Chapter 71: The Cold
Maniel Daen Silvester stood unnervingly at a raised spot in the High Ball, where no other man stood. With his arms crossed backward, his gaze was fixed downward, watching the crowd of ignorant nobles waver around, drinking, laughing and dancing amidst the soft bellow of sweet party music.
An aging man, Maniel was. But it appeared as though sometimes the old man forgot that fact, with the way he almost always dressed lavishly, like a youth who’d recently learned how to squander money on frivolities.
Currently, he was dressed in a fine green leather coat that flowed all the way to the marble floor. The collar of his coat was made from the fur of a wild animal that roamed in the forests of Southern Jalozi.
His teeth were clenched, jaw quivering as he stared downward.
Maniel felt cold. He felt so, so cold. Even his coat couldn’t provide sufficient warmth, for the source of this cold wasn’t a physical one. It stemmed directly from his heart, chilling his soul.
It was fear.
The glass cup held tightly in his grip had begun to crack when he realized himself, drawing in a deep breath.
He sighed, massaging his forehead as he shook his head.
Where was his eldest son, Mikel? Where was his heir?
This entire ball, after all, was thrown on his behalf. At least on the surface. And now, Maniel couldn’t find his son.
The boy was supposed to stay in sight. Was supposed to stay high up with Maniel, so the nobles could see him. Like some mini-parade of sorts.
Day by day, House Silvester was losing credibility. But now, they had gained a twenty-one-year old 5th-circle.
Who amongst these old men vixens could boast of that?
Only a few of them. If not, none. Maniel knew that the Duchal families were on another level. But so far, he hadn’t seen any of them arrive at the ball. It seemed they refused his invitation.
Although he did see the arrival of the Belognian heir. Maniel knew, instinctively, that the Duke was trying to send a message, sending only his heir to the ball.
That boy, Franklin, was a 6th-circle flame mage. And he was only in his twenty-third year.
’Know your place, Maniel.’
Maniel could already hear the Duke’s harsh voice resounding in his ears. It grated at him, made the piercing cold increase.
He’d sent his wife and his other children away. But he had specifically told Mikel to stay.
Now these lowly nobles were all gathered, dancing and rejoicing, forgetting that this ball was to honor his son. Because said son was nowhere to be found.
Worse of all...
Maniel narrowed his eyes, spotting a terribly familiar face.
It was Franklin. The smug expression on his lips, that arrogant, calm and confident air around him, the way he swayed in the crowd, avoiding attention but conversing just enough to not seem unsociable.
’Damnit!’
That boy was the picture-perfect portrait of an heir. If only Mikel were half the man Franklin was...
If only he had half his talent...
If only his other children were talented. Maybe he wouldn’t be facing this humiliation from the Court of Nine.
Was there really no other way to revive his family’s position in the court that didn’t require strengthening his children?
He shook his head.
Maniel couldn’t think of any other way. He had tried, after all.
But then, there was that lowly daughter of his...
When was the last time he even saw or spoke to her? Well, it didn’t matter to him. She was probably in the ball, somewhere.
But... maybe, after this ball, he would send someone to train her. Sure, it was already late for her. She was way past the suitable age of eight, after all — the best time for a child to start learning magic. But he could try. Maybe he would strike gold with the girl. Maybe she would turn out to be a prodigy.
Maybe she would...
Maniel’s brows furrow.
Downstairs, Franklin had held on to the arm of a particular Young Lady, leading her to the edge of the hall, an open area. The balcony.
When Maniel looked closely, he realized that the Young Lady was, undoubtedly, his eldest daughter.
What was her name again?
Maniel didn’t bother to remember. He even took his attention away from the youths. Whatever they were up to was none of his business, as long as it didn’t sully his name or reputation.
But then again, seeing Franklin reminded Maniel of Mikel.
Maniel’s silver eyes widened in anger. Red veins swarmed in his pupils.
"Where is MY SON?!"
The glass cup in his grip finally shattered, stabbing his palms, drawing tiny lines of blood.
He began to breathe hard, chest rising and falling in an unkindly rhythm.
Luckily for Maniel, his enraged voice went unheard, drowned by the music. None of the guests below had heard him.
Soon enough, Maniel gave up on searching for the boy, and he let out a soft sigh, preparing to turn back to his seat.
Mikel had always been like this ever since he was a little boy. Always disappearing randomly, always being stubborn. But he always eventually came back. And he always obeyed. He was a good son, Maniel knew. But he was also a headache.
Just before Maniel fully turned, a young man caught his attention. It was a young noble.
He squinted his eyes, gazing at the man, dressed in a blue suit. The young man had blue hair that stuck out from the bunch. He had a strange air around him, and his very presence seemed to pull Maniel toward him.
Maniel frowned.
Who was that man?
The blue-haired man was also on his way to the balcony.
Maniel shook his head, taking his seat.
And he relaxed in his seat, that pervasive cold slowly dissipating.
He would stay here, and he would wait for Mikel to come. And then, when the mischievously grinning youth finally appeared, he would scold him properly.
That was exactly what Marquis Maniel Silvester was thinking about with his eyes closed when he felt a heavy presence weigh on him.
The presence he felt was heavy and hot.
’What?’
That chilling cold returned to Maniel’s heart.
Footsteps.
One. Two. Three.
Maniel’s eyes snapped open as the footsteps ceased.
