They came for us an hour after sunset.
Of course, they didn't bring chains.
They brought silk.
A pair of royal servants, moving with the quiet, unnerving efficiency of high-level NPCs, presented us with new clothes.
"His Majesty requests your presence at the Grand Feast," one said, his face a perfect, polite blank.
I looked at the gear they laid out for me.
A tunic of deep, royal blue, so dark it was almost black, with fine silver embroidery.
Pants that were probably worth more than my old car.
It was classic epic-level cosmetic gear.
Zero defense stats.
Maximum vanity.
"Great," Yael grumbled from across the room.
"A party."
She was holding up her own outfit, a simple but elegant gown of dark green, with the same disgusted look she used to get when I made her eat vegetables.
"I look like a tree," she muttered.
"A very expensive, well-dressed tree," I shot back, pulling on the tunic.
It felt weird.
Too soft.
Too clean.
"This is stupid, Quinn."
She threw the dress onto her bed.
"There's a potential world-ending event happening, and the King wants to have a dinner party?"
"It's not a dinner party," I said, adjusting the collar.
"It's a distraction."
My gamer brain was already running the scenario.
The King, the server admin, was trying to create a temporary buff.
A public event to project an illusion of strength.
"He's trying to convince everyone that the lag spikes are just a feature, not a bug," I explained.
"And we're the main attraction."
"The heroes of the hour."
"The proof that everything is fine."
She just scowled.
"So we're the dancing monkeys."
"We're the raid leaders who just cleared the last instance," I corrected her.
"Now we have to stand in the capital and show off our loot."
"Our job tonight is to look powerful, confident, and completely unbothered."
"It's a social boss fight, Yael."
"And I hate this boss," she snarled, finally giving in and pulling the dress on.
The Great Hall was a joke.
It was so bright it hurt my eyes.
Glowing chandeliers made of crystal and light-moss hung from a ceiling so high you couldn't even see it.
Hundreds of elves, all decked out in their best cosmetic gear, mingled and laughed.
The sound was too loud, too forced.
It was the sound of people trying very, very hard to pretend their world wasn't vibrating under their feet.
They led us to the high table, right at the center of the room.
The guest of honor spot.
The main tank spot.
Every single eye in the room was on me.
I could feel my Weaponized Charm attribute flaring to life, the air getting thick with it.
The female elves stared with that familiar, dopey look.
The male elves just looked jealous.
It was annoying.
It was a constant, low-level aggro I didn't want.
Yael walked behind me, her posture as stiff as a board.
She looked stunning in the green dress, a fact that seemed to make her even angrier.
Her hand kept twitching, like she was reaching for a dagger that wasn't there.
She was my bodyguard, a coiled spring of pure, unfiltered hatred for everything shiny and polite.
We reached the high table, and the real encounter began.
King Eldros sat on his throne, looking every bit the ancient, powerful ruler.
He smiled as I approached, but it didn't reach his eyes.
(And no, I'm not asking you to copy him – don't sit there grinning at your screen. You'll scare people.)
His eyes were constantly flicking toward the massive doors of the hall, as if he expected them to burst open at any second.
"Commander Quinn," he said, his voice a smooth, practiced boom that carried over the noise.
"We are honored by your presence."
"You honor us, Your Majesty," I said, giving the little half-bow I'd practiced.
This was the first phase of the fight.
The mechanics were simple: say the right things, don't piss off the main boss.
"Your new clan, the Whispering Clan," the King continued, "has already proven its worth."
"We expect great things."
He was buttering me up, testing my ambition, trying to see if I was a loyal asset or a future problem.
"We serve at the King's pleasure," I replied.
Textbook NPC dialogue.
Safe.
Boring.
To his left sat the Queen, Seliora.
She was beautiful, in the way a perfectly crafted, poison-tipped dagger is beautiful.
Her smile was a thin, sharp line.
Her eyes were cold and analytical.
She was parsing me.
"A man of such… humble origins," she said, her voice like silk wrapped around steel.
"To rise so quickly."
"One wonders what motivates such a man."
It wasn't a question.
It was a challenge.
A debuff attempt.
"Survival, Your Majesty," I said, meeting her gaze.
"It's a powerful motivator."
Her smile tightened.
She had expected arrogance.
I gave her pragmatism.
Phase one, parried.
Next was the Crown Princess, Ilyra.
She was leaning forward, her chin resting in her hand, her eyes devouring me.
She didn't bother with subtlety.
"They say you fought an Ogre Juggernaut in your bare hands, Commander," she whispered, her voice husky.
Okay, the story was getting a little exaggerated.
"I had a rock," I clarified.
She laughed, a low, throaty sound.
"Even better."
She leaned closer, her perfume a tangible, cloying thing.
"Perhaps when this silly business with the tremors is over, you could be my personal guide to the wilds."
"I find them… thrilling."
It was a blatant power play, wrapped in a cheap flirtation.
She wasn't interested in me.
She was interested in my power.
My status as the King's new favorite weapon.
"I'm sure the Captain of the Royal Guard would be a more suitable guide," I said, deflecting.
Her eyes flashed with annoyance.
I had sidestepped her.
Phase two, dodged.
Then came the trash mob.
Prince Caleth, the Crown Prince.
He looked like he'd been assembled from a kit of spare, pointy-chinned elf parts.
He sneered at me over his wine goblet.
"So this is the hero," he said, loud enough for the whole table to hear.
"Looks more like a well-dressed mercenary to me."
"I've seen prettier soldiers fall in their first battle."
He was trying to pull aggro.
Bait me into losing my temper, making a scene, embarrassing myself.
It was a classic, low-level PvP tactic.
I just smiled.
A calm, easy smile that I knew would infuriate him.
"Then I'll be sure to stay on my feet, Your Highness," I said.
My pride, my "Overwhelming Pride," was screaming at me to verbally tear this idiot apart.
But my raid leader brain knew better.
Wasting mana on a trash mob is a rookie mistake.
He just sputtered into his wine.
Phase three, ignored.
Finally, there was the silent one.
Royal Champion Dareth.
He sat at the end of the table, a mountain of scarred muscle and quiet menace.
He didn't speak.
He didn't smile.
He just watched me.
His eyes were the eyes of a predator, sizing up another predator that had just wandered into its territory.
He wasn't testing me.
He was logging my data for a future fight.
I gave him a slow, single nod.
He didn't nod back.
The message was clear: I see you.
He saw me too.
Throughout the entire ridiculous song and dance, I could feel Yael standing behind me.
A rigid statue of pure rage.
"If the pretty one asks you to show her the 'wilds'," she whispered in my ear at one point, "I will personally break your new 'default equipment package'."
It was the most comforting thing I'd heard all night.
The feast dragged on.
A blur of empty praise, probing questions, and fake laughter.
I navigated it all, my mind cold and clear, treating it like the annoying social hub you have to get through to pick up the next main quest.
Then, across the hall, I saw him.
Gandalf.
He was standing near a column, looking deeply, profoundly uncomfortable in a formal military uniform.
He wasn't eating.
He wasn't drinking.
He was just watching the door, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
Our eyes met across the sea of oblivious, celebrating elves.
He looked at me, then at the King, then at the whole ridiculous party.
He gave a slight shake of his head.
A tiny, almost imperceptible gesture.
It was a moment of perfect, shared reality.
This is all a lie.
We both knew it.
This feast, this laughter, this opulent denial—it was a farce.
The real world was out there, in the dark.
The real world was the mission he was leaving for at dawn.
The real world was the silence from the scouts who had already gone north.
He was a warrior, forced to play dress-up while the enemy was at the gates.
And I was the new commander, trapped in a political cutscene I couldn't skip.
The illusion was at its peak.
The music was loud.
The wine was flowing.
And no one was talking about the silence.
No one was talking about the deep, rhythmic thrumming that had shaken the city just that afternoon.
They were all just smiling and laughing and drinking.
Waiting.
Waiting for the dawn.
Waiting for the world to end.