A Game No One Knows I’m Playing

Chapter 3: A Game No One Knows I'm Playing

The Masked World of Nobility

The evening before the Aurelian Estate gathering, Noctis sat in his mother's chambers. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and lavender, a lingering trace of House Erevar's forgotten power. Lady Selene Umbrael — once Selene Erevar — stood by the window, watching the moonlight with cold, detached elegance.

"You intend to test your gift tomorrow," she said without turning.

Noctis did not bother denying it. "I need to understand its reach. How subtle it can be."

Selene turned, her pale blue eyes piercing. "And when you do, remember: you are not merely a son of House Umbrael. You are the last shadow of House Erevar."

Her words settled like iron in his chest.

"Your father and his kin will never accept you as their own. To them, you are a stain upon their bloodline — a reminder of the power they feared and destroyed. You were never meant to serve them." Her voice was soft, but the venom underneath was unmistakable.

"Then what am I meant for?"

Selene stepped forward, her fingers grazing his chin, lifting his face to meet hers. "To unmake them. Slowly. Subtly. Until they cannot tell where the cracks began." Her lips curled into a ghostly smile. "That is the gift of a trickster's blood. Not power in strength, but the power to fracture empires without ever drawing a sword."

A flicker of unease touched Noctis. "And if I am discovered?"

Selene's gaze did not waver.

"Then you will learn what it means to make kings kneel with words alone."

That night, Noctis did not sleep. Her words — her legacy — burned through his veins. And when dawn broke, his resolve was colder, sharper. He would test the reach of his bloodline, but more than that… he would begin to unmake the nobility that had cast House Erevar into the shadows.

The Aurelian Estate dripped with excess — chandeliers of crystal, tapestries woven with gold, and marble floors polished to a near mirror finish. The kingdom's most influential figures moved like predators in silk, their smiles hollow, their alliances fragile.

And Noctis walked among them, invisible but listening. Always listening.

"You do not conquer through force, Noctis," his mother's voice echoed in his mind. "You conquer through doubt. Fear. Isolation. Make them question their allies, and they will tear themselves apart."

His first opportunity presented itself swiftly.

Across the hall, Lord Harland Vayle, a merchant-turned-noble, was deep in conversation with Viscount Renholt regarding a lucrative trade agreement. The terms were clear — if finalized, House Vayle would ascend into aristocratic power, gaining access to maritime routes and exclusive imports. It was a leap most nobles spent decades striving for.

And Noctis intended to shatter it within minutes.

"Strike at their foundation, not their crown," Selene's voice guided. "A crumbling foundation topples empires."

Noctis's approach was casual, his gait unassuming, his expression carefully neutral. He didn't need grand theatrics — just a whisper. Just a fracture.

As he passed them, his gift stirred — a delicate ripple of influence that nudged at Lord Vayle's subconscious. His words were not spoken aloud, but planted as a suggestion.

"Wasn't Renholt seen meeting with House Aurelia's envoy last week?"

It was a question — not a command — allowing Lord Vayle's own paranoia to complete the sabotage.

The merchant lord's grip on his goblet tightened. His relaxed smile flickered, his mind already turning against his companion.

"House Aurelia?" Vayle asked sharply, his voice strained. "I wasn't aware you were in communication with them."

Renholt blinked, caught off guard. "What? No, I— It was merely—"

Vayle's gaze darkened. "Merely what, Viscount?"

The air between them shifted from cordial to tense in an instant. Noctis did not slow his stride. He didn't need to witness the aftermath; he already knew how it would end.

"Trust is brittle in court, my son," his mother's voice hummed in his memory. "And you… you were born to break it."

Moments later, Noctis positioned himself by a nearby column, his face masked with practiced indifference. From his vantage point, he watched the fracture unfold.

"I'm merely stating that my conversation with House Aurelia was brief," Renholt insisted, his voice defensive.

"Yet you didn't think it prudent to inform me?" Vayle's tone was like ice, his grip on his goblet whitening his knuckles. "I wonder what else you've neglected to mention."

"It was nothing. I swear it."

A scoff. A glance toward another noble. Doubt. It sank like lead in Vayle's chest.

"Do you feel it, Noctis?" Selene's voice whispered from memory. "The moment trust withers? It is exquisite, isn't it?"

And he did feel it. The satisfying clink of a crumbling alliance.

Lord Vayle's expression turned colder with every word from Renholt's mouth. By the time the conversation ended, the trade agreement — the pillar that would have elevated House Vayle — lay in ruins.

Noctis exhaled slowly. One push. One carefully placed suggestion. And two nobles now danced on the verge of severance.

"Plant the seed. Let them destroy themselves."

But just as Noctis turned to slip away, he felt it — a weight in the air. A gaze.

His muscles tensed. He turned his head slightly — and found Valen Drexler, his family's steward, watching him. The man stood at the far side of the hall, his gray eyes narrowed with sharp calculation.

"He sees too much," Noctis thought coldly.

Valen's gaze was not casual. It was studying. Scrutinizing. Like a predator recognizing another of its kind.

Noctis maintained his composure and walked away — but he could feel the pressure of Valen's suspicion searing into his back.

Later that evening, as the festivities simmered into quieter, intimate gatherings, Noctis lingered near the edge of the ballroom. His wine swirled lazily in his glass, untouched. He was not drinking for pleasure — he was observing. Calculating.

It was then he felt it — that gnawing sensation of being watched.

Noctis did not react immediately. Instead, he let the feeling settle, his mind sharpening like a blade. Slowly, subtly, he turned his gaze — and there, across the hall, stood Valen Drexler, his steward.

The man's eyes were sharp and calculating, like a falcon watching prey from a branch. Valen was no ordinary servant; he was a man who had served House Umbrael long before Noctis was born — and he had a dangerous habit of noticing too much.

"Your first mistake will be assuming no one is watching," his mother's voice echoed in his memory. "The moment you act, you will draw eyes. Accept it. Manipulate it."

Noctis smiled faintly. It seems I've drawn my first predator.

But he did not shrink from it. Instead, he approached Valen first. It was a calculated move — dominance disguised as curiosity. The easiest way to unsettle a watcher was to walk straight into their gaze.

"Something on your mind, Valen?" Noctis asked, his voice casual, his expression a careful mask of indifference.

Valen did not flinch. "You move differently, my lord."

Noctis raised a brow. "Do I?"

The steward's gaze did not waver. "Yes. You used to hesitate when entering rooms like these. Always lingering at the edges. Now… you move with purpose. Precision." His tone held no accusation — only fact. Cold. Measuring.

Noctis smiled faintly, as though the observation amused him. "Perhaps I've simply grown tired of being overlooked."

Valen did not answer immediately. His eyes flicked, subtly, to the far end of the hall where Lord Vayle and Viscount Renholt still lingered, though now the space between them was palpable — trust fractured.

"And it seems," Valen said carefully, "others grow less fond of each other in your presence."

The statement was a blade disguised as conversation. A lesser man would have stumbled, but Noctis's training — Selene's training — held him steady.

"And if they suspect you?" his mother's voice coiled in his mind. "Feed them enough truth to keep them from the whole."

"I suppose it's natural," Noctis said smoothly. "Surrounded by ambitious nobles, one learns not to slouch." He let the subtle hint of disdain tinge his voice, as though mocking the social game they played. "Perception is everything, isn't it?"

Valen watched him carefully, his silence heavier than words. Then: "It was not perception that made you invisible, my lord. It was reluctance. And now, I no longer see reluctance in you."

The air between them thickened.

"He's sharper than I gave him credit for," Noctis thought coldly. "Too sharp."

A thousand responses crossed his mind — denial, deflection, indifference. Instead, he reached for a lesson Selene had driven into his bones.

"Turn a predator's gaze back upon itself."

Noctis leaned forward slightly, his tone low, conspiratorial. "And what would you prefer, Valen? That I remain meek, or that I adapt?"

A pause. Something flickered in Valen's gaze — not surprise, but wariness. The shift in power dynamic was subtle, but it was there. Noctis no longer answered to Valen's expectations; instead, he turned the weight of observation back upon him.

"It is not my preference that matters," Valen said carefully. "Only my duty."

Noctis smiled. "And my survival."

For a brief moment, silence descended like a vice between them. Then Valen inclined his head. "I'll be watching you, my lord."

"Good," Noctis thought. "Watch me. And see only what I wish you to see."

But even as he stepped away, the lingering chill of Valen's gaze did not leave his spine. For the first time, Noctis understood what his mother had meant by inevitable attention. He had stirred the waters — and the predators were already watching.

"He's testing me," Noctis realized. "He suspects I've changed."

And for once, Noctis did not know whether that was a risk — or an opportunity.

"I suppose we'll find out."

As Noctis reentered the grand hall, he barely had time to regain his mental footing before another predator closed in.

Lady Lysandra Umbrael, his elder sister, moved through the crowd like a panther — graceful, poised, and impossibly lethal. Her sapphire gown shimmered like liquid moonlight, the fabric pooling around her as she glided toward him. In her hand, a glass of dark wine swirled lazily, but her cold blue eyes never left Noctis.

He felt it like a blade along his spine — calculated interest. Not the fond gaze of a sister, but the penetrating scrutiny of a noble watching something that did not belong.

"Your family will notice it surely," his mother's voice whispered in his mind. "And they will test you. Prepare for it."

Lysandra intercepted him without ceremony, stepping into his path with effortless command.

"You've been… different tonight, brother," she said, voice light yet sharp. Her smile did not touch her eyes.

Noctis met her gaze, his own carefully neutral. "Have I?"

A delicate chuckle. "Yes. Subtle, but noticeable." She took a measured sip of wine, her gaze narrowing. "You're quieter. Sharper. Less… detached. It's unlike you."

The air between them thickened.

"Deflect without denial. Disarm without confession," his mother's voice instructed.

Noctis gave a nonchalant chuckle. "Perhaps I've finally grown into my title. It was bound to happen eventually."

Lysandra smiled — slow, predatory. "Is that so?"

The weight of her scrutiny did not lessen. If anything, it sharpened. Like she was stripping away his skin, searching for the creature beneath.

"And yet…" she said smoothly, "you did not simply grow into it. Something… shifted. I see it in your posture, your mannerisms. The way you look at a room now — not as part of it, but as someone watching the pieces move."

A colder sensation slid into Noctis's veins. His sister was not a fool — far from it.

"She sees the change," his mother's voice echoed. "But suspicion is not proof. Control the narrative, and even suspicion can be turned into power."

Noctis let out an easy laugh, as though entertained by her words. "You make it sound as though I've undergone some grand metamorphosis."

Lysandra smiled, but her gaze never lost its razor edge. "Haven't you?"

Silence coiled between them.

Noctis did not answer immediately. He calculated. Lysandra was a creature of ambition — ruthless and intelligent. If she believed he had inherited something from their mother, she would push. Test. Perhaps even dismantle him before he gained enough power to become a threat.

"Feed her a truth," his mother's voice instructed. "But not the truth she's searching for."

He tilted his head, letting his expression slip into a veil of nonchalance. "If something has shifted, perhaps it's simply because I've finally realized my place."

"And what place is that?"

He smiled faintly. "Where I should have been all along — observing, not performing."

Lysandra's head tilted slightly. Amusement flickered behind her eyes, but it was laced with something darker — calculation.

"A curious thing," she murmured, "for a man who once moved like a ghost in his own house to suddenly carry the gaze of a predator."

"She's testing you," Selene's voice coiled like silk in his mind. "Turn the test against her."

"And a curious thing," Noctis countered smoothly, "for a sister who never once regarded her brother as a threat to suddenly notice him."

The flicker of amusement in Lysandra's eyes sharpened — like she appreciated the maneuver. Noctis felt the tug of control shift between them, but it did not fully return to his grasp. Lysandra was too experienced in these games to let him win that easily.

"Perhaps," she said slowly, "because I'm beginning to wonder if my brother is no longer… forgettable."

Noctis held her gaze, his pulse steady. "Would it disappoint you if I wasn't?"

Lysandra smiled — a sharp, dangerous thing. "On the contrary. I find it… fascinating."

A pause. Her gaze flicked toward the nobles Noctis had subtly fractured earlier in the evening — Lord Vayle and Viscount Renholt, still visibly strained.

"And here I thought I was the only one in the family adept at playing with knives," Lysandra murmured.

Noctis smiled. "Knives take many forms."

The silence between them stretched once more, but this time it was a battle of dominance. Lysandra was trying to unearth him, and Noctis was carefully, methodically, feeding her just enough to be intrigued — but not enough to truly understand him.

Then Lysandra leaned in, her voice a low, knowing whisper. "Your mother's blood runs cold, brother. And you know as well as I do what that means."

Noctis did not flinch. But something primal within him stirred.

"This is it," he realized. "She suspects I've inherited it."

"Meaning?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

Lysandra's smirk deepened. "It means that whatever you've become — whatever shift I'm seeing — is not simply maturity. It's blood. It's her."

A cold weight coiled in his stomach.

"And what will she do now?"

Lysandra finished her wine and turned away, but not without delivering a parting blow. "I do hope you continue to surprise me, Noctis. It would be such a shame if you remained insignificant."

And then she was gone, disappearing into the throng of nobles like smoke.

Noctis stood still, his mind calculating.

"She doesn't know. But she suspects."

"And now, she's watching."

"Good," Noctis thought darkly, his mother's voice curling in his mind. "Let her watch. And when she finally sees — it will already be too late."

The gathering had begun to thin, nobles slowly trickling out into the night, their parting pleasantries hollow and mechanical. Noctis moved through the dimly lit halls of the Aurelian Estate, his mind still replaying every fragmented conversation he'd witnessed — every thread of tension he'd subtly pulled.

"Lord Vayle's deal collapsed before it was signed. Lysandra beginning to take notice. Valen suspects me but has no proof. The pieces are moving."

He allowed himself a faint, private smile. This was how it should be — strings being plucked, chaos blooming quietly beneath the surface.

But as he turned toward the exit, a presence emerged from the shadows.

A figure, cloaked in midnight black, melted from the darkened corridor. The flickering candlelight caught the gleam of silver — the insignia of House Ravencourt.

Noctis immediately recognized it. House Ravencourt did not speak with words; they spoke with spies, whispers, and unseen knives. The noble families feared them, but House Umbrael? They despised them.

And now one of Ravencourt's shadows stood directly in his path.

Noctis did not break stride. Show no hesitation. Give them no advantage.

The figure stepped forward, his face still partially obscured by his hood. But his voice — smooth as silk, dark as night — slid through the space like venom.

"You should tread carefully, young lord."

Noctis slowed, but did not halt. His expression was a carefully curated mask of polite disinterest. "Forgive me, but I don't recall having the pleasure of your acquaintance."

A soft chuckle. Amused. Mocking. "We do not require introductions in House Ravencourt, Lord Noctis. We observe. We listen. And now…" the man's gaze sharpened, "we have taken notice."

The air thickened.

Noctis did not flinch. "A minor lord of no consequence? I can't imagine what notice I could possibly warrant."

"Yes." The noble's voice dripped with something heavy. Knowing. "A minor lord… of no consequence. And yet, within a single evening, two noble houses have fractured without bloodshed. Interesting, isn't it?"

Noctis's stomach did not tighten, nor did his pulse waver. He merely smiled, languid and disarming. "Coincidence, I imagine. The nature of politics."

The noble chuckled again — softer this time, but with a predatory edge. "And is it also coincidence that House Umbrael's forgotten son now walks with the composure of a predator instead of prey?"

Ah.

There it was.

A deliberate probe. A scalpel, not a hammer — testing for cracks in Noctis's composure. Trying to force him into a defensive reaction.

"Don't react. Control the space. Control the narrative."

Noctis exhaled softly, feigning amusement. "You flatter me, truly. But I believe you're misinterpreting shadows for substance."

Silence.

And then the noble took one step closer — just enough to brush into Noctis's personal space. "Am I?"

The air was suddenly suffocating, and Noctis understood — this was not merely a social encounter. This was the first knife pressed against his throat.

"Defuse it. Twist it. Make him question his own certainty."

With immaculate poise, Noctis laughed softly — like the remark was utterly ridiculous. "If House Ravencourt truly believes that my presence warrants notice, then I am afraid your standards for intrigue have slipped."

The noble's head tilted. "And yet I wonder… how many more fractured alliances will follow in your shadow before everyone else notices it too?"

There it was — the real threat.

Not violence. Exposure.

House Ravencourt was warning him: We see you moving the pieces. We will let you continue — for now. But we are watching. Slip, and we will unmask you.

Noctis held the man's gaze, his heart calm despite the suffocating weight. And slowly, purposefully, he let his Trickster's Bloodline stir beneath his skin.

"Influence is not forcing action. It is redirecting perception."

With delicate precision, Noctis allowed his very presence to shift — not physically, but perceptually. The weight of the conversation now hung subtly around the noble instead of Noctis. An unseen pressure, like a growing itch in the back of the noble's mind.

The man's expression subtly tensed. Imperceptible to most, but Noctis caught it. Doubt.

A cold, slow smile curled Noctis's lips. "I appreciate your concern, my lord. But I assure you — I am far less interesting than you imagine."

The noble's pupils dilated — a subtle subconscious response to the unnatural pressure Noctis had layered upon him. Uncertainty.

A heartbeat of silence. Then the noble, visibly regaining control, offered a slow, predatory grin.

"Perhaps." He took a deliberate step back, the tension breaking like glass. "But remember, young lord — in a court full of lions, even the smallest wolf attracts attention when it starts to bare its teeth."

Noctis's smile did not waver. "And those who linger too long in the dark often forget how fragile their throats become."

A spark — brief, dangerous — flashed in the noble's eyes. And then, without another word, the figure melted back into the corridor's shadows, as if he had never existed.

Noctis remained still, his breath measured. His hands were steady, but the sheer weight of the encounter lingered like ice in his veins.

"You have been seen," Selene's voice whispered darkly in his mind. "But not yet understood. Use that. Make them miscalculate. Make them fear shadows instead of substance."

Noctis exhaled slowly, his mind already calculating.

Good.

"Let them watch."

"By the time they understand what I am, it will be far too late."

And so, Noctis stepped into the cold night air, the weight of the encounter still heavy on his shoulders — but his resolve colder than ice.

The game had shifted.

And now the predators were watching.

Perfect.

"A game no one knows I'm playing," Noctis murmured. "And by the time they do, I will already have won."