Music drifted lazily through the banquet hall, weaving between crystal pillars and floating lanterns. The Nightborne nobles of Suramar moved with practiced elegance, their laughter light, their expressions carefully composed. To the untrained eye, it was a flawless display of refinement, an unbroken illusion of prosperity.
Leylin stood beside Eliones, wrapped in a meticulously layered illusion. To everyone else, he was a Nightborne magister; tall, slender, skin faintly luminous with arcane undertones, violet eyes calm and aloof. The illusion was not flashy.
On the contrary, it was subtle, grounded in Leylin's deep understanding of arcane physiology and Suramar's ambient mana flow. It adjusted automatically to lighting, distance, and even magical scrutiny. Most nobles didn't look twice.
Those who did felt only vague familiarity or perhaps a minor magister from a lesser house and moved on. Effective, Leylin noted inwardly.
He observed the hall through half-lidded eyes, senses extended, cataloging expressions, emotional fluctuations, and the underlying currents of power. The Nightborne truly lived behind masks, some magical, others social. It was then that a presence shifted nearby.
Ly'leth Lunastre had noticed them. The Matron of House Lunastre moved with effortless authority, her silver-violet robes flowing like liquid starlight. As one of Suramar's most influential noblewomen and a close advisor to Grand Magistrix Elisande, her attention was never casual.
Her gaze lingered on Eliones first. Then, subtly, on Leylin. Interesting.
Ly'leth approached with a warm smile that did not quite reach her eyes. "Eliones," she greeted smoothly. "It has been some time. You seem… well."
Eliones returned the smile, every inch the composed noble. "Lady Lunastre. Your estate grows ever more radiant. One might forget the world beyond Suramar still exists."
Ly'leth laughed softly. "If only that were true." Her eyes drifted again this time directly to Leylin.
"And who might this be?" she asked lightly. "I don't believe we've been formally introduced."
Leylin inclined his head just enough to be polite, allowing Eliones to answer. "A magister who has recently entered my employ," Eliones said. "Talented. Quiet."
Ly'leth raised an elegant brow. "Quiet magisters are rare," she mused. "Especially those worthy of standing so close to you."
Her gaze sharpened slightly. "Which house do you hail from, Magister?"
Leylin felt the probe, soft, conversational, but edged with arcane curiosity. Not a spell, but an instinct honed by centuries of political maneuvering.
Before he could respond, Eliones chuckled. "House affiliations matter less these days, don't they?" she said airily. "With demons at our borders and history stirring beneath our feet."
A deft deflection. Ly'leth smiled, unfazed. "Of course. Still, one likes to know who walks among us."
Her attention lingered a moment longer on Leylin, as if committing his illusion to memory. Then, sensing no immediate opening, she withdrew gracefully, merging back into the flow of nobles.
Leylin exhaled internally. 'Sharp woman.' He thought. "She suspects something," he murmured quietly.
"She always does," Eliones replied. "But suspicion without proof is merely curiosity."
Time passed. Wine flowed. Conversations shifted. The music softened. Then the atmosphere subtly changed.
A figure approached, tall even by Nightborne standards, posture rigid with inherited arrogance. His robes bore the sigil of House Duskmere, embroidered with obsidian thread and arcane glyphs of prestige.
The heir himself. Leylin recognized the type instantly. Power without perspective. The Duskmere heir stopped before Eliones, offering a shallow bow that was more acknowledgment than respect. "Priestess Eliones," he said. "You honor this gathering with your presence."
Eliones inclined her head politely. "Ruven Duskmere." The noble's eyes flicked to Leylin. They narrowed. "…And you are?" he asked, tone already edged with disdain.
Eliones did not answer immediately. Leylin felt the weight of the noble's gaze, judgmental, dismissive, steeped in centuries of unchecked superiority.
Before anyone could redirect the exchange, the Duskmere Heir scoffed. "I find it curious," he continued, "that a nameless magister would presume to stand so close to you."
Several nearby nobles paused, listening. Leylin remained silent, his expression neutral beneath the illusion. The heir's lip curled. "Know your place," he said coldly, turning his attention fully on Leylin. "You do not belong at Lady Eliones' side. Standing there only stains her beauty."
The words were sharp, calculated to humiliate. A ripple of quiet amusement passed through a few onlookers. Leylin studied him calmly.
No anger.
No reaction.
Just observation.
So this is how hierarchy enforces itself, he thought. Not with power but with insult. Eliones's smile faded.
Slowly. Dangerously. Before she could respond, Leylin lifted a hand, just slightly.
A silent request. Eliones paused, curiosity flickering in her eyes. Leylin inclined his head toward the Duskmere heir, his voice smooth and composed. "You honor me with your concern," he said mildly. "Though I fear you misunderstand."
The noble frowned. "Misunderstand what?" Leylin's gaze lifted, calm, piercing, utterly unimpressed. "That worth," he said softly, "is not determined by proximity… but by utility."
A subtle shift rippled through the air. Not a spell. Not magic. Presence. The Duskmere heir felt it, a pressure, fleeting but undeniable. His breath caught for half a second, instinct screaming at him to step back.
He masked it quickly, flushing with irritation. "Hmph," he scoffed. "Bold words for an unremarkable magister."
Eliones smiled again, this time genuinely. "I believe," she said smoothly, "that will be quite enough, Heir Duskmere."
The noble stiffened, sensing he had overstepped. "…Of course," he muttered, backing away with forced dignity.
As he disappeared into the crowd, Eliones leaned slightly toward Leylin. "Well played," she murmured. "You didn't even lift a finger."
Leylin replied quietly, "People like him don't need enemies. Their pride does the work for you."
Around them, the banquet resumed, laughter returning, music swelling once more. But beneath the chandeliers and crystal light, something had shifted. And several sharp-eyed nobles had begun to truly notice the magister who did not belong.
As the banquet continued, the atmosphere subtly changed. The gentle hum of conversation gained an undercurrent of tension, like a string drawn just a little too tight. Servants moved faster, arcwine refilled more frequently, and nobles who had once lingered at the fringes now drifted toward the center of the hall.
The major houses had arrived. Leylin observed quietly, cataloging each presence with the precision of a scholar dissecting a spell.
First was Ly'leth Lunastre, Matron of House Lunastre, already present and now unmistakably central. Her position near one of the arcane columns was no accident, visibility without vulnerability. Nobles approached her often, some with deference, others with cautious familiarity.
House Lunastre, Leylin noted, functioned as a stabilizing pillar: not overtly aggressive, but deeply entrenched. Next came the man who had already drawn Leylin's attention and disdain.
Ruven Duskmere, Heir of House Duskmere. His arrival was loud in the way only pride could be. He spoke before others addressed him, laughed too sharply, and made sure his presence was felt. Though his earlier embarrassment lingered beneath the surface, he masked it well, engaging others with theatrical charm. Several lesser nobles gravitated toward him instinctively.
Influence built on intimidation, Leylin judged. Effective, but brittle. The third was a man Leylin had not yet encountered. Coryn, Lord of House Stelleris.
He entered without ceremony, clad in robes of subdued silver and blue, his expression calm to the point of unreadability. Unlike the others, Coryn did not immediately engage. He stood near the periphery, observing much as Leylin himself had done earlier.
Their gazes met briefly. There was no hostility. No curiosity. Only recognition.
Leylin made a mental note: A dangerous one. Lastly came a presence that altered the very tone of the room.
Aurore Astravar, Matron of House Astravar. Her arrival drew attention without demanding it. The ambient mana seemed to respond to her presence, subtle harmonics aligning as if acknowledging an authority deeper than political rank. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the hall with effortless command.
House Astravar, Leylin recalled, was one of Suramar's oldest lineages. Old power never needs to shout, he thought.
Four houses. Four pillars.
And beneath them, countless lesser families orbiting like satellites, drawn by gravity they could neither escape nor fully understand.
Leylin exhaled slowly. So these are the pieces on the board. He had already crossed paths with Lunastre and Duskmere. The others remained unknown variables. As for alliances, there were none he could yet see.
Only interests. Before he could deepen his analysis, the music faltered. Not stopped. Muted. As though someone had reached into the hall and gently pressed a finger against its throat.
Every noble felt it. Conversations ceased mid-sentence. Servants froze. Glasses lowered.
A ripple passed through the crowd as all eyes turned toward the grand entrance. Leylin felt it before he saw her.
A presence forged in war and discipline, honed not in salons but on battlefields soaked with fel fire. Spellblade Alluriel had arrived.
She strode into the hall clad in ornate yet functional armor, arcane runes etched cleanly into its surface. Her blade rested at her side, not drawn but unmistakably ready. Unlike the nobles, she carried herself without excess, without illusion.
She did not belong to this banquet. And that was precisely why everyone feared and respected her. The First Spellblade of Grand Magistrix Elisande. The Captain of the Magistrix' Guard. Even Ruven Duskmere straightened.
Alluriel came to a halt at the center of the hall. Silence followed her like a shadow. Leylin narrowed his eyes. So this is the blade that guards Suramar.
Alluriel's gaze swept across the gathered nobles, lingering briefly on each of the four major houses. When she spoke, her voice carried without magic, clear, firm, and unyielding. "Nobles of Suramar," she said, "I will not waste your time with pleasantries."
A pause.
"The Burning Legion has increased its activity along the outer ley routes. Scout patrols confirm demonic concentrations less than two days' march from the city's defensive perimeter." A murmur rippled through the hall quickly suppressed.
Leylin watched faces shift. Concern. Calculation. Denial.
Alluriel continued, unfazed. "Fel constructs and Mo'arg commanders have been sighted coordinating movements. This is not a random incursion. It is a siege in preparation."
That word 'siege' landed heavily. "The Magistrix has ordered heightened defenses and the reinforcement of arcane wards. Select houses will be expected to provide resources, magisters, and logistical support." Her eyes hardened. "This is not a request."
The silence deepened.
Aurore Astravar inclined her head slightly, already accepting the implication. Ly'leth Lunastre's expression grew thoughtful, fingers tapping lightly against her goblet. Coryn Stelleris remained unreadable.
Ruven Duskmere frowned. "How close," he asked, "before these… creatures threaten Suramar itself?"
Alluriel turned her gaze upon him. "Close enough that your arrogance will not stop them." A few nobles stiffened at the bluntness.
Leylin, however, smiled faintly. Finally, Someone is speaking the truth.
Alluriel finished her announcement with a final statement: "Enjoy your banquet while you can. The illusion of peace is a luxury sustained by vigilance. Forget that and Suramar will fall."
With that, she turned and departed, her footsteps echoing briefly before vanishing beyond the hall. The music did not resume immediately. When it finally did, it sounded thinner.
Leylin felt it clearly now, the fracture beneath the grandeur. This city was dancing atop a blade's edge. And every noble present knew it. They simply disagreed on who would bleed first.