Chapter 137: A Gathering of Beauties
Two paces behind him stood a burly red-haired man in a dark brown formal suit. The fabric was excellent, but it was stretched taut across his body, his muscles filling the shoulder line to the brim. His hands hung at his sides, and his gaze never left the wineglass turning in the gray-robed man’s hand.
“Marcus,” Ilis said in an even lower voice. “The son of Marquis Wilier’s chief guard. He grew up on the Northern Border frontier. The red-haired one beside him is called Olaf. He’s a fairly well-known genius in the North. They say he has Orc blood, and his physical constitution is exceptionally strong.”
Ryan looked at the man in gray.
He was from the North, all right—cold, hard, like a weathered slab of stone.
He stood there with not a single person within three paces of him. It was not that no one wished to stand nearby. It was simply that the air around him made people instinctively unwilling to approach.
“The four o’clock direction,” Ilis said.
Ryan looked over.
At the edge of the crowd stood a red-haired woman speaking with those beside her. She was tall and striking, her features bright and vivid, her skin not the fair white so common among pampered noble ladies, but rather a healthy wheat-gold.
When she smiled, her eyes seed to shimr, and everyone around her smiled with her. She wore a wine-red gown, the neckline cut just right, with a slender gold chain around her neck.
“Shiloya,” Ilis said. “One of the Fla Duke’s people. She is a scholar of ancient runes and has deciphered three lost ruin inscriptions. The Fla Duke keeps seven arcanists. She leads them.”
Ryan let his gaze linger on her a mont longer.
Two people stood beside her. One was a middle-aged man in deep blue formalwear, severe-faced and standing as straight as a spear. The other was a girl in a pale gray dress with gold-rimd spectacles, holding a small notebook and lowering her head from ti to ti to jot sothing down.
“The one in deep blue is Kallen,” Ilis said. “The Fla Duke’s captain of the guard. He went to war at sixteen and has killed seventeen Orcs.”
Ryan’s eyes swept over Kallen. The man stood ramrod straight, his back and shoulders stretching the formal suit so taut that not a single wrinkle showed. His hands were folded before his lower abdon. His face was expressionless, but his eyes kept sweeping the room. Every person who passed by, he looked at once.
The two of them continued turning.
“The one in the pale green dress, at eleven o’clock,” Ilis said.
Ryan looked over.
At the edge of the dance floor, beside a pillar, stood a girl in a pale green gown. Her hair was such a light green that it was almost silver-gray, loosely pinned up behind her head, with a few loose strands hanging beside her ears.
The green was exceedingly faint, like tender new spring shoots touched by frost, and it carried a cool, distant air.
She was slender, and the pale green gown traced her figure closely, cinched tight at the waist and flaring from the knees down like an inverted bellflower. The dress was not heavily adorned. Only a few small silver leaves had been embroidered at the neckline, so delicate that one had to draw close to see them clearly.
She was holding a wineglass and speaking with the person beside her, the line of her profile soft and calm.
“Vera,” Ilis said. “The Gale Duke’s adopted daughter.”
Ryan’s gaze settled on the girl. At that mont she turned her head slightly, her eyes sweeping over the dance floor.
They were a very pale gray-green, like distant mountains after the rain, or like peaks veiled in a thin layer of mist.
Then those eyes stopped.
Vera’s gaze fell on Ryan, and for an instant their eyes t across the dance floor. Ryan froze. Before he could even think to look away, he saw the corners of Vera’s lips lift very slightly.
It was an extrely faint smile, so faint it was almost invisible, but it had indeed been directed at him.
Ryan gave a reflexive nod in return, acknowledging the courtesy.
Vera withdrew her gaze and resud speaking with the person beside her, as though nothing at all had happened.
“She is publicly acknowledged as the person with the highest wind-elent talent in the Empire in recent years,” Ilis said, her tone unreadable. “They say she was able to cast high-tier wind magic at the age of ten. The Gale Duke keeps twelve mages. At the age of twelve, she had already beaten seven of them flat.”
Ryan looked at her slender fra and her narrow wrists. No matter how he looked, she did not seem like soone who could fight. Yet beneath the candlelight, those gray-green eyes shimred faintly, like mist-shrouded mountains after rain. There was sothing hidden behind that veil.
“And the two beside her?” Ryan asked.
A man and a woman stood with Vera. The man was tall and wore deep teal formalwear, with the outline of firm muscle visible beneath the fabric. He stood slightly behind and to Vera’s side, his eyes constantly sweeping the surroundings like a vigilant hound. The woman wore a silver-gray gown and was sowhat older, with gentle features. She held a wineglass and lowered her head now and then to say a few words to Vera.
“The man is Cliff,” Ilis said. “One of the Gale Duke’s deathsworn, raised from childhood to follow Vera and protect her. He uses no weapon. His hands are his weapons.”
Ryan looked at Cliff’s hands. They hung at his sides, the knuckles broad, the backs marked with several faint scars.
“And the woman?”
“Eliane, a distant relative of the Gale Duke. She is responsible for Vera’s daily life and social affairs.” Ilis paused. “Her strength is average, but her eye is very sharp.”
“The Gale Duke sent only Vera?” Ryan found that a little strange. Everyone else seed to have brought a younger pair, one suited to strategy and one to force. Only Vera had an older woman and a guard who clearly were not participants in the ruins themselves.
“Yes,” Ilis said. “Only her. The other two are escort and support. They will not enter the ruins. The Gale Duke values Vera enough, and also believes she has more than enough strength to manage on her own.”
Ryan nodded and stored that away.
They kept turning, one circle after another. Ilis’s gaze swept over the room from ti to ti, and each ti it landed sowhere she quietly nad a few more people and their origins. Those from the East with darker skin and loud voices were people from Count Sutherland’s house. The ones from the South with pale complexions and asured speech belonged to one of the frontier Marquises. The shorter n from the West, steady as rocks on their feet, were lesser nobles from the mountain regions. As for the North, aside from the ones they had already seen, there were still several standing motionless in the corners.
Ryan morized them one by one, letting his gaze pass over each face, taking in their placent, their posture, and their eyes.
“The Second Prince’s people are one strategist and one fighter,” he said. “Parker is the fighter. Hayden is the strategist.”
“Yes.” Ilis nodded. “Parker’s swordsmanship ranks in the top three among the Northern Border’s younger generation. Hayden is widely read and skilled at planning. The Second Prince sent the two of them this ti because he intends to contend for what lies inside the ruins.”
“And the Third Prince’s people?”
“Vincent and Gray.” Ilis’s gaze shifted to the other side of the dance floor.
Ryan followed her line of sight.
Beside a pillar on the far side of the dance floor stood a young man with pale golden hair, dressed in silver-gray formalwear embroidered with fine silver patterns. The whole effect made him look like a sword—one still in its sheath, revealing only the faintest glint of cold light.
He was speaking and laughing with the people beside him, his golden hair glowing softly in the candlelight, his smile warm and perfectly mannered, without the least visible edge.
But even while he smiled, those pale blue eyes were watching.
Watching every person who passed by.
Watching every gaze that landed on him.
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