Rose-scented torch smoke curled through the mirrored ballroom of Duke Aldric's winter residence, where silk-clad nobles whirled to harpsichord music. Yet tension coiled beneath the gilded frieze like a hidden blade. Lady Darsha moved with practiced grace, crystalline goblet in hand, but her mind tallied alliances the way a banker counts coin.
She spotted Lady Elara near a window alcove, stars glinting on the elder noble's silver hair. Sliding beside her, Darsha began, "Your freight wagons linger days at South Quay. With cycles on decks you could—"
Elara raised an eyebrow. "Double my sailings? And halve Aldric's barge tolls? He'd skin me." But her tone lacked conviction.
"Triple," Darsha corrected softly. She produced a parchment—projections glimmering with rune-seals verifying Sharath's calculations: labor costs, turnaround time, profit curves. Elara scanned, lips pursing. "You play a dangerous game, Darsha."
"Oh, my dear." Darsha's smile never reached her eyes. "We're all playing. Only some of us pretend we're not."
Across the room, Aldric held court like a black sun, smaller nobles orbiting in deference. His son, Lord Phalen—a swordsman famed for duels—leaned against a column, gaze locking on Darsha with cold challenge.
The duke's voice boomed, slicing through music: "Some dance while realms totter. Lady Darsha, perhaps a waltz? So we may… converse."
A social trap. She curtsied, allowed him to lead her onto the marbled floor. Couples parted, their spinning arcs forming a velvet cage. Aldric's grip bruised. "Your boy undermines centuries. I will not watch castles sink beneath wooden wheels."
Darsha met his glare. "Castles stand taller when founded on progress, not fear."
He leaned in. "Withdraw your support. Or I challenge your husband—satisfaction at dawn."
"Dueling over a child's invention? Eldridge will mock you."
"Duels aren't fought for humor." His smirk cut. "They're fought for outcomes."
Music ended; dancers bowed. Aldric released her hand. Darsha's pulse thundered, but her face revealed only serene poise.
Hours later, in her carriage, Darsha exhaled shaky breath. Phalen's reputation for lethal precision haunted her thoughts. She must disarm the threat before dawn.
In her private study, ink flowed as strategies formed. Letters dispatched to sympathetic nobles, offering shares in cycle revenues in return for votes against duel sanction. A coded message to Captain-Judge Rolland citing obscure dueling bylaws—any challenge over "tools of public welfare" required Crown arbitration, delaying proceedings.
Near dawn, she confronted Aldric on his private balcony, scroll bearing Rolland's seal in hand. "Your duel is stayed pending royal review," she announced.
Aldric's jaw clenched. "Legal tricks."
"Protection," she corrected. Then softer: "Your quarrel is not with Sharath but your own fear. Let the wheels turn—they'll carry us all forward."
He said nothing as she departed.
That morning, Aldric's butler found the duke alone, gazing across frost-silvery fields where shadows of dawn stretched like reaching hands. The butler heard him whisper, almost in awe, "Forward, indeed."