at fighting."

A hush fell over the room. Expressions twisted in confusion. Then—

"I am, however, very good at killing."

The air went cold. Words were swallowed.

Someone audibly gulped.

Lugh’s tone darkened, his voice dropping low and slow like the press of a blade.

"Do you understand now, Mr. Valtér?"

He took a deliberate step forward, eyes fixed on the prince.

"If I were to duel you—"

He leaned in ever so slightly, voice barely above a whisper.

"Then one of us would surely die."

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