Chapter 13:

Duchess Iscera, The Blood Feast

Reincarnated as a High Elf Sage, I’ll Burn Down This Rotten Kingdom from Within



The evening air in Virelion felt different that day.

Not just because the sky had begun to dim or because the thin mist from the canals in the Western District crept onto the main streets, but there was something in the air that made people speak more quietly than usual.

Lyselle noticed it as she walked back from the plaza. The market’s usual lively chatter seemed restrained; merchants spoke in low tones, buyers exchanged quick glances before continuing their business. Even the children, who normally ran between the legs of adults, now sat in corners, playing while occasionally glancing toward the north of the city.

In her mind, the name repeated endlessly—Caelan Virelion.

The Crown Prince.

Not just any noble who happened to pass through an alley, but the heir to the throne. Someone who, somehow, had spoken to her as if they were equals.

(The king’s son… but what was he doing alone in the Eastern District?)

The question had yet to be answered, but Lyselle knew she wouldn’t forget it. There had been something in Caelan’s eyes yesterday—a look that didn’t belong to a spoiled noble.

Her steps halted in front of a bakery. The warm scent of cinnamon and sugar drifted from the door, left slightly ajar. Inside, two middle-aged women were talking while arranging trays of fruit tarts. Lyselle hadn’t intended to listen, but their words carried clearly enough.

“That party will be held tonight, won’t it?”

“Yes… at the Northern Palace. They say all the high nobles will attend.”

“Tch… including her?”

“Duchess Iscera? Of course. Who else would be in charge of the invitations?”

That last tone made Lyselle glance over. The name was unfamiliar, but the way the woman spoke it—half in awe, half in fear—was enough for her to take note.

They continued, quieter now, as if afraid someone might overhear.

“I heard… last year, after the party, several servants disappeared.”

“Shh! Don’t say that so loudly. If the palace hears we’re talking about it—”

“But you know it’s true. No one saw them again. Their families were only given hush money.”

Lyselle pretended to study the pastries in the display, but her ears stayed sharp.

A noble party… missing servants… and a woman named Duchess Iscera.

As she returned to the street, the city’s change in atmosphere became even clearer. Along the road toward the city center, blood-red fabrics were hung from noble balconies. Golden-wheeled carriages rolled past, carrying chests engraved with family crests. Warhorses draped in black velvet struck the cobblestones with heavy steps.

Even the air carried another scent—the fragrance of wildflowers mixed with an overpowering, cloying perfume. Too sweet, too thick, as if trying to mask something.

At an intersection, she passed two city guards in silver uniforms. One of them stifled a chuckle.

“I hear Duchess Iscera’s bringing ‘private entertainment’ this year.”

“Entertainment?”

“Yes… ‘special guests’ from the Southern District. They’ll never be coming back, that’s for sure.”

Their laughter left a cold feeling on the back of Lyselle’s neck.

This was clearly more than just dancing and music.

And the name Duchess Iscera—whoever she was—already felt like a shadow looming over the city.

As night approached, Virelion’s sky burned red like embers. Lyselle stood on a stone bridge, gazing at the Northern Palace’s towering silhouette. In the distance, torchlight lined the road to the main gates. Noble carriages kept arriving, their wheels gleaming under the flames.

Even from here, Lyselle could sense the palace’s different heartbeat—more lavish, more arrogant, and… more dangerous.

She drew in a slow breath. (If this party is as bad as I’ve heard… I might see a side of Virelion it never wants to show its people.)

The night wind carried faint sounds: laughter, clinking glasses, the swell of string music.

But beneath it, Lyselle felt something else—a whisper, or a long, heavy breath—drifting from the palace.

For the first time since arriving in this city, she felt her steps should be more careful.

Duchess Iscera.

The name had yet to reveal its form, but her presence was already tangible.

The music from the palace hall grew louder as Lyselle passed the main gates.

She had no invitation, but invitations weren’t the only way into such a party—if you knew the right paths. The Southern District had many tales about hidden corridors linking the old city to the palace’s underground halls. Tonight, Lyselle would test their truth.

The passage was narrow, damp-walled, its ceiling too low to stand upright. The smell of wet earth mingled with the faint scent of melting wax. At the far end, dim light seeped through the gap of a half-open iron door.

Stepping out, she found herself in a marble corridor lit by crystal lamps hanging from the ceiling. Laughter and the clink of glasses mixed with the thickly sweet scent of wine.

Beyond an arched doorway, the party unfolded.

Nobles clad in silk and velvet, jewels glittering at their throats and fingers. String music played softly as servants moved quickly, silver trays laden with glasses of red liquid—too red to be mere wine.

Lyselle kept to the room’s edge, eyes scanning. Many unfamiliar faces, some she’d seen on murals or gold coins. But her gaze was drawn to one figure at the center.

Duchess Iscera.

She stood beside a small throne, her black gown gleaming like polished obsidian. Her hair was long, jet-black and perfectly combed, her blood-red lips forming a thin smile that never reached her eyes. Her golden gaze—cold, sharp—was the gaze of a predator assessing prey.

Around her, other nobles laughed and bowed, but there was a subtle distance—not of respect, but of fear. Even the servant pouring her drink did so with slightly trembling hands.

The Duchess raised her glass, speaking in a soft tone that still carried across the hall.

“To Virelion… and to a night never to be forgotten.”

In unison, all raised their glasses.

The red liquid shimmered beneath the crystal light.

Lyselle did not join the toast—she saw something instead.

A young man in worn clothes, perhaps a new servant, stood near a pillar. His eyes were confused, his posture tense. A guard approached, touched his shoulder, and led him away through a side door. Lyselle watched them vanish behind heavy curtains.

For a split second, she noticed a smear of red at the boy’s fingertips—whether wine… or something else.

The music shifted. Its pace quickened, but without joy—more like the racing of a fearful heartbeat. Nobles began to dance, gowns and coats swirling beneath the lights.

Duchess Iscera stepped down from her small throne. Every step drew eyes, her gown’s fabric whispering against the marble floor, her voice soft but commanding as she addressed her guests. Some smiled too broadly as she passed, as if hiding nervousness.

Lyselle could feel the pressure of the woman’s presence. Not magic… or perhaps magic of a kind she’d never encountered. An aura that made lungs feel tight, that made the heart beat just a bit faster than it should.

The Duchess paused, her gaze sweeping the room.

And for a fraction of a second, those golden eyes met Lyselle’s.

The room seemed quieter. The music still played, but as if from far away. Lyselle held her breath, realizing that look… recognized something in her.

Then the faintest smile appeared—not friendly, but studying.

The Duchess looked away, walking toward the palace balcony, two tall guards in black armor following.

Even after she vanished beyond the balcony doors, Lyselle still felt that gaze clinging to her skin.

The party continued. Laughter, music, clinking glasses—all as before. But to Lyselle, it now felt like an arena.

And Duchess Iscera… was clearly the predator running her own game.

In the distance, from the side door where the young servant had been taken, came a sound like something falling… followed by a silence far too long.

Lyselle knew one thing: the night wasn’t over yet.

She waited for Duchess Iscera to return from the balcony.

The moment came sooner than she expected—the doors opened, and the woman stepped in, flanked by her black-armored guards. This time, her gaze went straight to Lyselle.

A faint smile curved her lips.

“It seems I see a new face among my guests.”

Lyselle bowed her head slightly, careful not to reveal too much.

“Merely an observer, Your Grace.”

“An observer?” Iscera approached, her steps measured, her gown sweeping the floor like flowing black ink. “Rarely does an observer dare to come without an invitation.”

“I… heard this party was open to all who knew the way,” Lyselle replied evenly.

The Duchess chuckled softly—a sound more like a silken whisper than genuine mirth.

“Ah… so you do know the way. Then, do you also know the price?”

Lyselle raised a brow. “Price?”

Iscera closed the distance until only half a step separated them. Her gaze pierced through, her tone soft yet cutting.

“Nothing is truly free in Virelion, elf girl. Even the air you breathe tonight… is paid for by someone.”

A plump noble passing by tried to greet her, but Iscera lifted a slender hand, halting him without a word. Her focus never left Lyselle.

“And who pays for tonight?” Lyselle asked cautiously.

The Duchess looked down at her glass of thick red liquid, swirling it slowly.

“Those who dance… or those who vanish from the party before midnight.”

Lyselle tried to read her tone—was it a threat? A warning? Or an invitation to play her game?

Suddenly, one of the guards whispered in Iscera’s ear.

“Your Grace… the servant has been secured.”

Iscera smiled faintly.

“Good. Make sure he remembers never to err again… or forgets everything.”

She looked back at Lyselle.

“You say you’re an observer. Very well… observe closely tonight. You’ll see more than you expect.”

“What’s really happening at this party?” Lyselle pressed, trying to hide the suspicion seeping into her voice.

The Duchess tilted her head, as if studying every flicker of Lyselle’s expression.

“This party is… a selection. Those who can keep secrets will shine beneath the crystal lights. Those who cannot… will become part of stories never told.”

A servant passed, offering wine. Lyselle refused, but Iscera took a glass and raised it.

“To secrets… and to the blood that keeps them buried.”

She sipped slowly, then stepped back.

“I’ll be watching you, Elf. And you… should decide which side you’ll stand on before dawn.”

Before Lyselle could reply, the Duchess had already turned, rejoining the circle of nobles who greeted her with laughter and false praise. Yet her golden gaze still flicked toward Lyselle now and then—a gaze promising this would not be their last encounter tonight.

The waltz shifted to a slower melody. Nobles gathered in the main area, while servants carried trays of dark red drinks that might have been made from grapes… or something else entirely.

Lyselle used the moment to slip away from the crowd. Her hand brushed the railing of the second-floor balcony, from which she could see the entire hall—sparkling crystal lights, gowns and coats of wealth, laughter sweet but poisoned.

She was about to return when she caught a faint voice from behind a velvet curtain at the corridor’s end.

“…he won’t be able to pay his taxes this year. Not after what we did to his land.”

The voice was deep, heavy, full of satisfaction.

Another voice replied, calmer but just as cutting.

“That means he’ll fall to the very bottom. And once he’s on the list… you know what happens.”

“I’ll get my share?”

“Of course. But remember, tax slaves don’t last long unless someone—” the voice lowered—“buys them for a certain reason.”

Lyselle held her breath. The term tax slave was no stranger to her. In Virelion, it meant someone who failed to pay taxes would, by law, be sold into slavery to cover the debt. Some never returned. Some… simply vanished.

The first voice spoke again, now with a hint of unease.

“You’re sure Caelan won’t interfere?”

Lyselle froze.

The second voice chuckled softly.

“That prince? He’s busy with his father’s political games. And if he ever finds out… well, we’ll make sure the news never reaches his ears.”

Footsteps approached. Lyselle quickly stepped back, pretending to study a painting as two nobles emerged from behind the curtain—faces flushed with drink and arrogance. They passed her without notice.

But their words were already carved into her mind.

Caelan. Tax slaves. Political games.

She returned to the main hall with careful steps, keeping her expression neutral. But inside, her thoughts were racing.

(This isn’t just a party. It’s a transaction… and the people caught in it might not even know they’ve already been sold.)

From the upper balcony, Duchess Iscera stood, surveying the crowd with the gaze of a queen commanding the entire chessboard. Her gaze paused briefly on Lyselle, and a thin smile played on her lips—a smile that gave no answers, only more questions.

The crystal lights dimmed slightly, marking midnight’s approach. Guests laughed, toasted, and danced, as if no blood or suffering flowed behind this party’s walls.

Lyselle decided one thing: she had to find Caelan before the night was over. Because if what those two nobles had said was true…

Then someone out there was about to be sold as a tax slave, and their time was almost gone.

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