Gunmage-Chapter 249: Wolves in Silk

Lugh had barely taken a single step forward when he was abruptly attacked.

It was a sneak assault—sudden, savage, and launched with an extraordinary amount of force behind it. One moment he was walking, and in the very next, time seemed to freeze for him.

Everything slowed to a crawl as his thoughts surged forward at the speed of light.

This was bad.

Very bad.

This wasn’t a contingency he had accounted for.

He had anticipated etiquette, formal decorum, the cold but predictable maneuverings of the elite.

He had expected them to be shackled by rules and tradition, bound by their titles and obligations.

Never—not in his most paranoid moments—had he imagined a Prince would resort to such a cowardly, underhanded move.

It was beneath royalty.

It was beneath dignity.

And yet here it was: Prince Wittman, attacking without warning.

Lugh already knew Wittman’s caution bordered dangerously on cowardice, but this? This was taking things far beyond the threshold of acceptable behavior.

His mind raced. He considered his options.

Option one: raise a magical shield.

It would protect him. He’d avoid the damage entirely. But that would expose him.

There was no way to hide it—if he summoned a barrier, he would be recognized instantly as the original Lugh. The real one. The true article.

The Prince could then easily spin the situation in his favor—he’d simply backpedal, claim the attack had been a test, a jest, or some other convenient pile of noble-born bullshit.

And for all the threats he had been throwing out, Lugh knew one thing for certain:

He couldn’t kill the Prince.

Not yet.

Option two: endure the attack.

Let it hit. Let it land. Grit his teeth and bear it.

That option carried a high risk of failure—a very high risk. The kind of risk that involved death.

The attack carried a terrifying weight, overbearing in both aura and intent. Lugh could sense it bearing down on him like a falling star.

If he resisted with nothing but the clothes on his back and sheer grit, there was no guarantee he’d walk away from it.

Best case scenario? He’d be grievously injured and his healing magic would activate on reflex, blowing his cover anyway—just with an added side of agonizing pain.

And yet... it was still the more adaptive option.

The option that allowed for improvisation. The option that left some margin for salvaging the plan.

He let out a soft, resigned sigh.

He didn’t choose pain because he liked it.

He chose it because it was the only path that left room for success.

As for whether that success would arrive... he didn’t know. He simply tossed the problem into the hands of fate, and hoped it didn’t fumble.

Lugh froze, still as a deer caught in headlights. He didn’t react in time.

The Prince’s grin widened into something twisted and triumphant—

—and then it happened.

Figures burst in front of him, interposing themselves between Lugh and the impending blast. A series of magic barriers sprung to life, layered and interwoven.

The attack struck.

An eruption of incandescent force rippled through the hall, exploding outward in a wave of searing light.

The shockwave left scorched trails in the marble floor and seared the retinas of onlookers. Lugh, along with most of the stunned guests, had to squint or look away entirely.

But even through the glare, he saw them.

Flaxen hair. Dark hair. Selaphiel? And Zhou, was it? Alongside several feminine figures he didn’t immediately recognize. His mind pieced it together.

He grinned—internally, quietly.

They had been watching.

Then, as the light dimmed and the haze dispersed, he got a clearer look at the ones shielding him.

It wasn’t Selaphiel. Or at least, not the Selaphiel he had expected.

Standing before him, forming a protective wall, were his oldest stepsister and a number of her cousins. Among them, shockingly, was Rochelle.

Even she had chosen to stand with him.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?!"

Mirelle’s voice rang out, venomous with fury. She glared at the Prince, her voice biting and sharp enough to slice steel.

They may have had mixed feelings about Lugh—some warm, many not—but none of them were going to stand idly by while a member of the Von Heim family was assaulted in public.

Regardless of past grudges, this crossed a line. This was not just a betrayal of etiquette, it was an open insult to their bloodline. A slap across their collective face.

It was the gravest form of disrespect.

Rochelle turned toward Lugh, her expression pinched in equal parts disbelief and irritation.

"And you!"

She snapped, voice cracking like a whip.

"Why the hell haven’t you kicked their asses already?"

Lugh blinked, caught off guard. His lips twitched. A faint smile curled at the edges, brief and fleeting. Then it vanished.

He spoke in a voice so low, only those nearest could hear.

"Lugh Von Heim is dead. The person standing before you is a paid actor."

They stared. Eyes widened briefly, then narrowed with dawning recognition.

They didn’t buy the act. ƒгeewёbnovel.com

They couldn’t.

Most of the guests in the hall hadn’t seen him use magic but that wasn’t the case for his cousins. Not by a long shot. Earlier that morning, he’d trounced Marcus in a duel.

He’d sent shivers down their spines during the Cross Elf incident, when Lyra and that strange woman had to bundle him away.

If he was saying this—if he was playing pretend—it could only mean one thing: there was a deeper game afoot.

And Selaphiel, given that she had arranged this entire trip and publicly announced their arrival to the world, was almost certainly involved.

Sela sighed.

The scheming, the power plays, the endless manipulation—it was exhausting. And her way of dealing with it?

Adding more schemes.

She cast a quick glance at the Prince, still standing tall and smirking among his silent supporters.

Her gaze swept across the room, landing on the rest of the guests—those who had done nothing. Those who had simply stood and watched.

Her eyes narrowed at a group, mostly male, who remained on the sidelines.

"And you all just stood there and watched—like a bunch of ostriches—while a dishonorable act was committed in broad daylight,"

She hissed.

"You shame me, Eric. I thought better of you."

Her eyes locked onto the 25-year-old lounging at the banquet table, wine glass in hand. He froze—stunned—then scowled, suddenly furious.

The anger wasn’t aimed at Selaphiel.

It was aimed squarely at the Prince.

"Gods damn it!"

He spat, hurling his wine glass to the marble floor. It shattered.

"Your Highness, you’ve gone too far!"

His voice thundered with righteous fury—though most of the righteousness was performative. The fury, however, was very real.

He had invested years of time, coin, and charm attempting to court a Von Heim daughter. To have it all undone by some second-rate prince’s tantrum?

Unacceptable.

Other suitors of Selaphiel, watching the situation spiral, erupted in matching outrage, unwilling to make the same mistake as Eric.

One after another, young nobles began raising their voices, turning the gathering into a chaotic maelstrom of posturing and blame.

The hall grew loud.

Hostile.

Divided.

A brawl was imminent.

Mirelle turned to glance at her older sister, surprise flickering in her eyes—followed by admiration.

Selaphiel hadn’t just defended Lugh.

She had weaponized the entire room.

And it wasn’t just her suitors now. The ones chasing after Mirelle, the countryside beauty Rochelle, and every eligible Von Heim girl present were all stirred into a frenzy.

The dishonor of the Prince’s sneak attack?

A minor detail.

What truly mattered to these wolves in silk was that their carefully constructed courtships were now at risk of collapse.

The room had split in two.

And war was coming.

R𝑒ad lat𝒆st chapt𝒆rs at f(r)eew𝒆bnov𝒆l.com Only