Fate's Forgotten Trickster

Chapter 11: The Extra in the Noble World

The carriage rolled through the cobbled streets of Velmora, the heart of the empire's aristocracy. Golden spires stretched toward the heavens, reflecting the morning sun in dazzling brilliance. Lush gardens sprawled before grand estates, while banners of noble houses fluttered in the wind.

Inside the carriage, Margrave Noctis Umbrael sat in silence, his gloved fingers resting on his lap. He gazed through the window, his expression unreadable as the world outside passed him by.

Today was a test.

A test of perception, of control, of manipulation.

For the first time since his return, he would step into the noble world—not as the forgotten son of House Umbrael, but as a piece on the grand chessboard of aristocratic power.

And yet, in their eyes, he was still an extra.

A name barely worth remembering.

Good.

That was exactly what he wanted.

The carriage pulled to a halt before the Ivory Assembly Hall, a grand building where noble gatherings were held. Towering columns of white marble framed its entrance, while banners of the Twelve Great Houses lined the pathway leading to the hall's golden doors.

A footman opened the carriage door, and Noctis stepped out, his posture perfect, his movements deliberate.

He wore a midnight-black coat adorned with silver embroidery, the mark of House Umbrael stitched onto the left sleeve. It was elegant but not ostentatious, drawing no more attention than necessary.

As he walked forward, whispers followed.

"Is that…?"

"The second son of House Umbrael?"

"I heard he was sickly, yet he walks without difficulty."

"He is… different from what I expected."

Noctis heard every word. He let them linger in the air, neither reacting nor acknowledging them. Control over perception was his greatest weapon—one he wielded as subtly as a sharpened blade.

He ascended the steps, stepping through the grand doors into the hall of the elite.

Inside, the assembly hall was alive with elegant chatter and veiled hostility.

Clusters of nobles conversed beneath crystal chandeliers, their conversations laced with hidden motives. Young heirs measured each other with polite smiles and calculating gazes, while influential families maneuvered their alliances through casual remarks.

Noctis moved carefully, blending into the background rather than seeking the spotlight.

And yet, some attention was inevitable.

A nobleman with dark blue robes stepped forward, his eyes sharp with interest.

"Margrave Noctis Umbrael," the man greeted. "I am Duke Alden Valcairn. I must admit, your presence here is… surprising."

A test.

Noctis inclined his head slightly. "It is an honor, Duke Valcairn. I regret that my previous absence led to such a reaction."

The duke studied him, as if searching for weakness.

Noctis met his gaze, his own expression carefully neutral.

Do not challenge. Do not submit. Do not reveal too much.

A slight nod. A careful step forward. A controlled engagement.

Satisfied, the duke gave a polite smile and moved on.

The first hurdle had passed.

But others were watching.

Noctis barely had time to take in the hall before a familiar voice called out—one dripping with mocking amusement.

"Well, if it isn't the hidden Umbrael finally stepping into the light."

Noctis turned.

Standing before him was Lucian Reinhardt, heir to House Reinhardt, one of the empire's strongest military families.

Beside him stood Aurelius Darnell, a noble from a lesser house yet well-connected through political alliances.

Noctis had expected something like this.

"Lucian," Noctis greeted, his voice smooth. "I wasn't aware you paid such close attention to my absence."

A subtle strike. A polite insult hidden beneath formality.

Lucian's smirk twitched, but he did not falter. "It is only natural to take note of an unexpected player in the game of nobility."

Aurelius laughed. "To think you were once considered unremarkable, and now, you're here—hoping to play with the real heirs of the empire."

Another test.

Noctis kept his expression calm, his mind shifting.

Perception. Expectation. Manipulation.

He met Lucian's gaze, and for just a second—just long enough—he let the illusion slip.

Not one of magic, but of intent.

He allowed his presence to shift subtly—just enough to unsettle. To make them feel that something was off.

It was an illusion not for the eyes, but for the mind.

And it worked.

Lucian blinked, as if sensing something he couldn't quite understand.

Aurelius hesitated, his confidence faltering for the briefest of moments.

And then Noctis smiled—a noble's smile, empty yet unreadable.

"Perhaps the real game has only just begun," he said, his voice a whisper of a promise.

A calculated retreat, yet one that left them with unease.

And that, more than anything, was the true victory.

As the evening continued, Noctis carefully navigated conversation after conversation, subtly gathering information.

He listened to who aligned with whom, which houses had unspoken tensions, and which noble heirs were most susceptible to influence.

But amidst all the political maneuvering, one encounter stood out.

A woman approached him—her silver eyes piercing beneath a delicate mask.

Lady Lysandra Veyne.

"Margrave Noctis," she greeted, her voice smooth. "You move through the noble world with surprising ease for someone so… absent until now."

Another test.

Noctis tilted his head slightly, his smile calculated. "Perhaps it is easier to navigate a game when one has spent so long simply observing."

Lysandra studied him before offering a soft chuckle. "Then perhaps I should be wary of the things you have learned."

Their conversation danced between subtle threats and polite intrigue, yet Noctis could sense something else.

Lysandra was not like the others.

She did not see him as an irrelevant noble.

She saw him as a question yet to be answered.

And that made her dangerous.

As the gathering drew to a close, Noctis made sure of one thing—

He had spoken to everyone he needed to.

He had learned everything he needed to.

And most importantly—

He had left the noble world with exactly the impression he wanted.

Nothing more than an unassuming presence, yet one they could not quite ignore.

And that… was the first step.

The grand hall of noble politics was a battlefield of poised words and veiled intentions, but outside its lavish walls lay a different kind of stage—one woven through the streets of Velmora, where power did not always wear a crown.

Margrave Noctis Umbrael walked among them.

Dressed in a simple yet refined black coat, he moved with the effortless grace of someone who belonged yet did not demand attention. Here, amidst the sprawling city, his game continued—not with duels or titles, but with information, perception, and control.

And Noctis intended to claim them all.

The Grand Market of Velmora was alive with energy, the scent of exotic spices and ink-stained parchment mixing with the sharp tang of freshly polished steel. Here, merchants and minor nobles engaged in subtle trades—not only of goods, but of whispers and bargains.

Noctis stopped before a book vendor, running his gloved fingers over the spines of carefully bound tomes.

"Looking for something specific, my lord?" The merchant, an older man with keen eyes, studied him.

"Information," Noctis replied smoothly, lifting a book at random. "The kind that doesn't make it into history books."

The merchant hesitated, glancing around before lowering his voice. "Depends on the price."

Noctis pulled out a single golden crest, an unofficial token used among those who dealt in discreet matters. The vendor's eyes flickered with recognition.

"You should visit The Hollow Quill then," the merchant murmured, accepting the token with a careful nod. "A place where words are worth more than coin."

The Hollow Quill. A known meeting ground for information brokers, spies, and disgruntled noble retainers.

A place where the real history of the empire was written in whispers.

The entrance to The Hollow Quill was unremarkable—a modest bookstore tucked between an apothecary and a jeweler's shop. A discreet sign hung above the door, barely noticeable to the average passerby.

But Noctis was no average passerby.

He stepped inside, the scent of aged parchment and candle wax greeting him. Unlike the grand libraries of nobility, this place felt alive—a quiet hum of unseen knowledge lingering in the air.

An elderly woman sat behind the counter, her gaze sharp despite her frail appearance.

"You are either too bold or too foolish to step into my domain," she remarked, barely looking up from the scroll she was transcribing.

Noctis smiled politely. "Or perhaps I am simply… in need of guidance."

The woman raised an eyebrow before sighing. "Names are rarely exchanged here, but for you, Margrave, I will make an exception."

So, she already knew him.

He expected as much.

"My name is Mistress Elara, and I sell more than books—I sell the truths that nobles fear to speak."

Noctis took a seat across from her, exuding patience. "Then I wish to purchase a story—one that has been erased from history."

Elara studied him for a long moment before pulling out a faded scroll. "Then let me tell you of the Trickster's Fall."

Centuries ago, before the empire solidified its power, there existed a noble house unlike any other.

House Nyxthorn, a family with blood tied to the God of Deception, wielded influence not through armies, but through perception, illusion, and control of fate itself.

They were advisors, spies, and manipulators, feared and revered in equal measure. Kings sought their counsel, while enemies trembled at the thought of facing an opponent who could twist reality itself.

And yet, one day, House Nyxthorn vanished.

Their lands were seized. Their name was stricken from every record.

It was said that the Twelve Great Houses had united to erase them, for no empire could tolerate a power it could not predict or control.

But the bloodline did not die.

Rumors whispered of scattered descendants, noble bastards and hidden heirs carrying remnants of the Trickster's power.

Some say they still walk among the nobility, unseen and unknown even to themselves.

Elara's voice was calm as she finished, watching Noctis carefully.

He leaned back, processing her words.

A noble house that could manipulate perception, control reality, and bend truth itself…

It sounded uncomfortably familiar.

Because those were the very abilities he possessed.

Noctis Umbrael was not just an anomaly.

He was a descendant of a bloodline the empire had tried to erase.

"Why tell me this?" Noctis finally asked.

Elara smiled thinly. "Because you asked the question only those who carry the Trickster's blood ever ask."

Noctis left The Hollow Quill in silence, his mind calculating.

If this knowledge was true, then it meant two things:

One he was being watched. Even if no one realized what he was yet, the moment he revealed his power too openly, history would repeat itself.

Second His family—the Umbraels—either knew and chose to remain silent, or they were ignorant of the blood that ran through their veins.

Either way, Noctis could not afford to be careless.

As he walked through the city, he blended in with the crowd, his ability subtly dampening his presence—not invisibility, but misdirection.

A noble guard brushed past him but did not register his face.

A merchant glanced his way but forgot him the moment he looked away.

It was a simple trick—to be seen but not remembered.

A skill his ancestors must have once mastered.

And if he wished to survive in a world that feared unpredictability, he would have to master it too.

As the sun set, Noctis returned to the Umbrael estate, slipping through the grand halls without attracting attention.

He was no longer simply observing the noble world.

He was now a player, moving pieces in a game where history itself was a weapon.

And as he sat in his private quarters, reviewing the notes he had collected throughout the day, a quiet realization settled over him.

The empire had spent centuries trying to erase his kind.

But now, a descendant of the Trickster had returned.

And this time, the game would be played on his terms.