Gunmage
Chapter 94: Tell me what you see

Chapter 94: Chapter 94: Tell me what you see

A sharp inhale. Then—

"What did you do?"

"We talked."

He looked away for the first time, eyes fixed on something unseen.

"She described what she considered love."

"Ah. I see."

Isolde exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her eyes fixed on him like he might vanish if she blinked.

"When do you plan on going?"

"Now"

He answered without pause.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"...Okay then"

She stood, every motion deliberate, and walked to an ornate shelf carved from dark walnut. From it, she retrieved a jet-black leather-bound book, its edges worn from use and weight.

"Shall we?"

They didn’t leave immediately. Isolde had to change into an appropriate outdoors gown. One of those stiff, breathless creations nobles were expected to suffer through.

Lugh, by contrast, had nothing to change into. No tailored coats, no ceremonial boots. Just threadbare indoor clothes of decent quality hanging on his frame.

A direct consequence of being quietly discarded for too many years.

In truth, he should have hated his stepmother. Maybe even used his newly awakened powers to tear her world apart.

And perhaps he would have—

If something inside him hadn’t been rewritten.

It was strange. He’d been force-fed more life experience than most mortals could dream of. Millineums, in a sense.

And yet, people. Humans. They eluded him more than ever.

A paradox his alien mind couldn’t begin to parse.

They finally emerged from the manor under an overcast sky, flanked by a heavy procession of guards and servants. Far more than had been present when they picked him up.

The pair entered a pristine four-seater carriage, its doors bearing the sigil of House Von Heim.

A crimson candle, snuffed out, with red wax dripping into a golden dish, a puff of smoke forever frozen in the engraving.

Lugh paused before stepping in, staring hard at the sigil as if it were about to move. Isolde tilted her head slightly, watching him.

’Does he know?’

She didn’t voice the thought.

The convoy rolled through the high-rise district of Pyrellis, carriage wheels echoing against polished cobblestone. Gas lamps flickered in the gray light as a light drizzle fell from the heavens.

A shadow flitted across a wall. It was brief, sharp, and in a moment, gone.

A man in a trench coat ducked into a side building, fingers flying across a telegraph machine, tapping out a message with urgent speed.

—

Lirienne bolted through the halls barefoot, silken slippers long discarded. She was heading for the ground floor—Lugh’s room. That feeling was back again.

That impossible, smothering sensation that always muddled her thoughts when she tried to cast.

A feeling her tutors couldn’t explain.

She had felt it most during Lugh’s last... episode.

And now, it surged within her again, she needed answers.

"Lugh!"

She called, flinging the door open.

The room was empty.

—

The parlour was a warm haze of smoke and laughter. Velvet walls of deep burgundy swallowed the light of the crystal chandeliers, casting soft glows across rich oak panels.

Bronze sculptures stood atop pedestals, watching the games of chance and ego with silence.

Cigar smoke curled above green-felted tables, where men in pressed suits leaned in close, their laughter sharp, their hands quicker.

At the center table, the energy crackled.

"Yeah boys"

Came the bark, loud enough to silence the next table over.

"It’s Big Mike in this house!"

The man leaned back in his chair like it was a throne. Collar loose, sleeves rolled to the elbows, cufflinks tossed aside like the rules he never followed.

He drummed his fingers against his whiskey glass, then leaned forward, grinning like he’d just been dealt the divine hand.

"Who dares to try this daddy?"

Mike boomed, eyebrows dancing.

"You scared? Don’t blame you. I’ve already bought your pride and your pensions."

One of the older gentlemen scoffed, half amused. Another adjusted his monocle, unsure whether to fold or laugh.

Mike kept talking, weaving taunts with charm like a seasoned bard.

"Listen, when I win this, I ain’t gonna gloat. I’ll just name my yacht after you boys. A little reminder of this generous donation."

The dealer slid out the river card.

Gasps. Narrowed eyes.

No one could tell if Mike was bluffing. His grin was too wide. His voice too smooth. His theatrics too loud.

Was it a trap? Or confidence?

Then the calm voice came.

"You’re full of it, Mike"

Julian spoke up. Sharp-cheeked, sharp-eyed, elegant gold rimmed glasses, he had been quiet until now.

He tapped ash off the tip of his cigar.

Mike raised an eyebrow.

"Speak up, Jules. Didn’t hear you over the sound of your crying bank account."

Julian smiled without warmth.

"You want to know who’s losing? Let me tell you how I know."

He didn’t look at the cards.

He pointed across the table.

"Gerrard, three blinks every ten seconds when he has a weak hand. You’ve hit four."

"What the f—"

"Thomas, drags his cigar twice fast when he’s unsure. Did it again. Just now."

Thomas folded, jaw clenched.

"Navin scratches his beard. He doesn’t even realize. I counted. Eleven times now. Always when bluffing."

Navin dropped his cards like they burned, his eyes wide in bewilderment.

Then Julian’s eyes fixed on Mike.

"And you"

He said, quiet as a gun cocking.

"You start talking too damn much when you’re in trouble."

The table was laced with tension.

Mike’s smile wavered, only for a moment.

He was quickly back to normal.

"Oh? I talk too much?"

Mike chuckled, lifting his glass.

"Well, you talk just enough to ruin a good time."

"You’re bluffing"

Julian said.

"I’m calling it."

He pushed in a fat stack of chips. The others watched, caught between awe and dread.

Mike didn’t blink.

"Let’s dance."

The cards were revealed.

Julian had two pair, a solid hand.

But Mike—

Mike laid down four queens.

A hush fell over their table.

One man gasped. Another spat out his drink.

Mike leaned forward, all teeth and sunshine.

"What was that about me talking too much?"

Julian didn’t speak. His cigarette hung from his lips, the ash trembling but still intact.

Mike swept the chips toward himself in one slow motion.

"Observation’s a gift, Jules. But so’s knowing when to shut the hell up and trust your gut."

Laughter roared. Mike poured himself another drink.

A bellboy approached and whispered something into his ear. His expression didn’t change, but he stood.

"Excuse me, gentlemen."

He straightened his suit.

"I’ll be back soon."

"Don’t take too long"

Someone called.

He walked through the building, making a stop at a private room. He entered. Another man was waiting.

"This better be good."

The man didn’t flinch, he spoke directly.

"A message from our informant."

"Well... which one of them?"

"Von Heim."

A loud "Oh," followed by tense silence.

"Well?"

"The fox has left the den."

Mike let the words sink in.

Then—

"Gather the hounds"

He said.

"It’s time for a hunt."