The imperial palace that night pulsed with light and music. Golden chandeliers cast shimmering reflections upon the marble walls, while the palace servants stood like statues of pearl—bowed low, their eyes carefully hidden from the secrets of the powerful.
The nobles gathered around a banquet table that stretched like a serpent, lined with dishes of fine game and goblets of aged wine. Yet what filled the hall more than food or drink was the heavy silence, broken only by glances exchanged like blades. Every unspoken word weighed heavier than the ones uttered.
At the head of the table sat an envoy from the Imperial Court, watching, never intervening. Around him, the great houses were arrayed:
Seraphiel Mortani, robed in black embroidered with silver thread, speaking as if the land and throne were his by right.
Lord Dargon, broad-shouldered, a cup resting in his hand yet untouched, as if even wine feared to grace his lips.
Lady Lorenval, a woman of middle years, her green eyes glimmering with cunning more than words could convey.
Lord Elmaris, his face like a faded painting, pride mingled with decay, living on echoes of glory long past.
Further down the table sat the lesser houses, their positions carefully measured to remind them they were but shadows of the mighty.
There stood Gabriel Astier, posture sharp and precise, silent through the evening yet watchful of every detail.
Opposite, the Feyran kin laughed too loudly, as though trying to bury a fear that refused to leave them.
Seraphiel raised his cup, a cold smile bending his lips:
— "It seems the winds carry us no comfort these days… Word is that two northern empires are speaking of a new alliance. Rumor, perhaps. Yet when rumors echo long enough… they become truth."
Lady Lorenval's lips curved faintly, her tone smooth as silk:
— "Alliances are bought with coin as much as with blood, Lord Mortani. The only question is… who will pay the higher price?"
Lord Dargon's fist struck the table, rattling the goblets:
— "Words do not stop armies. Whoever seeks strength must show it on the field, not at banquets."
Lord Elmaris inclined his head, his voice quiet but weighted with the gravity of lineage:
— "Strength without heritage does not endure. Alliances without honor… melt like snow."
For a moment, silence ruled the hall—every phrase a drawn sword.
In the lesser seats, Gabriel Astier and Eleanor Mortani shared a fleeting glance. Brief, but it sparked like fire in the hush of the hall. None noticed—or perhaps all chose to ignore it. That single spark carried a tragedy not yet come to pass.
Servants swept in to change the dishes, but the air remained unchanged. It was clear the feast was never meant for food—it was a battlefield of another kind. Every smile was a dagger. Every word, a promise or a threat.
And at the farthest end of the hall, beyond the glow of chandeliers, stood a man dressed in elegance, watching in silence… unseen by all.