The royal palace gleamed like a polished gem under the twilight sky. On the ground level, the courtyard teemed with commoners. The flames of torches flickered at the edges, fighting back the encroaching darkness and the chill night's air.
Wooden benches had been arranged in orderly rows, though many stood, clutching their cloaks. Families huddled close. Some held candles. Others clung to keepsakes of the dead.
Upstairs, in the grandeur of the royal ballroom, the atmosphere could not have been more different. The chamber was spacious, warm, and immaculate, its marble floors so polished that the shimmering glow of the mana crystal chandeliers reflected like a pool of light underfoot.
A band played softly in the background, a mournful yet elegant tune that floated through the gilded hall.
The aristocrats arrived in droves, cloaked in luxury. Silks. Velvet. Gemstones. Embroidered crests and shining medals that caught the light with every calculated gesture.
Yet beneath their practiced expressions of solemnity, they whispered, bargained, curried favor, and smiled with knowing glances. Here, grief was but a veil worn only for the sake of appearances.
Long, rectangular tables lined the walls, overflowing with lavish displays of food—roasted meats, gleaming fruits, and sugared delicacies. Poised waiters in crisp uniforms moved gracefully through the crowd, balancing silver trays of hors d'oeuvres and glasses of fine wine.
"Lord Bescot is actually smiling," whispered a woman, her lips barely moving as she plucked a fruit tart from a passing tray.
"His nephew died this morning," murmured her companion while swirling her wine. "That estate passes to him now."
"Did you hear the Graysons lost a whole caravan in the chaos?" a rotund noble murmured behind a crystal goblet, voice tinged with intrigue rather than sympathy.
"Yes, and I heard Count Fraderick's estate was struck as well," another replied, her face so caked with makeup it looked like a mask. "Such a shame… though I suppose it does open the land for new ventures—well, assuming any respectable business would dare set up so close to the dungeon after today's horrors."
Their laughter was subtle. Controlled. Too polished to be genuine.
From this realm of opulence and treachery, Grand Chancellor Cassius emerged. He wore his ceremonial robes with dignity. His sharp eyes swept over the ballroom briefly before he made his way to the balcony where the world beyond the palace waited.
He placed his hands on the cold stone rail and looked down at the gathered masses. His expression softened, drawing on the gravity of the moment. A hush fell across the courtyard as the commoners turned their faces upward.
"My beloved people," he began, his voice calm and rich, like a well-aged wine. "We gather not to celebrate, but to mourn. Not to indulge in luxury, but to pay tribute to those who perished—our neighbors, our workers, our children."
A hushed moment washed over the courtyard. The nobles at the windows paused their chatter, casting dutiful glances at the people below, though few wore any true sorrow on their faces.
"Today was to be a day of gratitude," Cassius continued. "By decree of the Zepharion Church, a tribute was arranged to honor the slaves and demihumans—our brothers and sisters—who, for so long, have toiled unseen, their contributions and sacrifices uncelebrated. The goddess herself had spoken. And so, we fed them, clothed them, and offered them our blessings."
He bowed his head earnestly, and many in the courtyard mirrored him. "But in our moment of goodwill… came disaster."
The crowd held its breath.
"A Dungeon Break—violent and sudden," Cassius said grimly. "The monsters poured forth from the abyss with no warning, no mercy. Hundreds of innocent lives were lost—mothers, fathers, children who had come to receive only the thanks they were long denied."
His voice grew heavy with remorse. "We—myself included—were blind. For our recklessness. For our shortsightedness. We take full responsibility."
Murmurs passed through the courtyard, some grief-stricken, others angry.
"The soldiers who were charged with guarding that dungeon… those who failed in their sacred duty… they will be punished. Severely. Their negligence will not go unanswered."
There was a grim nodding among the crowd. Justice, at least, would be served.
Cassius then lifted his hand and beckoned behind him. From the ballroom, a young figure stepped forward—Prince Reneal, clad in dark navy and silver, his head held high.
The prince approached the balcony rail, his gaze holding the same confidence and conviction he found on the battlefield... and through painful sacrifice.
"But even amidst the darkness and chaos," Cassius said, his voice warming, "there was the light of hope."
He turned to Reneal, his expression one of fatherly pride. "Prince Reneal. This brave soul. It was he who rallied and empowered the soldiers, who led them into the jaws of death without hesitation. It was by his hand—and his will—that the tide was turned."
Gasps and murmurs rose among the commoners. Some placed hands to their hearts. Others bowed their heads deeply, whispering blessings under their breath.
"He stood where others fled. He fought when others faltered. He protected you all. You owe him your lives," the man said simply. "And I owe him mine."
"I did only what was necessary," Reneal said humbly. "And I grieve alongside you all."
Applause broke out, hesitant at first, then growing stronger. Tears gleamed in some eyes; others lifted their arms in praise.
Cassius laid a hand gently on the prince's shoulder and turned back to the people. "Tonight, we honor the fallen not with endless weeping, but with life. With remembrance. Celebrate them. Speak their names. Cherish those still among you."
He smiled—a soft, bittersweet smile. "Eat. Drink. Laugh. Love. For that is what they would have wanted."
The man bowed low, and the courtyard answered with a wave of reverent cheers. Then he turned slightly and spoke just enough so that only the prince could hear.
"Beautifully done, Your Highness," he said softly, his smile pleasant, unreadable. "Your growth has been truly remarkable. Your father will be overjoyed when he awakens."
As the echoes of Cassius's speech faded into the night, the dignitaries inside the ballroom began to disperse, forming into their little cliques. Laughter and the clinking of crystal flutes soon filled the hall, the pretense of mourning slipping away like a discarded cloak.
Lord Vaerythos callously snatched a flute of wine from a passing server's tray. He took a long sip, then sneered in open disappointment as he brushed past the royal bastard, not even bothering to mask his contempt.
Stynx's hands curled into fists at his sides, but he forced himself to smile stiffly, bowing his head in feigned humility. As soon as Vaerythos turned his back, his smile vanished, replaced by a venomous sneer at the man who had been like a beloved father to him.
His gaze then shifted, dark and seething, to his brother who had evidently gone through a miraculous metamorphosis. It should have been him standing in the spotlight. Him basking in the people's adoration and hailed as the savior who had shielded the city and slain the Dungeon Boss in a glorious and epic display of might and valor.
Not Reneal.
Never Reneal.
Now he would have to scramble, clawing for scraps of favor from Vaerythos and the council to redeem himself before his ambition to lay claim to the throne slipped any further from his grasp.
As the storm of resentment brewed inside him, his scowl turned to Sophia who stood quietly at Lumielle's side. His lips twisted in disgust as he scrutinized the woman.
Meanwhile, in a quieter corner of the room, Captain Hynes also watched Sophia and Lyndoria with absolute disdain. His jaw tightened, and he sipped his wine far too quickly to savor it.
Not far from him, Leopold stood like a stone, his broad shoulders tense. His withered eyes were fixed with loathing upon Lord Ignatius Pembroke who laughed without care among his peers. Bastard. May the fires of hell claim you, he thought darkly. And may your bones be picked clean by crows.
But then his gaze shifted—and softened with intrigue—as it landed on Sophia. Curiosity flickered behind the bitterness in his eyes as he watched the sway of her striking silver hair.
His thoughts drifted back to the woman's twin daggers and the familiar wave of frost that had rippled from her body as she danced with death against the Dungeon Boss.
Why, then, had that trophy been given to Prince Reneal instead?
From across the room, a large-bellied man approached a trio with a sour expression, his eyes narrowing as he looked Sophia up and down. "A noble from beyond our borders? And no one's heard of her house? Forgive me, Your Highness, but are we truly to believe she isn't some well-placed spy?"
Lumielle turned to face him, her voice cool and confident. "Lord Hestane, you seem to forget yourself. I am the princess. You will be mindful of the way you speak in my presence—or shall I take this tone as a sign of future betrayal?"
Hestane stiffened, clearly not expecting the rebuke.
"Sophia is my treasured friend. Her loyalty is steadfast. And if she were to betray us…" Her gaze sharpened "…I will bear the consequences. Not you."
Lyndoria smirked faintly beside her. Daisuke said nothing, but his eyes were locked on the noble, daring him to speak again.
Hestane swallowed. "O-Of course, Your Highness… I meant no offense."
"Good," Lumielle said, turning on her heels to leave as she flicked her coral-pink hair. "Then we are finished here."
The man discreetly scowled and cursed beneath his breath as he stormed away. Meanwhile, Daisuke leaned casually toward Lyndoria, a mischievous grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"You chose quite the boss to pledge your loyalty to. By the way… it's nice to see you dressed in something else for a change," he said, giving her an obvious once-over.
Lyndoria shot him a glare, her lips curling into a snarl. "Go to hell," she spat, though the faintest trace of color rose in her cheeks.
Chuckling under his breath, Daisuke followed the women onto the balcony. Outside, the courtyard spread beneath them. The commoners milled about beneath the torches, their shadows stretched and shivering against the ground. Their buffet was meager in comparison—cheap breads, watery stews, and no music to lighten their grief.
There were no servers attending to them, no glittering chandeliers, no elegant finery. Only the hard truth of their loss, and the company of one another.
Lumielle leaned over the railing, her coral pink hair catching the torchlight, her eyes heavy with sympathy. "The purpose of this gathering was to mourn with the victims of today's tragedy," she murmured, "to bring people together. And yet, here we are… segregated, as if their pain is beneath us."
Lyndoria scoffed, folding her arms. "Are you surprised? They only ever care about themselves. Always have, always will."
Daisuke opened his mouth to add his own thought, but before he could, a ripple of dark mist stirred at his feet. Midnight slipped from his shadow and discreetly perched himself on the railing beside Lumielle, his olive-green eyes glinting with urgency.
"Hey, buddy," Daisuke said casually, one brow arching. "Something the matter?"
But the feline gave no reply, neither voice nor psychic whisper. He simply stared ahead, his tail flicking in agitation. He could feel the tension in the air, and understood that his master was entangled in something critical. But desperation gnawed at the Djinn's pride, forcing him to do something he would normally never consider.
He turned to his rival for help.
Drawing upon the language of ancient beings—a silent exchange of auras—Midnight called out to Zephyr. A moment later, a small, shaggy head popped out from underneath Daisuke's flowing gown. The pup blinked up at the feline, oceanic eyes stirring with patient curiosity despite a deep frown.
Their gazes locked. No words were needed. In a single, seamless motion, the two deities dove into Daisuke's shadow and quickly vanished without a sound.
Daisuke stared after them, blinking once. "Well, that wasn't weird at all," he muttered.