The night of the banquet Yvain stood before the tall mirror in his quarters, fastening the silver clasps on a long black coat lined with dusk-blue velvet. It was understated, but refined. Celeste had once mocked his wardrobe for resembling a mourning priest's, but he preferred quiet elegance over the garish robes worn by most court-bound mages.
Celeste, of course, had no such reservations.
When she entered, she wore a dark burgundy dress that shimmered like old blood under candlelight, with a slit high enough to suggest danger and poise in equal measure. Thin silver chains looped over her shoulders, catching the light like spider silk. She carried herself like someone who had already won whatever game the banquet was meant to host.
"You clean up well," she said, giving Yvain a once-over. "Still looks like you're going to curse someone at the altar, though."
"And you look like the curse," he replied, not unkindly.
She smiled, darkly pleased. "That's the idea."
There was a knock at the door, and Minerva stepped in, slower than usual, dressed in a soft green gown embroidered with fine sigils at the cuffs. Her hair had been gathered in a simple braid, a silver pin holding it in place. She looked young, uncertain, yet strangely radiant.
Celeste turned to her. "You look beautiful."
"Thank you," Minerva said, her voice low. "I wasn't sure if it was… appropriate."
"It is," Yvain said simply. He could see the effort it had taken her to stand there, to show up. Whatever Celeste had done to her, she had also given her purpose, or at least the illusion of it.
Darien arrived last, adjusting the cuffs on his ceremonial tunic, which bore his master's seal in stitched gold. He was clearly uncomfortable in formal attire, but he offered a polite smile as he joined them.
"I convinced Master Lome," he said. "He said, and I quote, 'if you must wallow in noble filth, do so without dragging the tower's name into disrepute.' So… we're cleared for attendance, but not for debauchery."
"We'll manage," Celeste replied.
Darien gave a stiff nod. "The carriage waits below," he added, stepping out first. Minerva followed without a word, her gaze flicking briefly toward Yvain before disappearing down the stairs.
The moment they were alone, Celeste stepped closer, her hands rising to adjust the folds of Yvain's high collar. Her touch was gentle, but her words were anything but soft.
"Find out what you need," she said, fingers lingering just beneath his jaw. "Then end the fool. Don't hesitate. No one gets to kill you but me."
Yvain chuckled under his breath. "You don't trust me?"
"I do," she said, eyes locked on his. "But I also love you. And that makes me scared."
There it was, laid bare between them like a fragile relic. The impossible thing that bound them. A love forged in fire and manipulation, equal parts devotion and threat.
Then, as she always did, she kissed him softly on the cheek, never the lips, never too tender, and turned away.
He watched her go, the sway of her gown like a falling blade cloaked in velvet.
That is my bride, he thought. And one day, she will try to kill me. He didn't yet know whether he would stop her.
Moments later, they boarded the carriage. It was an old noble design, but well-maintained, painted obsidian-black with silver inlays. The interior was lined with dark velvet and faint enchantments to silence outside noise. The harnessed steeds, two black horses of a large breed.
The carriage glided through the city, streets alive with motion and music. The curfew had been lifted for the occasion, and the people flooded the avenues in celebration. Lanterns floated like stars fallen to earth, casting glimmers of gold, red, and violet across stone facades. Hawkers shouted, dancers spun, and laughter drifted like incense through the night.
The carriage slowed as it entered the Baron's estate, an opulent sprawl of stone and might perched on a cliffside terrace that overlooked the dark shimmer of Adwini's distant harbor.
They joined a line of carriages pulling up one by one along the crescent driveway, each one finer than the last. Bejeweled, armored, or entirely alchemical in nature.
Celeste was the first to step out when their turn came. She emerged like a storm dressed for the opera, her presence turning heads before her heels even touched the polished stone. Minerva followed, tentative but radiant, and Darien offered her his arm without hesitation, though whether to steady her or himself, Yvain couldn't tell.
Yvain stepped down last, cool and unhurried, his long coat catching the breeze. He drew a few eyes, due to his height and oddly colored hair, but that was it.
The Baron's manor rose before them, a pale marble beast of a building with carved facades and wide, yawning doors thrown open in welcome. Music spilled out, lyres, flutes, strange hollow drums enchanted to echo like thunder in a wineglass. Light bathed the courtyard in warm gold and flickering violet, cast by chandeliers that floated far above.
A steward bowed low as they approached. "Honored guests of Master Lome, welcome. Your presence at the Baron's table brings much delight."
Celeste smiled like a queen who'd already decided the man's fate. "We live to serve."
They were ushered into the main ballroom, a towering space beneath a dome painted with a night sky that moved subtly with the hour, an illusion of stars in motion. The floor was veined obsidian, polished so sharply that every guest had the illusion of walking over water.
Dozens of nobles in embroidered robes and enchanted silks milled about, sipping sparkling elixirs, exchanging secrets under fans, or pretending not to be sizing each other up. Petty mages performed minor illusions for clapping children or bemused lords, while a contingent of warriors in ceremonial plate stood like statues at the edges, their visors down, their blades too ornamental to be practical.
Yvain scanned the opulent hall, noting several familiar faces amid the throng. Ser Hardron stood near a tall crystal sculpture, his crimson cloak flowing over his ornate armor, though he wore it less as a knight tonight and more as a symbol. Beside him, Ser Gaspard laughed too loudly at some noble's joke, though his eyes never stopped moving.
"See them?" Darien murmured, nodding toward a tight cluster of men and women at the far left of the ballroom. "That's Judge Olvane with her twin husbands. Beside her, Lord Renath of the Merchant Guild, he owns half the ships in the southern docks. And that's Lady Faraine, famous for her deadly dinners, and I don't mean the food."
The names rolled on, each more illustrious or infamous than the last. Yvain listened politely, but only half-heard. Courtly affairs always felt like listening to birds chirp in a language they barely understood, pleasant, but exhausting.
Eventually, their slow procession brought them to the host himself.
The Baron of Adwini was a broad-shouldered man with thinning curls and a wine-reddened nose, his gold-threaded robes straining slightly at the middle. Rings crowded his fingers, and the meaningless sigils etched into his cuffs suggested he might have been duped.
"Your lordship," Darien said with a courteous bow. "We thank you for the invitation."
"Ah! Apprentice Darien," the Baron exclaimed, his face brightening for a moment, only to dim slightly. "I confess, I had hoped your master might be among you."
"Master Lome sends his regrets, my lord. He is, as ever, deep in research. But he honors your invitation, as do we."
The Baron gave a performative sigh. "Of course, of course. He is a great man… if somewhat elusive." Then, as if deciding not to let disappointment linger, he turned his gaze to the women beside Darien. "And who, may I ask, are these radiant stars you've brought to dazzle my poor eyes?"
Darien flushed slightly, clearly uncomfortable. "Guests of my master, my lord. True magi, both of them."
The Baron's eyes widened with theatrical delight. "True magi? What fortune smiles on me tonight! To host such illustrious beings under my humble roof—why, it makes up for the dull company I'm forced to keep most nights!"
Celeste inclined her head with effortless grace, her voice a cool river of charm. "The pleasure is ours, my lord. Your home is lovely, one can see your taste in every corner."
The Baron beamed, puffed with pride. "Ah, such flattery from one so lovely—it may turn my head. The spiritual things, they fascinate me. So much so, that I have put together a library of mine own."
"Then you must show us," Celeste prodded, her tone smooth and delighted, though Yvain recognized the mischief behind her eyes.
"Really! I wouldn't want to trouble you," the Baron said, though he was already straightening with pride, practically vibrating with anticipation.
"Nothing of the sort," she assured, looping her arm around his. "We're guests, but we're also scholars. Your library might be the true highlight of the evening."
Flattered and beaming, the Baron practically dragged them up the stairs. The second floor was quieter, walls lined with carved mahogany and gilded trim. At the end of a long, arched hallway stood a pair of wide double doors, which he flung open with a flourish.
"My sanctuary," he declared.
The Baron's library was... well-built. Shelves towered from polished floors to frescoed ceiling. There was a faint scent of ink, aged parchment, and perfumed wood. It had clearly been arranged by someone trained in modern cataloging, perhaps even someone who knew what a proper archive should look like. It was, structurally, impeccable.
And yet.
Yvain's eyes moved from spine to spine. A Treatise on the Decorative Goblets of House Merculon. Fifteen Fables to Teach Your Familiar. Mysteries of the North: Untested Tales and Possibly True Accounts.
He tried not to let his face betray his disappointment. While Brother Lome's collection had left him underwhelmed, at least it had held real grimoires, texts that crackled faintly with suppressed intent. This? This was vanity. The entire collection was a grand illusion, books bound in expectation but empty of power.
Still, the Baron turned to them, eyes gleaming with hope. "Well? What do you think?"
"Impressive," Darien blurted with the exaggerated enthusiasm of someone desperately trying to lie convincingly.
Minerva nodded along, wide-eyed and quiet. Celeste, for her part, fought the tremble of laughter building in her throat. Her smile turned glass-smooth as she moved to the nearest shelf.
Yvain said nothing. He drew a volume at random, its leather dyed a rich red, and examined the cover: Glorious Collected Works on Babelic Fashion Trends. He raised a brow, then opened it and read aloud the opening passage:
"A chronicle of ever-shifting, politically charged, semi-magical styles worn across the high towers, low spires, and inverted courts of Babel, where clothing is language, memory, and weapon. Being an Annotated Survey of Vestments, Veils, and Volatile Statements Across the Eight Stratums of the City That Never Wears the Same Thing Twice."
He closed the book with a soft thump.
It wasn't power, but it wasn't drivel either.
The Baron nearly swooned with delight. "I knew you'd appreciate it! Most of these are far too sophisticated for the average reader. But you! Yes, you have the mind to grasp their deeper meanings.
"Of course he does," Celeste said sweetly.
Still basking in his imagined triumph, the Baron reached for Darien and Minerva's arms. "Come now, you must join me for a drink. I have a cask of ruby wine from the vineyards of Avesh. A sorcerer's palate deserves the finest vintage!"
He swept them out of the room in a flurry of capes and boasts, the sound of his voice echoing down the stairs.
Left behind, Yvain passed the book to Celeste. "Should suit your tastes."
She flipped through it, arriving at a footnote. "Never compliment a Babelic cloak unless you are prepared to debate it. The phrase "I adore your lining!" has triggered three duels, one marriage, and the accidental revelation of a smuggled gospel."
"Sounds like I'd fit right in," she said. "If they didn't raze it to the ground."
"It's a shame," he agreed. "But we'll rebuild it. Better than it ever was."