Gobiem lowered his voice and glanced sideways, his temper flaring—but Marin, by contrast, grew even calmer.
"What are you talking about?"
"Because of the *abomination* you committed..." He ground his teeth, as if the words themselves were choking him. "Our family line came to an end."
This time, Marin was genuinely surprised.
*Really?*
Her gaze drifted downward—involuntarily—and she had to suppress a smile.
Before she could respond, a petite noblewoman approached them.
"Lord Gobiem. Introduce me as well."
"C-Christine."
Gobiem stared at the woman beside him, clearly caught off guard.
"Very well—I'll introduce myself." Christine's chin lifted. "Good evening. I am Christine of the Viscount House of Wares. Bride of Viscount Gobiem Norman."
"Good evening. Marin Shuvenz."
"Why are you standing beside my fiancé, Lady Shuvenz?"
Christine looked at Marin as though she were gazing upon a demon.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You're trying to seduce my fiancé *again*—what do you want to squeeze out of him this time?"
Christine's voice rose deliberately, sharp enough to slice through the ambient murmur of the reception. Nearby aristocrats began to turn.
Marin stared at her in bewilderment.
Gobiem, sensing the weight of public attention, flushed with visible embarrassment.
"Christine, what are you saying—"
"You came here to confront this woman, didn't you, Lord Gobiem?" Christine's eyes blazed. "You told me yourself: you succumbed to her temptation and lost something you could never recover. What *exactly* did you give her? What are you hiding—even from your own fiancée? *Demand it back!*"
She spoke even louder now. Deliberately. For the entire hall to hear.
The gossipy gazes of the surrounding nobles swiveled toward them like iron filings drawn to a magnet.
"That was—I was drunk, I said too much—"
"Lord Gobiem, you wouldn't invent something that never happened." Christine's voice dripped with theatrical accusation. "You said you fell *victim* to her seduction and lost something precious. *What?* What was so special that you can't even tell your own bride? *Demand it back!*"
Marin watched their performance and found it increasingly difficult to contain her laughter.
When Gobiem had approached her without a shred of conscience, she had assumed he'd lost his mind.
But it seemed he really *had* lost something important that night.
It was as if a ten-year weight lifted from her soul.
"Do you find this *funny?*"
Gobiem's eyes darted nervously around the room, but Christine's assault continued unabated.
"A little," Marin admitted.
"An unspeakably *shameless* woman!"
Marin found herself almost impressed.
*Has this girl truly forgotten who she's dealing with?*
Like Gobiem—who had rushed to accuse the Duke's bride of some mysterious "loss"—was his own fiancée equally fearless?
Or was jealousy clouding her judgment?
Perhaps she was counting on the support of those young ladies watching the scene unfold from a safe distance?
Whatever the case, Marin had no intention of dancing to this woman's tune.
For the Duke's honor, the scene had to end—before more eyes gathered.
"Lady Wares." Marin glanced pointedly at the glass in Christine's hand. "You seem quite drunk."
Christine's gaze dropped to her own fingers, as though noticing the glass for the first time.
"It seems so, yes. I'm quite tipsy. Please forgive my mistake—I was drunk."
But her words were crisp. Clear. And her eyes blazed with unwavering determination.
*Really...*
The glass slipped from Christine's fingers—tilting straight toward Marin.
Time seemed to slow.
Marin saw it coming. She couldn't dodge in time.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
*Boom.*
Not the shatter of breaking crystal—but a dull, resonant *thud.*
She opened her eyes.
The glass—and the Duke's cane—were embedded in a marble column across the room.
*How did they even get there?*
She turned, bewildered—and discovered a transparent barrier shimmering before her. Thanks to it, not a single drop of wine had reached her gown.
Though judging by the glass now lodged in stone, it wouldn't have flown much farther regardless.
"Tsk. I prepared it just in case." Zeromian approached slowly, grumbling under his breath. "Didn't think it would actually come in handy."
He waved the hand bearing his alchemical bracelet. The transparent shield that had protected her dispersed like mist in the wind.
"Are you alright?"
"Yes. Thank you."
"This is why I can't stand these gatherings."
Zeromian fixed Gobiem and Christine with a fierce glare.
Then—heavy footsteps.
The aristocrats who had been cowering from the unexpected spectacle parted like water before a blade.
A *presence* approached from behind.
With lips pressed into a hard line and a face cold as winter stone, the Duke walked through the crowd.
He ignored Gobiem. He ignored Christine.
He walked past them as though they did not exist—and went straight to Marin.
Leaning toward her ear, he whispered:
"What do you say?"
"Yes, yes—I know." Marin sighed. "I'm quite the troublemaker. I admit it."
"No." His voice dropped lower still. "I'm asking: should I just kill them?"
Marin's pale green eyes went wide.
"Right off the bat?"
"They attacked my fiancée. And that wasn't 'right off the bat'?"
His calm manner did nothing to mask the icy timbre beneath—a chill that crawled down her spine.
*This man... has he gone mad?*
*No. His eyes are still closed. He's not mad—he's holding back.*
She hated them herself. But killing people at an engagement ball was not permissible.
More precisely—there was no justification. If they executed nobles for attempting to splash wine, half the aristocracy would already be in heaven.
Marin gently took his hand, trying to soothe him.
"I'm fine. So—"
The Duke lightly touched her fingers. Then he raised his head.
When he spoke again, his voice carried—not shouted, but *projected*—so that every ear in the hall could hear:
"Remember what will happen to those who dare to touch her."
With his eyes still closed, he turned his face slowly across the room.
And smiled.
Cold. Sharp. Predatory.
It was a declaration of war.
He had spoken quietly—but the meaning reached everyone.
***"Don't touch my bride."***
A suffocating silence fell over the hall. The orchestra had long since stopped playing.
Ladies who had previously allowed themselves snide remarks about the Duke's bride now hid their frightened faces against their husbands' shoulders.
Every eye turned to Gobiem and Christine—the ones who had heard the warning closest.
Christine had gone white as marble. She didn't know where to turn. She hugged herself, trembling so violently that she dropped her head.
Gobiem, no less terrified, bent into a deep, servile bow.
"Y-Your Grace... Viscount Gobiem Norman respectfully greets you."
While he bowed, his thoughts raced wildly.
*I didn't expect the Duke to intervene so openly.*
*I don't know how Marin bribed him—but he clearly cares for her. An unforeseen variable.*
*Because of her, the Norman line died out.*
He could adopt an heir. But he would never have a child of his own blood.
He ground his teeth.
*I've plotted revenge against her every single day.*
A few weeks after *that night*, when he could finally walk again, he had gone to her miserable hut to settle the score.
And then—smiling with satisfaction—he had turned around and left.
The sight of Marin *begging* some common landlord in front of a wretched shack—a hovel where even a beggar would be uncomfortable—could no longer be called aristocratic.
She had looked more pitiful than a commoner.
*What hell could I inflict that would be worse than this?*
*Hell was already here—where she stood.*