Gunmage
Chapter 144: Threads of power

Chapter 144: Chapter 144: Threads of power

The ballroom was positively stewing with anticipation.

"Lugh"

Draque’sill repeated softly, his gaze taking on an unfathomable depth—quiet, steady, and inexplicably heavy, as if the room itself were leaning toward him.

The Queen approached Selaphiel the elf, her voice low but firm.

"May I know what’s going on?"

"Well... it’s kind of a long story"

Selaphiel replied, lips drawn into a taut smile beneath her veil.

Around them, the nobility spiraled into silent chaos. Every highborn mind raced with speculation. If the Von Heim family had a direct heir, an uncontested one, then the long-brewing power struggle they were hoping to exploit might never erupt.

For some, this was a disaster. For others, a newly opened door. Lugh wasn’t just an unexpected piece on the board, he was a whole new set of rules.

While the wheels of political conflict churned in the adult world, the reaction among the youths and adolescents was entirely different.

"You have a brother?"

"What’s he like?"

"Is he handsome?"

"Calm down, ladies"

Mirelle said sharply, stepping in.

"Didn’t you hear the Prince? He’s fifteen years old!"

"And so?"

One of the girls shrugged.

"That doesn’t mean anything!"

On the boys’ end, the response was much colder. Especially those of the Von Heim bloodline whose ambitions had just been blindsided.

"Lugh, huh?"

"So what? He’s just a bastard. He won’t last long. They’ll get rid of him eventually."

Marriage alliances were being re-evaluated. Inheritance lines were suddenly uncertain. Power plays had to be rewritten overnight. It was a proper mess, and Lovainne had lit the fuse himself.

"I thought Lugh was a codename?"

"I guess not."

"So that’s our target? How the hell did he find out about our plans?"

"I don’t know yet"

Mike muttered to his companions.

"All we have to do now is adjust."

Back at the mansion, Lugh lounged lazily in a velvet chair, posture relaxed, but eyes alert. He had allowed himself to be found by one of Isolde’s shadows.

Across from him, Isolde paced, her eyes glinting with something wild, almost feral.

"They want to take him away from me...

They want to take him away from me..."

She murmured, biting her thumbnail, voice trembling with a possessive edge.

It seemed she had relapsed into a bout of madness.

Then, the door opened. Like a switch had been flipped, she straightened instantly, movements calm, poised and composed.

...Okay, maybe not.

"Did you find any?"

She asked.

"No, ma’am"

The maid replied simply.

Isolde exhaled through her nose, sharp and irritated. The problem they now faced wasn’t magical, political, or dangerous, it was unexpectedly mundane.

A wardrobe malfunction.

Lugh only had indoor wear. High-quality, yes, but plainly cut and entirely unsuited for the level of aristocracy he now represented.

Compared to the custom-tailored grandeur of Isolde and her daughters, he’d look like a neglected pauper.

That would not do. The backlash would be immense.

The door opened again. All four of her daughters entered, already aware of the problem.

Aveline was the first to speak.

"I could get some boys his size to strip and bring him their clothes."

Everyone turned to look at her. Lugh included.

Isolde twitched her lips before responding.

"No. That would be going too far."

She turned toward her first daughter Selaphiel.

"What about the men’s clothes you use to sneak out at night?"

"Ah?! W–what are you talking about?"

"Don’t play dumb. This is important."

Selaphiel pursed her lips.

"They’re meant to blend in with commoners. They wouldn’t fit the setting."

Of course, Isolde knew about her daughter’s late-night escapades, of which she sometimes brought along her second sister. Her shadows had trailed Selaphiel on every outing, just in case.

To Isolde’s relief, most nights were filled with childish shenanigans: trying street food, laughing at late-night comedies, and occasionally beating up drunkards.

"I have an idea"

Mirelle chimed in.

"Why doesn’t he just wear one of our outfits? His face is cute enough. With a wig, we could pass him off as actually being a girl. If he gets found out, people will just think he has a weird cross-dressing fe—habit."

Silence.

Then—

"That could work"

Someone muttered.

"No"

Lugh said flatly, killing the idea with a single syllable. What did they take him for?

"Then what can we do?"

Mirelle asked, frustrated.

"Our cousins?"

Lirienne suggested.

"Enji’s about the same build."

"We’ve tried"

Isolde shook her head.

"The boys packed light. The only suitable clothes are the ones they’re wearing."

"Then we take it off them!"

Aveline proposed again, eyes glinting with something evil.

"...No"

Isolde replied calmly, while making a mental note to keep closer tabs on her lastborn.

Then Selaphiel, who had been quiet for a moment, finally offered a thoughtful suggestion. Her voice was as low as it had always been.

"What about the church robes he wore when we first picked him up? They were of very high quality. Considering that Embercreed is our national religion, it wouldn’t be strange for him to wear them."

Everyone paused to consider it.

"But those are priestly robes"

Isolde pointed out.

"People might assume we have some strange alliance with the Church."

"Then we debunk it"

Selaphiel responded.

"We say we didn’t anticipate the situation and he has no suitable clothes. In a case like this, honesty can carry weight."

"I see"

Isolde said, mulling it over.

The plan was sound. She could only pray the High Cardinal wouldn’t exploit it.

With a clap of her hands, the matter was settled. Lugh was whisked away. Now that his identity was public, actual maids—no longer shadows—tended to him.

Professionals in their field. Efficient. Expert.

They struggled to keep their expressions composed as they worked. With no time for a proper bath, they settled for wiping him down with towels soaked in warm water and scented oils.

They perfumed his hair, brushing and styling it until it fell in soft, artful waves—half-messy, half-ceremonial, as though he’d just descended from an altar or out of a dream.

His skin was already unnaturally flawless, but they applied creams and lotions anyway, accentuating his sharp features and deathly pallor.

Then came the robe. White and red, stitched with fine gold embroidery along the hem, it shimmered slightly under the room’s candlelight.

The white was pure as winter frost, the red deep like consecrated wine—rich and symbolic, solemn and majestic.

When he stepped forward, his usual fear-inducing presence collided with his transformed appearance.

The result was something holy. Something untouchable.

To those around him, it felt like witnessing a being that should not be gazed upon with mortal eyes. They mistook their instinctual fear for awe.

They looked away, not because he frightened them, but because they believed they were unworthy of looking.

Reality bent, just slightly. Enough for the truth to slip behind a trick of the mind.

And soon, it was time.

Lugh Von Heim would appear before the world.