Gunmage
Chapter 140: When monsters dance

Chapter 140: Chapter 140: When monsters dance

This was the highest number of elves Lugh had ever seen gathered in one place. From among their ranks, he recognized a figure—Vaelith.

She had survived Drakensmar.

Not only survived, but now wore the black, white, gold and silver regalia of a royal guard?

Ophris had gained independence from the elven kingdom of Jazeer millennia ago. If, after more than ten centuries, the royal guards of a human kingdom were saturated with elves, then something was terribly wrong.

There was a conspiracy here, one that ran deeper than he could yet imagine.

A voice spoke from among the ranks of the Royal Guard. It was impossible to tell which one, but the speaker’s baritone carried cleanly across the marble ballroom.

"Her Royal Highness."

The others chorused in unison, a cold mechanical echo:

"Her Imperial Majesty, the Queen of Ophris."

As one, the Royal Guards dropped to a knee, their bodies striking the ground in a practiced, rhythmic thud.

From the grand entrance, a woman appeared, clad entirely in black.

Her dress flowed like liquid night, woven from an impossibly soft fabric that shimmered with an eerie sheen under the chandeliers.

She wore no jewelry. Her gloves, veil, and shoes were black as pitch, completing the image of a widow deep in mourning.

The veil was so light it floated with her every movement, yet it obscured her features completely, cloaking her identity in mystery.

The guests, who had been taut as bowstrings moments before, erupted into furious, whispered speculation, their fear momentarily forgotten.

For most present, this was their first glimpse of the Queen—a figure wrapped in myth and rumor.

But not for Lugh.

His mind snapped back to the riot, to his brief battle with her. She had executed his first puppet with mana circuits without him ever knowing what had happened.

Back then, his mundane eyes had been helpless against the enchantments woven into her veil.

But now—

Now his true body stood here, with the Mawglass by his side.

His perception sliced through the veils of illusion and concealment as easily as a hot knife through butter.

Instantly, the Queen’s head lifted, her veiled gaze snapping toward the upper floors—

—but no one was there.

Lugh had already melted away, relocating to a secluded alcove.

He leaned against the cold marble wall, replaying the vision seared into his mind.

As expected, she was no human.

She was an elf—an ancient one, saturated with a power so dense it nearly warped the air around her.

He shouldn’t be surprised, and yet he was.

Because unlike the others, that wasn’t just any figure hidden behind courtly mystery. That was the Queen of Ophris herself.

A bitter seed of doubt sprouted in his mind.

Was Ophris truly a sovereign kingdom?

What was the true reason for the war with Heieg?

Why had soldiers been sent to die while a kingdom filled with secret, ancient magicians, stood by and watched?

He would have to find answers.

But not now. For now, he observed.

"Lady Selaphiel"

The Queen said, her voice smooth and cold, like the unbroken surface of a frozen lake.

"I hope I wasn’t too late?"

"No, you’re just on time"

Came the reply from the Von Heim elf, her gaze briefly flickering toward the high cardinal.

The Queen shifted slightly, her presence unfurling through the ballroom.

"What now?"

Selaphiel asked, the tension in her voice carefully hidden but not absent.

Draque’sill, the head Cardinal, turned his heavy gaze to the Queen. Then, almost lazily, his eyes passed over the royal guards, weighing and judging.

When he spoke, his voice was calm, almost detached.

"Do you truly believe this is enough to make me yield?"

"I do"

The Queen answered, stepping closer, the whisper of her dress trailing behind her.

"After all"

She continued, her eyes flicking past the inquisitors in black robes,

"You’re not the only one here."

Her voice was sweet, almost musical, but every word carried an undeniable warning.

The black-clad inquisitors stiffened under her glance.

The guests watched, mute and wide-eyed.

It was as if they were witnessing a theater performance—only here, the wrong gesture, the wrong word, might condemn them all.

"The same goes for you"

Draque’sill added lightly

"You’re not alone either. Neither is she"

His iron gaze skimmed across Selaphiel and the rest of the Von Heim family, then back to the Queen and her guards, as if counting invisible pieces on a hidden chessboard.

"Why yes"

She added airily

"That is true."

Then she brought her gloved hands together with a soft, decisive clap.

"So what point is there in conflict? We should enjoy the wine, enjoy the night... and dance."

She was close now, close enough for him to see the faint shimmer of enchantments woven into the fabric of her gloves.

She extended her hand, an elegant invitation.

Draque’sill eyed it.

"I don’t dance"

He flatly stated, turning to leave.

"Oh, but you must."

Her voice, gentle and chilling at once, pinned him in place.

"...and why is that?"

"Because right now, you are the Head Cardinal—"

She paused

"—And I am the Queen."

The emphasis was unmistakable.

A pensive sigh escaped Draque’sill. He turned back and accepted her hand.

The opening dance of the ball began with a slow, deliberate step.

At first, it seemed almost mundane—courtly, traditional.

Yet, as they moved, subtle changes bled into the world around them.

When Draque’sill passed by the gilded candelabras, the flames grew a touch taller, burning warmer, casting a golden hue over the nearby guests.

The air itself seemed to hum faintly, the room becoming less rigid, more alive, almost heavy with unseen vitality.

When the Queen twirled, the opposite happened.

The shadows behind every pillar and velvet drape lengthened and darkened, swallowing corners of the room in a deeper gloom.

The air grew colder around her, sharp enough that some guests shivered and clutched their clothes tighter.

Some felt their blood stir and churn, a prickling sensation running down their spines, though they could not say why.

Together, they danced, and the room was caught between two forces: heat and cold, brilliance and shadow, life and death.

And yet, none dared comment.

The changes were too soft, too artful to call supernatural.

It could all be explained away by nerves, by wine, or imagination.

The Queen and the Cardinal moved in a perfect, lethal harmony.

Every step was measured, every turn a silent battle of wills.

The Queen’s veil fluttered as she spun, never fully revealing her face, yet Lugh—watching from the shadows—could feel the immense, ancient power radiating from her every movement.

He frowned