The heavy silence that followed Marquis Vance's descent from the pavilion was thicker than the dust in the arena. Ralph stood paralyzed in the center of the sands, his silver-tipped wand trembling slightly, while Rrejy and Tere hurried down the steps behind the Marquis, their faces masked with desperate, forced smiles.
But Vance ignored them. His slate-grey eyes remained locked on the dark corner of the stands. His heavy, steady boots clicked against the stone as he walked, not toward the golden child of the Zaqor estate, but toward the shadowed corridor where the servants stood.
"Marquis?" Rrejy called out, his voice betraying a hint of panic. "The banquet hall is prepared, and we have many other demonstrations..."
Vance raised a single, massive hand, silencing the lord of the manor without even looking back. He stopped at the edge of the shadow, staring directly down at Nard.
"You," Vance's deep, rumbling voice vibrated through the stone floor. "Bring me the wine pitcher."
Rrejy's face went pale. "Marquis, he is nothing but a magicless hollow shell. A servant of the lowest tier. He cannot even hold a pitcher straight, as you saw earlier. Ralph, bring the Marquis his chalice—"
"I spoke to the boy, Rrejy," Vance said coldly, his slate-grey eyes narrowing. "Step forward, child."
Nard kept his head bowed, his shoulders slumped in his practiced, pathetic posture. Inside his chest, his dual-nature Tier 2 core was a silent, coiled spring, his willpower clamping down on the spinning rings of emerald and white mana. He took a slow, deliberate breath, forcing his hands to tremble as he stepped out of the shadow, carrying the heavy silver pitcher.
As Nard approached, the air around Vance grew suffocatingly dense. It was a focused aura, a Tier 7 pressure spike designed not to crush, but to force a magical reaction from anyone hiding their power. It was a net cast in the dark, waiting for a single fish to splash.
The moment Nard stepped within three paces of the Marquis, the pressure hit him like a physical blow. The emerald-white core near his heart thrummed violently, demanding to rise and defend its host against the predatory Tier 7 aura.
No, Nard commanded himself, grinding his teeth. Suppress it. Let the void absorb it.
He forced his knees to buckle. He let out a soft, pathetic gasp, allowing himself to stumble forward, dropping to his knees onto the dusty ground. The silver pitcher clattered against the stone, wine spilling across the sand, but Nard didn't care about the mess. He curled his body slightly, trembling violently as if utterly crushed by the mere presence of a high-tier mage's aura.
Beneath the dust, however, Nard's fingers were dug into the earth. He quietly channeled a microscopic thread of nature mana from his dormant core into the soil, grounding the kinetic force of his stumble so he wouldn't accidentally trigger a defensive mana reflex.
Vance stood over the kneeling boy, his shadow completely enveloping Nard. The Tier 7 mage stared down at the "hollow shell" for a long, agonizing moment. His passive perception searched for a spark, a flare, or even a minor fluctuation of mana.
There was nothing. Nard was as silent as a grave.
Yet, to Vance's highly trained senses, the silence was too absolute. A normal magicless human would have a faint, chaotic hum of ambient mana flowing naturally through their body—the passive life-force of the world. But Nard's pathways felt like a literal vacuum, an empty void that didn't just lack magic, but seemed to swallow the ambient light around him.
"A pity," Vance murmured softly, the pressure wave vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. The heavy, suffocating air cleared instantly, leaving Nard gasping for breath on the ground.
Ralph, who had crept closer, let out a mocking sneer. "I told you, Marquis. He is a useless waste of space. He can't even stand in the presence of a true mage."
Rrejy glared at Nard with absolute disgust, his fists clenching at his sides. "Get out of here, Nard. You have embarrassed this family for the last time today. Back to the cellars, now!"
"Yes, Father... Forgive me, Marquis," Nard whispered, his voice trembling perfectly. He scrambled to his feet, keeping his eyes on the ground as he gathered the empty pitcher and retreated back into the dark underbelly of the stands.
But as Nard turned to leave, Vance leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low whisper that only the wind—and Nard's enhanced Tier 2 hearing—could catch.
"A clever mask, little void. But the deeper the shadow, the brighter the light it hides."
Nard didn't stop, nor did he flinch. He kept his pathetic slump, walking steadily into the darkness of the corridor. But beneath his tattered tunic, a cold, dangerous smile stretched across his face.
The Marquis knew. But he hadn't exposed him.
The storm was no longer just waiting. It was beginning to circle.