CHAPTER 212: FALL OF VALTAIR [8]

Alaric stepped back into the main hall. The noise and light washing over him immediately. Music still playing. Conversations flowing. Wine still being poured.

Like nothing had happened.

He adjusted his mask. Scanned the crowd.

[Baron Tormund - Grey Mask]

There. Near the wine tables. Talking with two merchants.

Alaric moved that direction. He approached from the side. Caught the tail end of their conversation about shipping delays.

"Excuse me." His voice carried polite interest. "I couldn’t help overhearing. You’re experiencing route disruptions as well?"

The grey-masked baron turned. Assessed him briefly. "You too?"

"Unfortunately. Lost major shipments last week. All through the northern routes." Alaric shook his head. "I thought it was isolated. But if others are having similar issues..."

"It’s systematic." One of the other merchants said. "Someone’s squeezing the routes. Making it impossible to operate profitably."

"Any idea who?"

The baron’s jaw tightened. "Suspicions. But nothing concrete."

Alaric nodded slowly. Understanding. "Well. I’m looking to establish alternative arrangements. If you’re interested in coordinating, pooling resources to bypass whoever’s causing problems, I’d be open to discussion."

The baron’s expression shifted. Interest flickering. "That’s... worth exploring."

"Good." Alaric produced a card. "Reach out if you want to talk specifics."

The baron took it. Studied it briefly. Nodded.

Alaric moved on before the conversation could deepen. Seeds planted. Nothing more needed now.

He circulated. Found another target.

[Merchant Lord Brennan - Silver and Blue Mask]

Alaric positioned himself nearby. Let Brennan overhear him talking with someone else about favorable terms. New opportunities. Better rates.

Brennan’s interest piqued. He inserted himself into the conversation naturally.

Alaric engaged. Professional. Helpful. Mentioned connections in regions Brennan was trying to break into.

Twenty minutes passed.

Then—

He turned. Scanned the crowd again.

Across the hall. Near one of the columned alcoves.

Vivienne stood close to a purple-masked man.

Too close.

[Count Carl - Purple Mask]

Valtair’s strongest political ally. The one with connections to half the region’s nobility.

Vivienne laughed at something Carl said. Her hand rested on his arm. Then she pressed closer. Her body language shifting from friendly to... something else.

Carl’s hand moved to her waist. Possessively.

They talked. Vivienne smiling. Playing her part perfectly.

Then Carl leaned in.

His lips met hers.

Not a polite kiss. Not friendly.

But deep. His hand tightening on her waist as she responded.

Alaric’s expression stayed neutral behind his mask.

Perfect.

He turned. Scanned the room with purpose now.

There.

[Count Casten Valtair - Red and Gold Mask]

Standing near the far wall. Talking with two others. His posture confident. Commanding even in conversation.

Alaric started moving. Wove through the crowd.

"Good evening, my lord. Fine gathering tonight," he greeted smoothly as the other nobles dispersed.

The Count’s gaze swept over him, assessing. "And who might you be?"

Alaric straightened, offering a light bow. "A humble merchant, my lord. You may call me Mr. Black."

The Count’s lips twitched. "Then you may call me Goldy Red."

What the hell kind of name is that? Alaric thought, keeping his expression polite.

Maintaining his businesslike composure, he said.

"I heard there’ve been some issues with shipments lately. I’ve taken some loses myself. Though I’d first thought my men might have misled me to save the face."

The Count sighed, lowering his voice.

"Something is going..."

As they spoke, Alaric let his gaze drift, deliberately.

He froze just long enough for it to be noticeable, then quickly looked away.

Valtair caught the motion. "What is it, Mr. Black?"

"Oh, nothing," Alaric said lightly. "Just, some guests, getting a little too comfortable for a public event."

Valtair turned instinctively, following Alaric’s previous line of sight.

And then he saw it.

His wife.

In another man’s arms.

Kissing him.

Alaric shook his head. "See? They have no shame, my lord. The tendency these days—"

Valtair froze mid-breath.

His eeys locked onto the alcove.

"Viviane..." he muttered under his breath, his voice breaking.

"My lord?" Alaric tilted his head, feigning concern

"Is something wrong?" A deliberate pause. "You know that lady, perhaps?"

Then...

"Oh!" his voice softened into false sympathy. "How unfortunate."

He placed a hand on Valtair’s shoulder, eyes carefully widening.

"I can’t imagine how that must feel." His lips curled. "Just what kind of..."

He kept talking. But Valtair wasn’t listening anymore.

His jaw tightened, knuckles white.

Then, without a word, he turned and started walking.

Straight toward the alcove.

Fast. The crowd parting instinctively as he cut through.

Alaric followed at a distance. Just another curious guest drawn by the sudden commotion.

Valtair reached the alcove.

"VIVIENNE!"

The name cracked like thunder.

They broke the kiss. Vivienne stumbled back. Her eyes widening in genuine shock, flawless performance.

Carl straightened, his hand still resting on her waist, not yet releasing her.

"Casten—" he started, but Valtair didn’t even glance at him. He grabbed Vivienne’s arm. Yanking her away from carl with a force that made her stumble.

She caught herself, one hand flying to her mouth. Tears welled up in her eyes.

"Casten, I—"

"Don’t." Valtair’s voice was cold. He wasn’t even looking at her. "Don’t say anything."

"Please—" Her voice cracked, desperate. "I can explain—"

"Explain?!"

His grip tightened, pulling her closer. "You were kissing him! In public! At a gathering where—"

"I didn’t want to!"

The words blurted out, her breath hitching. She began sobbing now.

"He forced me! I tried to say no but—"

Her tears streamed freely, mixing up with the makeup beneath her mask.

"He threatened us! Said he’d break the alliance! We’re already on the brink, Casten and I thought... I thought if I just—"

Her knees buckled. Valtair’s grip tightened, catching her before she hit the ground.

"He said we need him." She gasped, sobbing harder now. "He said without his support we’d collapse. I was trying to protect you. Protect us."

The crowd had gathered now. Murmuring, whispering behind their masks.

Carl’s expression had shifted. No longer casual... now it was stunned. "What are you saying? I didn’t... Casten, let’s discuss this privately—"

"Get away from my wife." Valtair’s voice was cool, low.

Carl blinked. "I understand you’re upset, but—"

"I SAID GET AWAY!"

The shout echoed. Silenced nearby conversations.

Carl raised his hands. "We’ll talk later. When you’ve calmed down." Then he walked away. Disappeared into the crowd.

Leaving Valtair holding his sobbing wife. Surrounded by staring guests.

His reputation cracking in real-time.

And somewhere in that crowd...

A man in a black mask watched.

His crimson eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction.

Checkmate.

But before he could savor the taste of victory, a voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

"Enjoying the show, are we?"

Before he could react, a firm, unyielding grip clamped down on his shoulder.

Alaric’s body went rigid. Eyes widened as a sudden, suffocating pressure washed over him, like a heavy blanket pulling the air from his lungs.

For the briefest moment, he just stood there. Frozen.