"Six minutes to plate!"
The voice cracked like a whip across the gilded kitchen.
"YES, CHEF!" came the chorus of answers, steel pans and knives clattering like weapons in battle.
The Royal Kitchens of the Palace of Peace were unlike any other place in Alkavia. Golden counters reflected firelight, ivory floors shone spotless despite the frenzy, and walls carved with reliefs of past monarchs seemed to glare down in judgment at every dish. Here, perfection was demanded not as a formality, but as a sacred duty. To falter, even slightly, could stain a legacy.
For most cooks, even stepping foot in this room was the dream of a lifetime. For the select few who worked here—the chosen one in ten thousand—it was the culmination of their entire blood and sweat. These were the most refined hands in the kingdom, each chef plucked from distant provinces, foreign academies, and merchant kitchens, united here to feed a single household: the Royal Family of Alkavia.
But only one man had the honor of touching the Queen's plate.
The Head Chef.
He had cooked for her before her coronation, seasoned every meal she had eaten since. Tonight, however, his expression was graver than ever.
Because this was no ordinary service.
This was his gift to Her Majesty.
A wedding feast, the likes of which Alkavia had not seen in a century.
"WHERE'S THE LAMB SAUCE?!" he thundered, pointing his ladle like a general directing cavalry. "MOVE, YOU DONKEYS!"
The kitchen flurried with renewed panic. Steaming pots swayed dangerously, roasted meats rushed across stations, sauces whipped, knives flashed.
While beyond these kitchens, history was assembling.
[National Hall of Alkavia]
The doors of the Grand Hall parted, and the roll of names began.
"Announcing Duke Leon Mera of House Leon - The Noble Lion."
The first Duke strode in. Gold caught the light, dazzling across his mantle, the roaring lion crest upon his chest. Regal and magnetic, Leon drew the eyes of the crowd as effortlessly as breathing. Murmurs rose like a tide as nobles shifted to face him. Even silent, his presence was command incarnate.
"Announcing Duke Aqua Lira of House Aqua - The Gentle Wave."
The second entered, and the murmurs stilled. Draped in silks of deep azure, the crest of the Leviathan stitched across his chest, Aqua moved like a tide lapping stone. His eyes, cool and fathomless, radiated calm that pressed down heavier than Leon's charisma. A room that had been buzzing fell hushed, as though submerged beneath a still ocean.
"Announcing Duke Totle Mola of House Totle - The Immortal Bastion."
The third Duke appeared, hunched yet unbroken, earthy tones of soil and stone draped over his frame. The turtle crest rested on his chest like an ancient relic. Each step of his cane against marble echoed with the weight of centuries, and though frail in form, none doubted he could outlast even the hall itself.
"Announcing Duke Cassius Ursa of House Ursa - The Roaring Flame."
The fourth Duke entered, and whispers quickly spread. His crimson robes swayed, but it was not his clothing that caught attention. It was him. For a man famed for his fiery temper, his bloodied knuckles, his wild presence; Cassius looked… subdued. Some nobles leaned closer, noting faint bruises shadowing his jaw, a stiffness in his gait.
"He looks… beat up," one whispered behind a jeweled fan.
"Impossible. Who would fight a Duke?" another murmured.
Yet those who had seen him before knew: he was calmer than ever. Whatever had transpired before this day, it had left its mark.
"Announcing Duke Leonard Windslow of House Windslow - The Amethyst Hawk."
The fifth Duke entered, quiet and sharp. Purple robes draped across shoulders like blades, his silver hawk gleaming like a predator's eye. Leonard's gaze swept the hall once, and the whispers died. This was the man who had rewritten borders with ink and foresight, feared by kings and generals alike.
The Five Dukes of Alkavia had assembled.
But the procession was not finished.
"Announcing Duke Highland of Nala, Envoy of the High Council."
The foreign Duke strode forward, fur cloak brushing his shoulders, his scarred frame standing proud. His eyes, hard and sharp, did not bow to the grandeur of Alkavia's court. Every noble sensed the tension; his very presence was a challenge, a reminder that power was never absolute.
"Announcing… the Heavenly Knights of Nala."
The hall rippled with murmurs. Few expected them to come. Fewer still had seen them in person.
The first knight stepped forth, silent as a shadow. Blackened steel dulled to swallow light. They called him The Assassin. The only man to have slain a Duke of Alkavia and lived. Nobles shrank in their seats, for even walls could not hide them from his reach.
The second followed, clad in iron from throat to toe. Her helm concealed her face, but her frame radiated indomitable force. They called her The Iron Saint, a paladin whose shield had once held an entire battalion at bay for three days. She stood like a fortress, unwavering.
Even the Dukes of Alkavia felt their jaws tighten, for Captain Lastrange had yet to arrive.
And yet, it was not his lack of presence that drew the attention of the crowd.
"What of Aetherfall?" someone whispered.
"Surely the Magi…" another muttered.
All eyes turned to the herald. His voice rang clear:
"All honored guests have arrived."
A ripple of disbelief swept the hall. No emissary of Aetherfall. No Magi. No King. A snub of such magnitude could only be intentional.
Azuleth would not forgive it. She would not let it slide.
The silence deepened. The marble beneath their feet trembled.
"Th-… the ground?" someone whispered.
A low rumble shook the chandeliers. Goblets quivered. Plates rattled. Then-
"ROOOAAARRR!"
The Golden doors burst wide.
Through them stormed a Goldfang. Its massive claws split marble, its fangs glimmered like ivory daggers, its roar shook lungs in their chests. On its back rode the Queen herself. Her black silk gown trimmed in scarlet flowed like spilled blood. Her crown caught the candlelight, sharp and cruel.
The hall trembled under the Goldfang's landing. Nobles swallowed, foreign envoys whispered, warriors clenched fists.
Her Majesty had arrived.
She dismounted with the grace of a ruler born to command. A smile flickered across her lips; not teasing, not sweet, but steel-laced, the kind of smile that could bend minds and break wills.
"Thank you," she said, voice carrying clearly over the echoes of claws and marble. "Thank you all for arriving on such short notice."
A playful rhythm in her hands:
"Clap, clap! Let us begin the festivities!"
The hall obeyed. Every guest shifted, nerves taut, laughter cautious.
"And what," she continued, "is a wedding without music?"
Behind the gilded curtains, attendants expected a full ensemble. Instead, there was only a single young man, sitting at a grand piano, entirely alone. His long, flowing white hair brushed the marble floor. His presence, ethereal, drew every eye.
Whispers ran through the crowd, for no one recognized this man.
"It's time, isn't it?" Kuzan's voice cut through murmurs, fixed entirely on Azuleth. She smiled in return, a smile of victory and promise.
He breathed once, then let his hands fall.
He struck the first key. Clear, cold, like the first drop of rain against a silent forest. The room held its breath.
Then, he hit the same key again, faster. And faster. The note multiplied, a rhythm no human should create. His arms blurred, faster and faster until they seemed to multiply, a dozen hands pounding keys in perfect unison.
It spiraled across the hall like raindrops sliding down glass, then grew into a storm. The audience felt it in their bones.
Then, in the middle, he whispered:
"E."
It was a declaration. The piano obeyed. Notes collided, twisted, surged. Every key split the air; the hall vibrated with elemental energy.
The music was madness.
Like her.
By the third repetition, it was inhuman. Fingers flew, wrists spun, elbows, shoulders - every movement perfect. The sound became a tempest, overwhelming yet exquisite, rattling windows, echoing off walls.
The Heavenly Knights leaned forward, awe-struck. For even they could not match the sheer physical dexterity that the young man showcased in his craft.
Silver hair swept the floor in rhythm with the chaos.
Azuleth's smile widened, serene and commanding. "Thank you," she murmured softly.
But peace shattered at a voice.
"Well played."
It was quiet, yet it rebounded through the hall louder than any shout. Heads turned as the great doors creaked open.
Two entered.
The first - her. Princess Serena. The Queen's own sister, long vanished, rumored dead by her own sibling's hand. Nobles gasped, some whispering their disbelief, some their suspicion.
At her side walked a man in a small blue hat, almost comical in its plainness. But none laughed. None dared. For every soul knew who he was.
The Magi. The King of Aetherfall. The strongest mage on the continent.
And his eyes were not on the Queen. They were fixed entirely on the young man at the piano.
"Just what manner of being are you?" he asked, his gaze gleaming with hunger for knowledge.
Tension clamped the room. But before it could snap, it was broken by a familiar voice.
"die"
"Serena?" the Magi called softly.
The girl did not answer.
In an instant, she vanished, propelled forward by wind itself. A switch had been flipped. The gentle princess was gone. Her blue eyes, once curious and bright, now glowed a venomous green, the green of violence, of intent.
"You must die," she spoke with certainty, with a voice not her own.
Windows shattered. The hall shook. Mana, thick as a sea, surged to her hovering hand. Power bled from her like fire from a pit.
Every knight in the chamber drew steel. The Heavenly Knights planted sword and shield with grim resolve. Yet even they, seasoned in blood and terror, could not look away.
The display was beyond mastery, precise and deadly. The mana under Princess Serena's control rivaled that of a siege weapon.
Without the crutch of an incantation, without a single word spoken, every strand focused on a single target, twisting and coiling into a perfect sphere.
Fire danced, water trembled, wind screamed, earth pulsed. Her green eyes blazed with fury.
"Die!" The orb shot toward the pianist. Immense force, yet he stayed calm, hands poised over the keys.
"Stay." The Magi's voice cut through the chaos. Steady. Absolute. His blue eyes gleamed with the laws of magic. He lifted his staff. The world obeyed.
Magic surged around him, runes glowing, expanding. Walls, floors, foundations, even the air bent to his will. Mana that longed to follow Serena froze.
Mana, in its essence, seeks equilibrium. It can amplify power, respond to talent, obey the heart; but it could not deny someone of itself. He had learned its structure, its architecture, and now imposed perfect order.
His staff rose higher. A domain unfolded. Blue glyphs stretched like celestial wings, binding the palace in unbroken command. Each pulse resonated with the laws of mana.
Until it snapped.
"Sleep." One word, calm, almost casual. And she obeyed. The hall froze. Only a handful of eyes knew what had just happened.
The Magi didn't just control magic. He controlled her control. Serena's own perfect command became the leash for his will. The closer she reached for her mana, the tighter his invisible grip around her mind and body became.
Magic controlled it's own caster.
It was an application of magic never before seen on this continent, yet the Magi showcased this breakthrough of the magical prowess with callous consideration.
Such was the power of the Magi.
Such was the deterrence of the Kingdom of Aetherfall.
No man in their right mind would try to fight such a being.
"Hey."
The pianist finally stood, his chair scraping back across the marble. He flexed his fingers, one by one, knuckles popping like firecrackers in the silence. His eyes carrying a hollow gleam of their own.
"Wanna show me that again?"
It wasn't a question.
It was provocation.
Before the Magi could answer, before the assembled nobles could even draw breath, the pianist moved.
He leapt.
Straight toward the Magi.