[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/seHu1lv.png[/img][/center] [color=gray] [color=4C93C2]Location:[/color] Castle Dining Hall [color=4C93C2]Time:[/color] Evening [color=4C93C2]Mention:[/color] [@Oso] Cassius, Milo [@Tpartywithzombi] Violet [@Tae] Kalliope, Mina [@ReusableSword] Roman [@Silverpaw] Wulfric [@FunnyGuy] Alexander [/color] [hr] [color=gray]Calbert had been planning to address their banquet table, greeting them with his charm as always, when a ripple of tension in the atmosphere caught his attention. Something shifted...Not in the room itself, but in the air between people. A silence, too sharp to be a coincidence. His eyes flicked to the commotion unfolding near one of the marble pillars. What he saw made [i]his blood run cold.[/i] Cassius had Milo St. Claire pinned against the column with the kind of force that wasn't merely physical—it was emotional, volatile, and barely restrained. But it wasn’t the confrontation that alarmed Calbert most—it was his son's face... Cassius’s expression was stripped of its usual defiance, of his signature smirk or calculating coldness. In its place was something far worse. His eyes were hollow with anguish, his mouth tight with the strain of holding back something raw and consuming. The pain was written not just on his features, but in his posture—tense, unsteady, as if whatever had driven him forward was the last thread keeping him upright. Cassius looked like a man unraveling. Calbert’s heart lurched in a way it hadn’t in years, and he had nearly stood up abruptly and uncharacteristically, but his wife had suddenly gripped his knee. He watched his son tremble beneath the weight of something unseen, something that perhaps even Cassius couldn’t name. [color=teal]“He doesn’t look well.”[/color] Calbert agreed, lowly, [color=4C93C2]“Something’s wrong with him… He’s not himself.”[/color] His gaze followed the motions. Rhe way Kalliope emerged from her own spectacle, the fall that had already turned a few heads, only to insert herself into a scene she had no business being in. And yet, there she was, laying a hand on his son like she had the right to anchor him. The last thing Cassius needed right now was that bitch of a woman Kalliope. That thing, Milo St. Claire, had slithered away just in time, leaving behind the smoldering wreckage of whatever words had been exchanged. And somehow, in the quiet that followed, it was Kalliope who steadied him. Calbert’s jaw clenched, but his expression remained unreadable. [color=4C93C2]“Whatever that smug little peacock said to him… I will find out.”[/color] His voice was low, clipped, and laced with quiet venom. Though he had been momentarily distracted from the current conversation, a voice cut through the hum like a dagger, stating something Calbert could not miss. [i][b][Color=gold]“If you're going to make backhanded compliments, you should put some more [I]power[/I] into it… Like when you slapped Violet in the face.”[/color][/b][/i] Calbert's spine straightened in his chair. He didn’t turn immediately. He didn’t need to. The words were already burning themselves into the iron walls of his memory. He had cataloged the voice, the cadence, the smirking venom laced in every syllable. [i]Alexander Deacon.[/i] The Count of Montauppe had heard many things whispered in ballrooms, secrets that danced on the tips of tongues like smoke over a candle... But never had something quite infuriated him like this. Firstly, the fact that the man had chosen to share this information in a public setting, amidst nobles and dignitaries, rather than inform him—the father, the protector, the blood of the girl in question—was a move so recklessly arrogant, so fundamentally disrespectful, that it might as well have been a challenge. It was not simply the message that enraged him...It was the method. The theater of it. The implication that Calbert Damien was somehow a secondary party in the defense of his daughter. And then came the content of the message itself. The very image of this brute hitting his little girl threatened to unravel him. The thought of someone hurting her, after everything she had suffered, after being torn from life and dragged back to it by means she didn’t yet understand... It made the bile rise in his throat like acid. She had been stolen once by death itself, and now this man thought he had the right to bruise her in life? His eyes were already scanning the table, locking onto Roman Ravenwood like a hawk spotting a rodent in tall grass. The intensity in his eyes was so complete that even a glance might have felt like the sun narrowing itself to a point and setting fire to a single thread. He watched him. He watched him breathe. He watched how his shoulders moved with each exhale. He noted the way his hand wrapped around his utensils. He memorized the cadence of his chewing, the rhythm of his blinking, the way his eyes shifted—whether they were confident, indifferent, or already guilty. Quite frankly, Calbert looked ready to vault over the table and strangle the Varian lord with his bare hands—dignity be damned. His expression remained composed, but those sharp blue eyes of his betrayed him. [i]His eyes promised ruin[/i]. He did not so much as glance at Prince Wulfric as he spoke his criticism of Alexander. His eyes remained locked on Roman Ravenwood unwaveringly. If there was a single tremor beneath that stillness, it was buried beneath decades of control. However, he was certainly unhappy that Violet was being put in a terrible position to have to publically disclose the truth. Then the king’s voice grated against every cultivated nerve in his body. [color=4C93C2][i]What a buffoon.[/i][/color] An imbecile cloaked in a crown, swinging words like a drunkard swings fists...Loud, clumsy, and unaware of the damage left behind. To joke of striking women and trivialize his daughter being attacked in front of him like this! And worse still, to frame it in the theater of statecraft and laugh through a goblet as if it were a wine-soaked jest. Lady Blackwood had the nerve to address such in a light-hearted manner that he did note was uncharacteristic of her, but he did not care to think much else of it. More so, he found himself more peeved at her uncle for pushing Violet for public confirmation just as the crown prince had. Now Roman himself—he was smiling and cheerful as he dined, eyes gleaming with practiced ease, laughter falling effortlessly from his mouth. He was addressing the conversation whilst suggesting the food as if it were all small talk. That kind of composure, that lightness in the face of such a serious accusation, disturbed Calbert in ways he did not show. The lack of emotional response, the calm, almost flippant charm... it reminded him of Kazumin Nagasa. That same detachment and unnerving ability to wear humanity like a borrowed coat. He had no need to glance toward his daughter as Roman continued on with an excuse he had not dreamed Roman would dare give before the room. He dared to frame what he had done as [i]some drunken mishap[/i], a misdirected caress in a moment of passion? His brows furrowed. [i]A moment of passion.[/i] He dared. [i]He truly dared.[/i] The implication settled in his chest like a brand pressed to flesh. Roman Ravenwood, the brute pretending to be a gentleman, had just suggested, before the entire court, that he had been [i]intimate[/i] with Violet. That he had touched her [i]in passion.[/i] And not only that—but that in doing so, he had [i]struck her.[/i] A wave of cold fury surged through Calbert’s veins. It was not the hot-blooded rage of a fool, but the slow, rising burn of a man who knew exactly what this meant. If Alexander knew, Violet must have spoken of it. She must have trusted someone enough to reveal that pain. And after all she had been through—and Roman had the audacity to [i]laugh[/i]. Here was Roman—having just [i]insinuated[/i] a moment of drunken, violent intimacy with his daughter—casually segueing into courtly maneuvering, smiling. He moved from impropriety to political parable in a breath, as though discussing the weather. His tone took on a mock-thoughtfulness, his gaze wandering with leisurely cruelty from Violet to Mina and back, like he was [i]sampling options.[/i] It was not merely offensive. It was calculated. Roman had taken that sickening implication—that [i]he had been with Violet[/i] in a moment of passion, and struck her—and [i]used it[/i]. Weaponized it in front of the entire court. And now he was engaging in social chess as if the board were not Calbert’s [i]daughter's dignity.[/i] And that smile—so smug, so damnably entertained—was the final insult. [color=4C93C2]“Lord Ravenwood.”[/color] Calbert greeted him. [color=4C93C2]“I have long understood that it is the mark of a certain type of man to smile while his house is burning… but rarely have I seen one so eager to light the match himself.”[/color] He set down his fork. No clatter. Just a soft, deliberate click. He paused—not to gather his thoughts, but to allow the court to breathe in the silence, to feel it tighten. [color=4C93C2]“You have just informed a room full of royals and dignitaries,”[/color] he continued, [color=4C93C2]“that my daughter, Lady Violet Damien, was struck by you... And—how did you phrase it? Ah, yes—‘gentle caress out of passion.’”[/color] His eyes narrowed, the faintest crease at the edge of his mouth betraying the disgust barely held at bay. [color=4C93C2]“How fortunate for you, then, that the only thing blunter than your affections appears to be your wit.”[/color] There was a pause as he leaned on the table with a cold smile that never reached his eyes. [color=4C93C2]“Let us speak plainly, since you seem to enjoy insinuation masked as jest.”[/color] Calbert leaned forward slightly, as though sharing a confidence across the table. [color=4C93C2]“If what you imply is true—that while inebriated, you laid a hand upon my daughter in a passionate moment—then you have committed not only an act of violence, but of staggering disrespect to announce to declare it before this court. If it is not true, and this is merely the shadowplay of a man clawing for leverage… then I must ask why you are all content to let the public humiliation of my daughter pass as supper entertainment.”[/color]He let the words sink like teeth into the room. Then, he turned his head, only slightly, toward Violet, seated beside him. His gaze softened, his voice lowering just enough that only she could hear it. [color=4C93C2]“My darling,”[/color] he murmured, the gentleness in stark contrast to the storm he had just conjured, [color=4C93C2]“you owe no one here an explanation. Not him. Not this court. If you would like me to handle this, I will. If you would like to speak further, you need not look for permission. Only know…”[/color] His hand brushed gently against hers. [color=4C93C2]“…I will stand at your side, no matter what.”[/color] He straightened once more, the quiet thunder returning to his voice as he addressed the room. [color=4C93C2]“I'm sure you all understand. I will not allow anyone to lay a hand on my daughter without consequence.”[/color] Count Damien smiled then at them all. A pleasant yet terrifying thing. [/color]