"Why?" Alice continued coolly, her voice carrying clearly through the ballroom. "Go on. Speak freely. Say it again—that the North is full of barbarians, bloated with empty pride. That its nobles hide behind bluster and tradition. That I have a foul mouth."
The murmurs around her faltered.
Slowly, deliberately, she reached for her gloves.
They were finely tailored, white leather stitched with gold thread—emblems of the North’s authority, unmistakable in their design. One by one, she slipped them off, exposing her bare hands to the chilled air of the hall.
Her gaze never wavered.
"However," she said softly, "be prepared if you intend to speak."
—Thunk.
The sound was sharp and final as the gloves struck the marble floor, echoing far louder than they should have in the suddenly quiet ballroom.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Some nobles stiffened.
Others swallowed hard.
A few looked away altogether.
Alice’s eyes swept the room, unhurried, merciless.
"Dare to tarnish my honor," she declared, "and you will pay the price. If you truly believe your words, then do not hide behind whispers and wine cups."
She pointed to the gloves at her feet.
"Pick them up. Strike your own face with them, as custom demands. I will accept your challenge."
A formal duel.
No lawyers.
No politics.
No excuses.
Just blood, steel, and judgment.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
I stood near the edge of the hall, watching every twitch of expression, every tightening jaw, every clenched fist. And the more I observed, the more one thought repeated itself in my mind.
’This is getting out of hand.’
Alice’s response wasn’t wrong.
In fact, it was perfectly justified.
The insult hadn’t been directed at her alone—it was a deliberate provocation against the North itself, against every noble who traced their lineage to these frozen lands. An open mockery, spoken loudly enough to ensure it carried.
Left unchallenged, it would have festered.
Spread.
Poisoned the room.
From that standpoint, Alice’s reaction served as a clean correction—a warning shot fired into the air.
The problem was scale.
Her challenge didn’t just address the offender.
It pulled the entire ballroom into the tension.
I could feel it now—the shift. The attention of nobles who had been previously disinterested, now alert. Those who had come merely to socialize suddenly leaning in, sniffing for drama, for weakness, for opportunity.
’This isn’t just about pride anymore,’ I realized grimly.
’It’s becoming a spectacle.’
No one here was foolish enough to challenge Alice directly.
The rumors were far too vivid.
The girl who had slain a high demon.
The heir of the Draken bloodline.
A warrior who had already proven that titles meant nothing to her once blades were drawn.
Challenging her would be suicide.
But—
If someone did step forward?
If some reckless noble, drunk on pride or resentment, decided to pick up those gloves?
It wouldn’t just be a duel.
It would be a political disaster.
And if no one did?
Then the atmosphere would rot from the inside. Smiles would turn stiff. Laughter would die. The ballroom—meant for music and diplomacy—would feel like a wake.
All that tension, with nowhere to go.
’Damned if someone answers. Damned if no one does.’
I exhaled slowly.
’Someone needs to defuse this.’
Before the silence could stretch any further, a middle-aged noble near the back cleared his throat—loudly. Too loudly.
"My lady," he said, forcing a strained smile, "surely such matters need not be resolved with bloodshed. This is a ball, after all."
Alice turned her gaze toward him.
Just her gaze.
The man froze.
"Then," she replied calmly, "perhaps people should remember where they are—and who they are speaking about."
Her eyes flicked back to the gloves.
Another heartbeat passed.
Then another.
Finally, a young noble—pale, sweating—took a half-step forward... then stopped, as if his legs had betrayed him.
He looked at the gloves.
Looked at Alice.
And stepped back.
Relief washed through the room in uneven waves.
No one would answer the challenge.
Good.
But the tension remained, thick and uncomfortable, like a blade pressed just shy of skin.
I rubbed my temple.
’Now we need an exit. Something conventional. Something that saves face.’
Before Alice could escalate further, I took a step forward.
Sometimes, being invisible had its advantages.
And sometimes—unfortunately—it was my job to speak.
"Lady Alice," I said calmly—loud enough for those nearby to hear, yet measured enough not to sound defiant.
"If I may."
The murmurs died down.
Several heads turned at once.
Alice looked back at me, genuine surprise flickering across her face before it vanished behind her usual composure.
At the same time, I bent down and picked up the fallen glove.
"Julies?" she said, clearly not expecting this.
But I wasn’t finished.
"Please step back, Lady Alice."
I walked toward her at an unhurried pace and held out the glove—not raised in challenge, not tossed in provocation, but carefully returned to where it belonged.
"There’s no need for you to personally intervene," I continued evenly. "Matters like this should be handled by us... the lower ones."
For a heartbeat, the hall was silent.
Then Alice’s lips curved—not into a smile, but into something sharper.
"...Oh?" she said, interest lighting her eyes for the first time.
"A proxy duel, then?"
She straightened, shoulders squared, and turned slightly so her voice carried through the hall.
"Very well," she announced. "You’ve all heard him, haven’t you? If anyone here holds a grievance against me, you may challenge my servant instead."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Even the musicians faltered, bows hovering awkwardly above strings. A few notes died mid-breath, leaving an uncomfortable hush behind.
Eyes shifted.
Whispers followed.
"That servant... isn’t he the one?"
"The one who defeated Lady Alice in the martial contest?"
"I heard about him—
’The Counterattack from the West,’ right?"
"Baronial blood, but fights like a veteran commander..."
"It’s a trap," someone muttered under their breath. "Anyone foolish enough to step forward will only embarrass themselves."
The tension thickened, but no one moved.
I stood there quietly, glove already returned, hands relaxed at my sides. I wasn’t posturing. I wasn’t provoking.
That alone made people uneasy.
A challenge was expected.
A threat, maybe.
But calm confidence?
That was worse.
Alice glanced at me sidelong, lowering her voice just enough that only I could hear.
"You’re certain?" she asked. "You don’t need to do this."
I met her gaze and nodded once.
"This isn’t about strength," I replied softly. "It’s about precedent."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"...Explain."
"If you draw steel here," I said, "it turns this gathering into a battlefield. Pride will demand blood. Even if no one dies, resentment will linger."
I looked around the hall—at the nobles pretending not to listen, at the ones listening far too closely.
"But if nothing happens," I continued, "then tonight becomes a lesson instead of a scandal."
Alice was silent for a moment.
Then she exhaled through her nose, almost amused.
"...You’re telling me to let them stew in their own fear."
"Exactly."
She studied the crowd again.
No challengers.
No raised voices.
Only stiff backs and cautious eyes.
Finally, Alice lifted her hand.
"That’s enough," she said coolly. "It seems no one here feels strongly enough to press the matter."
A collective, barely disguised breath of relief passed through the hall.
Somewhere behind me, I felt a familiar, amused gaze.
Velra, no doubt.
I didn’t need to look to know she was smiling.
Not because of dominance.
Not because of victory.
But because—once again—I had chosen a path that unsettled everyone watching.
And sometimes, that was far more dangerous than drawing a blade.