Overwhelming Firepower-Chapter 65: Velvet Masks

The morning mist had not yet lifted from Ironhold when the letter arrived.

It bore the seal of the royal capital, wax stamped with elegance. Vardon, who was in his study, opened the letter and read it quietly.

The contents were unexpected. The king had invited him to the third prince’s seventh birthday.

"My willful youngest son wishes to have a large party, and I decided to indulge him."

That was the reason written, but Vardon knew the king wouldn’t bother doing such a thing, especially since it wasn’t even a coming-of-age party.

"I have also heard word of your eldest son’s recovery and rising promise. I would like to meet him, and since he’s also the same age as my second daughter, I think they would have a good conversation."

Obviously, the king wants to see his son, as the rumors of the dragon slaying were spreading far and wide. Still, since the king did not state it outright, that means he either doesn’t believe it to be true or is waiting for confirmation.

"There are also rumors that you have created a weapon that makes a thunderous sound. If you can, could you bring that as well? I am quite intrigued and wish to see it in person. I would also like to meet the person who created the weapon."

Reading this part made Vardon sigh.

’I already expected this to happen, well, it was just a matter of time...’

"We await the arrival of the sturdy shield of Norvaegard."

Vardon set the letter down atop his desk with deliberate care, as if afraid it might explode if mishandled.

’I didn’t want to see it, but the king cannot be ignored... I guess I need to once again sit and watch another song and dance from those who call themselves nobles, but act more like thespians.’

And so, the capital beckoned, velvet masks, silver tongues, and daggers in hand. Vardon looked out the window, and he looked in the direction of Lucen’s personal training ground, where you could hear the occasional sound of thunder and explosions.

’I wonder how my wolf pup will react to those foxes.’

As he thought that, Vardon reached for his pen and parchment.A dutiful subject of Norvaegard, how could he possibly refuse his king’s gracious summons? With a long exhale, Vardon dipped his quill in ink and began to write. Duty, once more, called.

***

In an arena-like field drenched in morning light, a young woman with crimson hair moved with deadly grace.

Elyra Runescar, sword in hand, was battling several goblins captured by her father’s knights.

At just thirteen, she was already a Second Mantle aura user, nearing her third mantle. Right now, she was not using any aura and was defeating the goblins purely through her skill with the sword.

Her icy blue eyes locked onto each goblin, her blade weaving through them like a solitary dancer on a bloodstained stage.

She slipped past their attacks with ease, each step a measured rhythm, each strike a note in her silent melody of death.

While she was in the midst of her dance of death and blood, her father, Duke Kaelvar Runescar, arrived with a letter in hand.

"My lovely daughter, it seems that we have been invited to the third prince’s birthday celebration."

Elyra stabbed the final goblin and turned, expression impassive as she wiped her blade clean.

"Do I need to attend this celebration?"

Kaelvar grinned, waving the letter like a flag. "It wouldn’t make sense not to bring my child to a child’s birthday celebration."

She blinked at him. "That is hardly a reason."

"I also heard my dear friend, Vardon, is going, and with him his son, Lucen. Don’t you think playing with Lucen Thornehart is better than going against the squires and the small goblins?"

Kaelvar chuckled, eyes gleaming. "Who knows if the wolf’s cub has some fangs, maybe even I would like to have a spar."

"... Lucen Thornehart..." Elyra whispered the name under her breath. "As you wish, Father. I will attend this celebration with you."

"Hehe, that’s my girl. I hope that some fun guys come to the party. I haven’t had a proper fight in ages."

Kaelvar’s powerful aura burst forth. Elyra, who was already used to such a display from her father, sighed.

***

In another part of Norvaegarad, in the largest Temple of Thalara, the Goddess of Justice and Judgment, within the kingdom, a young man was praying.

This was Evander Judicar, the fifteen-year-old son of Duke Elandor Judicar, the trustworthy Judge of Norvaegard.

Evander Judicar knelt in quiet prayer beneath the statue of Thalara, the Goddess of Justice. Sunlight filtered through stained glass, casting a solemn glow over his poised figure.

Tall and composed, Evander carried himself with a calm, noble bearing. His golden-blond hair was neatly swept back, and his emerald green eyes held the sharp, unblinking clarity of someone who weighed every word and action. There was no boyish mischief in his face, only quiet thoughtfulness and purpose.

He wore a deep blue robe trimmed in silver over a tailored black tunic, the sigil of balanced scales pinned at his chest. A heavy-looking mace hung at his hip, not for battle, but for duty.

Though young, there was a gravity to Evander’s presence, as if he embodied judgment itself. As he was praying, he heard his Father’s steps approaching.

"Sorry to disturb you, my son, in your prayer, but a letter has arrived from the king himself."

Duke Elandor Judicar stood tall with an imposing, statuesque presence, like a pillar carved from stone. His silver-streaked blond hair was tied neatly behind his head, and his chiseled features were always set in a calm, unreadable expression.

Clad in austere black-and-blue robes embroidered with the sigil of the scales, his every step echoed with authority. His piercing green eyes, darker than his son’s, carried the weight of countless verdicts, firm, unwavering, and ever watchful.

"It seems that many, if not all, nobles will be attending this celebration of the Third Prince. We, as Judicar, need to uphold the law of the kingdom and need to keep a watchful eye on those who hold power. We would need to keep a close eye on the troublemakers, especially Duke Kaelvar Runescar. That man who only knows how to swing a sword, and is always getting into trouble."

Hearing his Father’s words, Evander shrugged his shoulders and smiled lightly as he was already used to his Father going on and on about his irritation with Duke Kaelvar’s carefree personality.

***

The final Duke house was the household of Aeremont. This household is closely tied to various mage towers. This house has always produced magical geniuses, and each head of the family becomes the Tower Master of whatever Mage Tower they find fitting to their magical talent.

The current head of Aeromont is Duchess Serephina Aeromont, the Tower Master of the Red Tower.

This household has the largest library in the entirety of the kingdom of Norvaegard. As they value knowledge above all else. They are also the keeper of Norvaegard’s history and its secrets.

In the library, reading a book, is the only child, her twelve-year-old daughter, Mireya Aeromont.

She sat beneath the towering shelves, a tome resting across her lap. Her violet hair, fine and silken, cascaded past her shoulders like ink kissed by moonlight.

Her skin was porcelain-pale from days spent within the candlelit halls of the Aeremont library, and her eyes, deep, luminous violet, mirrored the hues of ancient mana crystals, calm yet quietly intense.

She was petite for her age, almost fragile in appearance, yet carried herself with the composed grace of someone far older.

Clad in elegant robes of crimson and charcoal, lined with runic embroidery, she looked less like a child and more like a young sage.

As she was reading, her mother entered the library, breaking the silence she so enjoyed.

Duchess Seraphina Aeromont entered with the quiet poise of a woman used to being obeyed, her every step a blend of elegance and authority. Her long, glossy, dark purple hair, streaked with hints of silver mana threads, flowed like silk behind her, tied loosely at the end with a band inscribed in arcane runes.

Her skin was flawless and fair, untouched by age, maintained through both powerful magic and disciplined care. High cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and piercing amethyst eyes that seemed to peer straight into the soul gave her a beauty that was mature, refined, and undeniably captivating.

Clad in a flowing robe of deep crimson and black, trimmed in gold and enchanted silk, she exuded the kind of confidence that came from being both a duchess and the Tower Master of the Red Tower. Her every gesture radiated intelligence, and her presence alone could hush a room.

Though no longer in her youthful prime, Seraphina was breathtaking in a way that transcended time, a woman shaped by knowledge, power, and will. A flame that never dimmed, only burned with more control.

"Child, we and every other noble house have been summoned by the king to the Capital to celebrate his youngest son’s birthday."

Mireya closed the book in her hand.

"A celebration with all nobles attending?... That sounds rather intriguing. I wonder if it would be like what’s written in the books. Filled with deception, and fake smiling faces, an intellectual game with words."

Hearing her daughter’s words, Seraphina shook her head.

"Don’t expect too much, my child. Though there’s indeed deception about it, it isn’t as fun as you make it sound. Everybody wishes to make a move, but no one ever does in the end. Only checking one another and making some minor inconveniences to one another."

"Oh, well, that is still quite interesting as well." Mireya shrugged her shoulders. It was then that Serephina suddenly clapped her hands, remembering something.

"Right, there might be something interesting at this party. I heard that Lucen Thornehart, the rumored creator of our new favorite game, Territory War, will be attending."

Mireya tilted her head slightly, looking a bit cute.

"Lucen Thornehart... The rumored Dragon Slayer from the bard’s songs. Also, the one said to have created the game, Territory War. Now that is interesting."

***

All the nobles in the Kingdom of Norvaegard had received the king’s letter, and all were making their own preparations.

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