The murmurs in the Great Hall dimmed as the last of the arranged matches stepped down from the dais, their new runes faintly visible on their wrists.
The air shimmered faintly, as though the palace itself held its breath. The chamberlain advanced with the solemnity of one delivering omens.
"By decree of His Imperial Majesty," he intoned, "we shall now commence the Rite of Fate. Those whose names have been declared will step forth to meet the rune's choosing."
A hush fell over the assembled nobles, the rustle of silk and the chime of ornaments fading into stillness.
On the dais, the circular platform of frostglass began to glow from within, thin veins of light creeping outward in the shape of ancient runic sigils. The light shifted until the central glyph pulsed in a steady rhythm.
From the front rows, a few young nobles exchanged glances—some bright with anticipation, others pale as if marching to the gallows.
The circle pulsed with soft gold as the Fate Rune awaited its participants. The head mage called names in a clear, resonant tone, and one by one, nobles stepped forward, each carrying their own breath of hope or dread.
First came a young viscount from the southern coast. He pricked his finger, letting drops of blood fall into the carved grooves, followed by a measure of magic essence.
The rune flared briefly, weaving a silver thread to name his partner—a daughter of a merchant baron. She stepped forward, accepted the match, and their combined blood and magic sealed into a faint glow on their wrists.
The crowd murmured approval—an unremarkable, yet steady alliance.
Then came Lady Isolde Myrren, last surviving daughter of a once-prosperous duchy long fallen into decline. She stepped into the circle with her chin high, the weight of her house's fortunes hidden beneath a composed gaze. The rune named Lord Marcius Valenne of Floria, heir to a web of trade routes and a fortune in political influence.
Whispers swept the hall—such a union could breathe life into the Myrren name.
When their blood touched the rune, a golden flare erupted, brighter than most. The thread between them shone thick and steady—a strong match. Lady Isolde allowed herself the smallest smile; Lord Marcius inclined his head politely.
Eight other matches followed: minor lords, distant cousins, and foreign envoys—each producing a modest glow before fading.
Then… the hall stilled.
"Lady Aveline Vellore."
The name carried like a ripple across still water, drawing every gaze to the rune circle.
Aveline rose with measured grace, her gown catching the runelight. The faint pulse of magic beneath her skin tugged her toward the platform.
On the imperial dais, the Emperor leaned toward the Empress. "Let us see," he murmured, "what destiny has in mind today."
The hush deepened as Aveline stepped into the silver rune.
She knelt, her gown pooling in pale folds. A silver pin pricked her finger, and a drop of crimson fell onto the heart of the central glyph. The circle drank it greedily.
Lifting her hand, she released a thread of magic—silver-blue curls seeping into the carved lines. The runes lit from within, frostlight racing outward until the entire circle glowed.
Then the magic shuddered.
A sudden heat rippled through the chamber. Gasps stirred as veins of crimson fire tore through the frostlight, as though another power had forced its way into the ritual.
A second magic—untouched by her—flooded the circle, jagged and wild. Sparks spat across the floor as the runes reconfigured themselves without command.
The two magics collided, frost and fire locking in a violent embrace until a new emblem burned into existence: a silver snowflake wreathed in flame.
The mage's voice faltered. "Th-this… is not… standard protocol—"
Before anyone could move, the bond sealed. The emblem pulsed once, then sank into the floor, sending two threads of magic in opposite directions—one latching to Aveline, the other striking someone in the shadows beside the imperial dais.
Gasps tore through the hall.
Kael.
The Fate Rune had chosen—without consent, without precedent.
An anomaly. And a dangerous one.
Whispers burst forth like startled birds.
On the dais, Emperor Elaric's jaw hardened. His gaze swept to the Empress, then to his two consorts—each wearing a different shade of surprise. Only the Empress's eyes narrowed, as if in recognition.
Crown Prince Leonhart leaned forward. "Father, this wasn't supposed to happen," he murmured tightly.
Consort Ella's fan snapped open with a metallic click. "An outrage," she whispered to the second prince, her eyes flicking toward Aveline with open disapproval. "The rune has never bypassed the naming ritual."
The mage, pale and sweating, stammered, "Your Majesty—this is… unprecedented. The Fate Rune has… chosen without prompting."
From the shadows, Kael stepped forward, the firelight of the rune glinting faintly in his eyes. His expression was unreadable, yet the weight of his presence drew every gaze.
A deeper murmur rolled through the crowd.
The Emperor's voice cut through it like steel.
"Summon the High Rune Keeper. At once."
The command froze the hall. This was no simple match—it was a breach in centuries of unbroken ceremony.
And in the far shadows, a few attendants exchanged uneasy glances. They knew the truth most did not: the man across from Lady Aveline was no mere foreigner. He was the Emperor's adopted son—and heir in all but name.
As the golden threads dimmed to a faint pulse beneath their feet, an old, almost-forgotten verse stirred in the minds of a select few:
When ice meets flame under the mark of the Fate Rune,
the veiled storm shall wake,
and the throne shall tremble under a crown of frost and fire.
It had been centuries since the words were spoken, recorded only in the sealed scrolls of the Imperial Archives and whispered to each new emperor by the High Rune Keeper himself. Fewer than five people in the hall knew it—and they were all staring at Aveline and Kael.
The Empress's fingers tightened imperceptibly on her armrest, memory flashing to a similar glow she had witnessed once before—long before her marriage. A fleeting smile touched Consort Sophia's lips before vanishing. The Emperor's gaze remained unreadable.
A heavy thud… thud… thud broke through the restless murmurs. The massive doors at the rear of the hall swung open, and the air cooled a breath as a tall, robed figure entered.
The High Rune Keeper of Eldoria moved with the slow inevitability of one to whom even time bent. His robes were deep midnight, embroidered with shifting runic patterns that caught the light like molten silver.
Every noble bowed as he passed.
He stopped at the edge of the glowing circle, his ancient eyes sweeping over the rune, Aveline, and finally Kael. For a heartbeat, he was still. Then, very faintly, the corners of his mouth curved in recognition.
"It has been… a very long time," the Rune Keeper murmured, his voice carrying effortlessly through the hush.