Fate's Forgotten Trickster

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

The Masked World of Nobility

Days passed and a grandeur event was held at the Aurelian Estate. The Estate was a masterpiece of excess—golden chandeliers, polished marble floors, and walls adorned with priceless paintings stretching across vast halls. It was a place where power and prestige intertwined, where the kingdom's most influential gathered under a facade of civility, hiding daggers behind smiles.

Noctis moved like a shadow through the grandeur, unnoticed among the glittering lords and ladies. He was, after all, a background character in their story, a noble of minor standing.

It suited him perfectly.

A trickster did not stand in the spotlight. He whispered from the shadows, twisting the very stage beneath the actors.

His first opportunity came swiftly.

Across the room, Lord Harland Vayle, a merchant-turned-noble, spoke with Viscount Renholt, an established aristocrat. Their discussion revolved around a major trade agreement—one that would elevate House Vayle into the noble elite if finalized.

A perfect target.

Noctis did not need force.

He needed only a whisper.

The power of a Trickster's Bloodline was not brute strength—it was subtle, creeping influence.

As he passed by the two nobles, he let his gift stir, his very presence weaving a delicate suggestion into the air.

Not a direct command—no, that would be crude. Instead, he nudged their thoughts, a fleeting whisper in the mind of Lord Vayle:

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

It was a question, not a statement. But it was enough.

Doubt seeped into Vayle's expression. His fingers tightened around his goblet, his jaw tensing as he studied Renholt. The merchant lord's mind raced—had he miscalculated? Had Renholt already made deals behind his back?

Across from him, the Viscount frowned. "You were speaking to House Aurelia, weren't you?"

Renholt hesitated. "What? No, I—"

But it was too late.

A single moment of hesitation was fatal in the world of nobility.

Lord Vayle's posture stiffened, his trust shaken. And trust was more valuable than gold among aristocrats.

The deal collapsed before it was even signed.

Noctis walked past, his face unreadable, his satisfaction hidden behind an indifferent mask. One small push, and the ripples would spread.

He had begun his work.

"This is fun." He muttered silently.

But even as he relished the quiet triumph, something else caught his attention.

A presence.

Someone was watching him—not the fleeting glances of nobles dismissing an insignificant name, but the piercing gaze of a predator recognizing prey.

He turned slightly, his expression composed.

Valen Drexler, his steward.

The man stood at the far side of the hall, arms crossed, his sharp gray eyes narrowing in scrutiny.

Noctis had known Valen since childhood. The steward had always been indifferent toward him, treating him as nothing more than a duty. But now? There was something new in his gaze. Awareness. Caution.

Noctis continued moving, as if unaware.

But later that night, in the corridors of the estate, Valen approached him.

"You move differently," the steward remarked, his voice steady, unreadable.

Noctis raised an eyebrow. "Do I?"

"You used to slouch when standing still. Your gait was uneven. Now, you walk with purpose," Valen's tone remained calm, yet edged with curiosity.

Noctis tilted his head, amusement flickering behind his expression. "I wasn't aware my posture was so fascinating to you, Valen."

The steward didn't smile. "Tonight, I watched two nobles nearly come to blows over a misunderstanding. And I saw you walking past them just before it happened."

A challenge.

Noctis met his gaze, unflinching. "Fortune is a fickle thing. Perhaps I simply bring misfortune to those around me."

Valen studied him for a long moment before finally inclining his head. "I will be watching, my lord."

Noctis smirked. "Then I suppose I should be entertaining."

Returning to the main hall, Noctis was intercepted by Lady Lysandra Umbrael—his elder sister.

She was the epitome of aristocratic grace, her sapphire gown flowing like liquid moonlight, her long black hair woven into intricate braids. But it was her eyes—sharp, calculating—that made her dangerous.

"Brother," she greeted, sipping her wine. "You've been… different tonight."

Noctis tilted his head. "Am I?"

"You're quieter, yet present. Unassuming, yet noticed." She swirled her wine lazily. "It's unlike you."

He offered her a smooth smile. "A game implies players, Lysandra. I am merely an observer."

Her smirk deepened. "Observers are often the most dangerous of all."

She walked away, but the meaning lingered.

Lysandra was perceptive. If she sensed a shift in him, others would too, in time.

Which meant he needed to move faster

As Noctis prepared to leave the gathering, a cloaked figure stepped into his path.

The man wore the insignia of House Ravencourt—a family infamous for its network of spies and informants.

"You should tread carefully, young lord," the noble said, voice smooth and knowing.

Noctis met his gaze evenly. "I am but a minor noble. What reason would I have for caution?"

The masked noble chuckled. "Because someone like you… does not remain insignificant for long."

Then, just as swiftly as he had appeared, the noble vanished into the shadows.

Noctis stood still, the weight of the encounter settling in his mind.

He had been noticed.

Perhaps it was inevitable. A ripple in still waters would always attract attention.

But that was fine.

A trickster did not fear being watched.

A trickster made the watchers see only what he wanted them to see.

And so, the game continued.

A game no one even knew he was playing.