Part IV — The Shadow Banquet
Summary:
A night of marble and whispers in the Imperial City. Beneath chandeliers of frozen fire, the Empire feasts on appearances. But when a noble's insult cuts too deep, Saviik's restraint thins—and the hall remembers the cost of waking a storm.
---
The invitation bore the seal of the Imperial Court: a waxed ruby stamp impressed with the eagle sigil and a single line in elegant Cyrodiilic script.
"To honor the Dominion Envoy, the House of Varrin requests the presence of the Veyne household."
Even the parchment smelled of politics.
By twilight, the Veynes' carriage joined the procession along the Avenue of Diamonds, wheels whispering over damp cobblestones. The city's lanterns glowed behind thin rain; every droplet refracted gold. Musicians at the palace gates played anthems so precise they sounded practiced by machines.
Saviik watched from the window as banners of white and green unfurled above the crowd—the colors of alliance. But the closer they drew to the marble steps, the more those banners looked like veils.
---
Inside, the Hall of Concordia was a dream carved from wealth and silence.
The ceiling arched high, painted with the founding of the Empire: Tiber Septim raising a sword over kneeling kings. Gold leaf caught the light of a hundred chandeliers, each flame suspended in crystal like a captive sun. Servants moved in perfect patterns, the sound of their steps lost beneath the slow pulse of stringed music.
Lady Ylva led their small procession—her gown the color of iron polished to mirror. Xala followed in soft storm-blue silk, hair braided with copper thread. Saviik came last, black tunic simple but severe, a single silver pin at the collar: the hawk of Windhelm rendered small enough to pass unnoticed by all but the attentive.
He noticed the glances before the greetings. Eyes measured him, weighed him, placed him somewhere between curiosity and suspicion. At his side, Xala's hand brushed his sleeve once, a quiet tether.
At the head of the room, Lord Cassian Varrin, the host, waited. His smile was generous in the way of those who think they invented generosity.
"Ah, the northern wards," he said, voice smooth as oiled parchment. "So pleased you could join us."
"The honor is mutual, my lord," Ylva replied, bowing just enough to satisfy etiquette without conceding anything more.
Varrin's gaze lingered on Saviik, then on Xala. "You bring such… refreshing company. Cyrodiil could use a touch of northern vigor, especially these days. Tell me, my lady—does your ward still confuse silence for wisdom?"
Ylva's tone didn't change. "He prefers listening to flattery, my lord. It's rarer."
The first ripple of laughter came quietly; a few courtiers hid their amusement behind jeweled goblets. Varrin's smile stiffened. "Sharp wit. I suppose the north breeds thick hides for a reason."
"Cold tends to preserve," Saviik said evenly. "Even manners."
A nearby diplomat murmured approval. The air shifted; alliances rearranged themselves by instinct.
Before Varrin could reply, a voice intruded from behind him—smooth, low, and cutting.
Envoy Larethion, the Thalmor observer, glided into view like a blade drawn from its sheath. "How pleasant to see such vitality among our human allies," he said. "The Dominion always admires… rare specimens of discipline."
His golden eyes flicked toward Saviik, then lingered a heartbeat too long. "Tell me, young man, where were you schooled to speak so well? Skyrim's mountains seldom teach eloquence."
"In Cyrodiil," Saviik said.
"Ah." Larethion smiled. "So the Empire still serves its purpose—refinement of raw material."
Ylva stepped in before the insult could settle. "Indeed. Refinement is a two-edged art, Envoy. One must know when to stop polishing, or the reflection begins to lie."
The envoy inclined his head. "A poet's answer. Dangerous breed."
They moved on to dinner. The hall filled with the fragrance of roast pheasant, clove, and wine heavy as blood. Musicians tuned their lutes; conversation swelled and folded like waves.
---
Saviik sat between Xala and a minor court historian who smelled faintly of ink and fear. Across the table, Lord Varrin drank too quickly, his laughter sharpening with every cup.
He was halfway through a story about "civilizing the frontier" when his gaze found Xala again. "And you, lady—what is your lineage? Surely you're not of noble descent?"
Xala kept her smile. "House Veyne's blood is older than some mountains, my lord."
"But not purer, I think." Varrin's tone thickened with wine. "Still, the Empire needs its decorations. Even frost can look charming when tamed."
The laughter this time was quieter, uncertain.
Saviik's hand stilled on his cup.
"She's no decoration," he said.
Varrin chuckled. "Of course, of course. Every tutor fancies his pupil a philosopher. But we all know how the north breeds its women—strong backs, sharp tongues, and better suited to axes than court."
"Enough," Ylva said sharply.
But Varrin leaned back, eyes glinting. "Forgive me, my lady. I forget myself. Perhaps our young ward will teach her civility. If he's learned any."
---
It happened slowly, so slowly that most guests didn't notice at first.
The candles nearest Saviik began to lean.
Not flicker—lean, as if drawn toward him by invisible gravity.
The air thickened.
The music faltered mid-note.
Heat spread outward from his chair, a pulse through stone. Wine steamed faintly in the nearest goblets. The scent of clove burned into ash.
Saviik didn't move. His gaze stayed on Varrin—calm, distant, unreadable—but the calm had weight. The kind that bends weather.
Someone gasped when a silver knife on the table quivered upright, balancing on its point before toppling. The sound it made when it fell was too loud in the sudden quiet.
Varrin's smirk broke first. His voice came small. "It was only—"
"I know," Saviik said, barely above a whisper. "So do they."
The words sank into the air and stayed there.
For one terrible heartbeat, the entire hall seemed to breathe with him. The flames brightened to white, shadows stretched thin, and every living soul in that room understood—without spell, without gesture—that this quiet young Nord could unmake the moment if he chose.
Then, as quickly as it came, the heat vanished. Candles righted themselves. Music resumed, uncertainly. The world exhaled.
---
Later, when the hall emptied, Larethion found him by the colonnade overlooking the rain-soaked city.
"A fascinating evening," the envoy said. "You command attention most… uniquely."
Saviik didn't turn. "You came to measure me. Did you find what you were looking for?"
Larethion's smile did not reach his eyes. "Oh, yes. The Empire keeps interesting company these days. I wonder, though—does it know what kind of storm it shelters?"
Saviik's reflection in the marble column answered for him: silent, sharp-edged, eyes lit faintly as embers seen through frost.
---
When he returned to the carriage, Xala was waiting. She said nothing at first, just studied him as the driver guided the horses into motion.
"They'll talk," she said finally.
"Let them."
"I'm not sure which part frightens me more," she whispered. "That you did it, or that you stopped."
He looked out at the city lights blurring through the rain. "Both," he said. "They should fear both."