CH343 Web of Motives I

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At the same time Alex was meeting with Caesar and Achilles, another trio was gathered back at the Golden Palace Auction House.

After watching Alex depart with the two royals, Alric Wastelander made his way through the first-floor auction hall, where he soon met two other scions of high nobility.

The three dismissed their guards and aides before settling into a private box on the same floor to speak freely.

The nobles accompanying Alric were Otto Reichert of the Reichert Duchy and Erman Machholt of the Machholt Grand Duchy.

While both Alric and Otto were firstborn heirs to their respective duchies, Erman was only the fourth son of the Machholt Patriarch. He didn't hold the same authority within his House as the other two, but being a direct descendant of a Grand Duchy made him equal in standing to both heirs.

Hence, the two received him as an equal.

"Why have you called us here, Alric?" Otto Reichert asked as soon as they sat down.

"I've called you here with a proposition—a way for all of us to deal with the Fury Family, and in doing so, help each of our Houses secure what they want from them," Alric said evenly.

"The Reicherts already have an agreement with the Machholts not to interfere with House Fury," Otto replied sharply.

He shot Alric a warning glare for daring to raise such a topic in front of a Machholt.

Alric, however, didn't flinch. Instead, his gaze shifted to Erman Machholt, who had yet to speak.

Erman sat with a relaxed posture, one arm draped casually over the back of his seat, fingers interlocked, expression unreadable as he regarded Alric across the table.

"Why should I help you deal with the Fury Family?" Erman asked calmly. "Have you forgotten there's a long-standing bond between our Houses—one bound by marriage and blood?"

Alric's lips curved faintly. "Funny you should mention that. As I recall, there's no direct connection between House Fury and House Machholt. The Furies' link is to House Holt. And that tie is tenuous at best, currently. Whatever blood relation might've existed is gone with Kurt Fury's death—and that marriage bond is barely holding, now that Joselin Holt is conveniently 'missing'."

"The Holts are long-standing vassals of my Machholt Grand Duchy," Erman replied, his tone even. "They requested that we recognise their arrangement with the Furies, and we have done so. Meaning House Fury's bond with House Holt is, by extension, a bond with House Machholt."

He leaned back, offering nothing more—his calmness concealing whatever thoughts might have been turning behind his eyes.

Alric held Erman's gaze as he spoke coldly.

"Let's leave the rhetoric aside, Erman. Anyone with eyes can see it — the Fury family… that Earl Drake Fury — is trying to sever ties with the Holts, and by extension, your House Machholt.

"I know for a fact that your House tacitly allowed the Kellermans to attack Earl Drake Fury's lands. You probably expected the Kellermans to seize control, letting your House step in as a 'neutral mediator'—a perfect excuse to deliver a warning to the Earl without lifting a blade yourselves.

"But since the Earl's army crushed the Kellermans with ease, your plan backfired. And knowing how vindictive Earl Drake Fury can be, it's only a matter of time before he retaliates—against the Holts, or even your House—for turning a blind eye when his fief was invaded. After all, that alliance was the only reason he bent the knee to the Holts and, by extension, to your House Machholt."

Erman's expression remained unreadable. "And what exactly are you trying to say, Alric?"

"I have a plan," Alric replied, his tone measured. "A way to strike directly at Earl Drake Fury's heart. But I'll need your support to make it happen."

Erman didn't answer immediately. He simply stared back, his gaze steady. Then, a small, knowing smile tugged at his lips.

"Looks like Alex Fury winning Lady Zora's favour really got to you. Tell me—did you truly love her that much?"

Alric's face remained perfectly still. He neither denied nor confirmed it. But his silence was answer enough.

Erman shook his head slowly. "No… this isn't about love. You don't love her. You wanted to use her. Was it to get close to Merlin Pendragon—or to forge a bridge toward the Nearmarch Confederacy?"

The Wastelander Duchy lay in the eastern reaches of the Virellian Empire, near the border shared with the Confederacy—just beyond the DragonMourn Highlands.

The Highlands were believed to house the burial grounds of the Pangea Realm's Dragon Clan, one of the most sacred sites in existence. The Dragons guarded it jealously, scrutinising any who dared pass through.

Because of that, the Virellian Empire had never been able to use the route during its expansionist era. The Dragons didn't trust humans to merely pass through—they feared the Empire's greed went beyond just invading their human kin who lived beyond the range, in the Nearmarch Confederacy.

'A marriage with Lady Zora Frost would've granted House Wastelander proximity to both the DragonSlayer and the Nearchmarch Confederacy… they stand to gain immensely from it,' Erman analysed silently.

'But this isn't just politics anymore. Alric's eyes hold no sorrow of love lost—only the disgust of his pride wounded. His hatred isn't born from affection… but from envy. The fact that a man of lesser standing—the son of an Earl, barely of age, an Intermediate rank at best—won what he could not… that's what burns him.'

Alric didn't respond. He simply stared at Erman.

The silence between them grew heavy—so thick it felt almost physical. The air in the private box turned stifling with palpable tension.

For the third person present—Otto Reichert—it was deeply uncomfortable.

Otto was careful when dealing with these two. Not because he feared them in a straightforward confrontation—he was confident he could take either of them in a fight—but because neither Alric nor Erman were the type to fight directly.

Alric, though a formidable combatant with strength at the Veteran rank, preferred scheming to duelling. He was the kind of insidious man who never gambled unless the dice were loaded in his favour.

'If Alric is gearing up for a fight,' Otto thought, 'it means he's already set enough traps to cripple his opponent before the first strike.'

Erman Machholt, by contrast, wasn't known for martial or magical prowess. But he was a Machholt—which meant manipulation, scheming and politics was as normal to him as breathing.

'Even among the Machholts, Erman's one of the worst snakes,' Otto analysed. 'He can slither into any favourable position, talk his way out of any corner with his slippery tongue, and drive his fangs hard into your back when you least expect it.'

Though the three were technically equals, Otto knew better than to let his guard down.

The Reicherts were renowned for their martial lineage. In courtly terms, that was a polite way of saying they were a House of muscleheads—fighters, not plotters.

Of course, for a Duke family, they knew their own fair share of planning –righteous or evil—however, compared to the Wastelanders and especially the Machholts, they were not worth mentioning. Even saying they were babies compared to teenagers in the Wastelanders and an adult in the Machholts, was an insult to a baby.

So Otto kept his mouth shut. Getting caught in the crossfire between these two was a fool's game.

Erman's last words clearly hit a nerve. Rage simmered in Alric's eyes, and though he kept his expression neutral, his aura flickered dangerously.

Unbeknownst to the other two, Alric was fighting a powerful, nefarious urge to kill Erman right where he sat.

He wasn't just staring the man down—he was restraining himself.

'Calm down. Not yet,' Alric told himself coldly. 'We still need this whoreson. But once he's outlived his usefulness... hmph!'

"Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong, Erman," Alric finally said, voice calm but dripping with venom.

"Then don't speak to me like some fool you can prod and manipulate into being your pawn," Erman shot back, unflinching and unapologetic.

For a moment, Alric's eyelids lowered. He exhaled slowly, then opened his eyes again—serene, composed, unreadable.

But Erman noticed.

'Not gone,' he thought. 'Buried. Whatever he's planning… it's important to him. Enough to swallow his pride—for now.'

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