Once Isabella and Anton were seated on their raised dais, beside both kings, servants filled the goblets with a golden Florenzian wine that shimmered like sunlight in glass.
Pope Constantine IV, now free of his ceremonial vestments and clad in a regal cardinal-red cloak, raised his cup.
"Today I have bound two souls together," he proclaimed, voice deep and commanding, "but tonight, let us bind peace. Let this marriage be more than an alliance, let it be providence."
A wave of applause rolled through the hall.
Then Victor lifted his goblet.
"A toast," he said, "to the daughter I gain, to the son who grows into his own, and to the friend I have found in King Alphonse."
Alphonse raised his cup as well. "And to the future, may it be worthy of them."
Glass clinked. The hall erupted with music.
Servants flooded the hall bearing towering platters: roasted boar glazed with honey and rosemary; bowls of saffron-infused risotto; river trout stuffed with olives and lemon; warm loaves of wheat bread steaming in the cool palace air.
Guests toasted until their voices grew hoarse. Musicians shifted from soft hymns to lively dances. Some nobles were already tapping their heels beneath the table.
Anton leaned over to Isabella with a mischievous smile. "I think your brother is already drunk."
Isabella laughed softly. "That's the point of a royal banquet."
When the plates were cleared and the hall lit brighter than ever, the musicians struck the opening notes of a waltz.
All eyes fell upon Isabella and Anton.
Anton stood first, offering his hand. "Princess," he said in a tone that balanced charm with sincerity, "may I have this first dance as your husband?"
"You may," she replied, taking his hand with grace.
They glided onto the polished marble floor. At first, the court admired them in respectful silence—but soon the hall burst into applause as they moved together in a perfect, swirling rhythm. Isabella's gown shimmered with every turn; Anton's dark blue coat cut through the air like a blade.
The kings watched with pride. The Pope watched with approval. The nobles watched with expectation. And the common soldiers who had been granted the rare honour of attending watched with awe.
When the dance ended, applause thundered off the walls.
The banquet was in full effect, Luxenberg commanders were drinking and telling war stories to the Visconte commanders, albeit thanks to a translator. Henri was also present for those conversations. Clarisse and her younger children were entertained by the Pope as he was going on about some biblical tale.
As for Victor, he sat next to Anton, looking out at the banquet. Laughter, dancing, and drinking, the mood was perfect. The day was perfect. With no issues, Victor and everyone involved in the planning could bear a sigh of relief, but they had let their sighs out too soon.
When the party was reaching its height, a surprise guest was about to make an entrance.
The announcer looked confused when being told who the surprising guest was. He looked back for confirmation, and when it was confirmed, a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. At first, he struggled to muster the courage to make the announcement, but knew that if he did not do it. The repercussions would be horrendous, especially if you offended a man as powerful as him.
The guards at the marble entrance straightened, hands tightening around their muskets, for the great bronze door—engraved with scenes of Visconte triumphs—was slowly pushing inward.
Slowly.
And completely from the other side.
Every guest fell silent.
The music died.
Only the heavy, echoing groan of the opening door remained.
From the darkness beyond the threshold stepped a lone figure.
Tall. Slender. Unhurried, as though he owned the air he walked through.
"Introducing the radiant sun of the Hakim Sultunate. The divine ruler of the desert. Sultan Mehmet Al Jaffar Hakim." The announcer said in a wavering, but booming tone.
The Sultan wore a flowing coat of midnight silk embroidered with swirling gold—patterns like curling smoke, elegant and predatory. His skin was a smooth, warm caramel, almost glowing in the torchlight. His hair, long and tied at the nape, was a deep violet that shimmered like amethyst.
His eyes were molten gold. Not yellow, not amber. Gold. His venomous eyes scoured the room, looking at the startled guests. The room, for a moment, let out a massive gasp, shocked at the arrival of the foreign ruler. But that was only for a moment; a deadly silence hung about, and no one dared to speak.
Victor, Alphone and the Pope were quick to rise from their seats to confront the arrival of this surprise guest. Emerging from behind the Sultan were a dozen members of his Janissary Corps.
Their tall white börks rose above them like a pale flame, the trailing cloth stirring gently behind his shoulders. Their deep-red dolamas, heavy with gold embroidery at the seams, swayed around their legs as they moved with a deliberate, unhurried grace.
A voice, rich and smooth as polished brass, rolled out across the stunned hall.
"Forgive my intrusion," he said. "But an occasion so grand… deserved an unexpected guest."
He stepped fully into the light, cloak brushing the marble like whispered thunder.
"I am Mehmet Hakim," he announced, "Sultan of the Hakim Sultunate… and ruler of Hamkim Sultunate and the continent of Asharan."
The hall erupted into murmurs. Nobles drew back. Luxenberg Royal Guards surged forward, uncertain. Visconte officers reached for their swords, and their soldiers drew their muskets.
But the Sultan did not flinch.
His golden eyes were fixed straight on the newlywed couple.
"Princess Isabella. Prince Anton." He bowed his head—only slightly, just enough to show respect without surrender.
"Allow me to offer my congratulations. Your union… will reshape continents."
Alphonse stepped toward him, tense. "Sultan Mehmet Hakim. You are far from Asharan. Why come now? Why like this?"
Mehmet's smile widened; dangerous, beautiful, electric.
"Because, Your Majesty…" he said softly, "history rarely waits for invitations."
He strode forward, past the stunned rows of nobles, and the torches steadied once more—yet the hall felt no less charged, as though lightning itself had walked through the doors and taken human form.
The Sultan of Asharan had arrived.
And nothing about the night would remain the same.