Astra took his time returning to the banquet, letting his steps carry him slowly through the grand archway as if reluctant to break the twilight spell still clinging to his mind. Outside, the last glimmer of violet evening had been fading into indigo, but in here the world had been remade into a palace of warmth and light.
Lanterns hung from silvered chains, their flames flickering with a golden steadiness that merged with the glow of countless candles. Light splintered across crystal decanters, brushed the gilt of picture frames, and shimmered over the carved sandstone pillars whose reliefs told centuries of House Dune's victories.
The air was layered—spiced wine, the sweetness of imported desert blooms, and the faint trace of burning incense that curled in lazy strands from braziers at the hall's far edges. A dozen strings sang softly above the low hum of noble voices, the music swelling with enough grace to make even silence seem like part of the composition.
He passed marble inlays shaped like desert stars and found himself once more among the endless glitter of noble life—rings catching light with every gesture, gowns of silver-threaded silk rustling in miniature waves. Clusters of men and women conversed in careful tones, their laughter practiced to rise and fall in neat crescendos. A few couples drifted into the center of the hall, dancing with steps so precise they seemed choreographed since birth.
It was… a world too pristine to be real, crafted and curated into a perfection that left no space for the sharp edges of truth. He had no business here.
Yet here he was—Astra Noctis of House Night, shielded under the dark umbrella of House Shadow, now standing in the gilded heart of House Dune's wealth and spectacle.
His eyes swept the crowd, skimming past the facelessly beautiful until they landed on a far more dangerous sight—Seraphine.
The music shifted, swelling into something deeper, slower. Lanternlight dimmed, and like the drawing of a curtain, the polished crowd pulled back from the center of the floor. The Honorary Dance was beginning.
A bishop of House Dune stepped forward. Astra caught the faint resemblance to Seraphine, though whether brother or cousin, he neither knew nor cared to. The man was of unremarkable height, but his desert-gold hair and ocean-deep eyes made him the sort of figure one could paint into a legend. He had the stillness of a desert horizon, the kind of quiet awe that commanded attention without lifting a hand.
He crossed the marble with unhurried elegance, bowing to a squire in the corner—who, upon stepping forward, revealed herself to be a woman of striking poise and beauty, almost certainly his wife. She accepted his hand, and the two began the first slow turn, the hall's light embracing them.
Astra's mind idly replayed the rule: the first dance belonged to the hosts but if royals were present they would also join in. In cases where the hosts were royals, only they claimed it—unless they invited another. And such an invitation was never hollow. It meant you were the guest of honor. Or It meant you were someone they loved.
Two others from Dunes royal family took to the ballroom floor.
He couldn't help scanning the floor again, wondering who Seraphine would choose. The thought stirred something—small, bitter, unwanted. Envy.
She stepped into the light. Her gown flowed in muted ripples, each movement deliberate, every tilt of her chin so naturally commanding it seemed the air had no choice but to bend around her. Her smile was faint but sure, and the sapphire in her gaze drew attention the way the moon pulls the tide.
Then she looked at him.
Smiled.
And started walking his way.
Wait… what? No. You're kidding. She's joking, right?
The spotlight followed her—and then found him. Conversations fractured. Heads turned. The air sharpened with a quiet, collective intake of breath. In the shifting light, he saw the jealousy, the hostility—the disbelief. Seraphine was not just beautiful; she was coveted, adored, pursued. The jewel of Dune. This princess was so famous she had actual fan clubs. And now, apparently, she was walking toward him.
Astra felt a chill lace up his spine. His curls caught the light, violet eyes straining to remain calm under the growing pressure of a hundred stares.
She stopped before him. Mischief glinted in her eyes—enough to confirm this was deliberate.
"Astra of Shadow," she said with that soft, cutting poise, "would you honor me in taking this dance?"
She did it.
Isn't the first dance taken at a ball by any noble supposed to be a big deal? Like guest-of-honor big deal? She's not any normal noble as well but a damned princess of a royal house! She actually went out of her way to bring the spotlight to me knowing I'm supposed to lay low! This girl!
Astra's mind was on fire, flipping through every scrap of protocol he'd studied. No… I didn't make a mistake. She simply is that cunning.
He blinked, still processing her advance. Lord Tenebrous told me to stay out of the spotlight. And now I'm actually under one! I swear noblewomen are gonna be the death of me!
Another thought intruded—perverse enough to make him smirk inwardly. What if I rejected her? Would I instantly get kicked out… or perhaps get killed?
He shook that away with a mental scoff. Rejecting her would invite even more attention—gods, this woman.
And yet… beneath the panic, there was something else. A warmth he didn't want to name. Days ago, he'd been nothing but a street rat scrounging for scraps in Duskfall's alleys. Now a princess was asking him to dance under a spotlight in front of Saharas most prestigious families.
He smiled—wryly, reluctantly—as he stammered out the only answer that wouldn't set the hall aflame.
"I… it would be an honor and a privilege."
He bowed, taking her hand, doing his best to ignore the burning weight of every eye on them.
But even as he straightened, the absurdity of it pressed in. She—a princess of Dune at the perfect age for marriage—inviting an unknown, adopted noble of Shadow, a mere rank one, to the first dance. Yeah. That's totally not gonna have everyone's eyes on me. Oh gods not to mention the political impacts this can make as well.
And yet, despite himself, he couldn't quite smother the truth: some small, reckless part of him liked it.
Sensing the stiffness in his frame, Seraphine's lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. She leaned close enough that her breath warmed his ear, and the hush of the hall seemed to bend around the whisper of silk.
"Your so nervous, relax of mighty warrior of Shadow, this is but a simple dance."
Astra sighed as he accepted his fate. "Who said I'm nervous? I just haven't ever danced with a royal princess you know. especially not in front of nobles who would kill to be in my place."
Seraphines fingers closed around his. The touch was light but certain, and the current of movement pulled them toward the center of the floor as if the stone itself had decided to follow her lead. The moment their hands met, the hush of expectation settled on him like a cloak—thin, but heavy.
"There's a first time for everything," she said, winking as if the whole hall were a private joke between them.
He had never bothered with the meticulous schooling of courtly movement. Steps, counts, the language of hands and glances—these were not the lessons that had kept him fed in Duskfall. Still, for all his ignorance, Seraphine's guidance was precise and unruffled, and she slid him into posture with a grace that made his uncertainty thin as smoke.
"Do try to not embarrass yourself," she teased, a grin brightening her face as she settled them into the first measure.
The distance between them narrowed until he could see the subtle gloss on her red lips. Too close. The thought lodges, silly and instantaneous—like a warning. He felt the pressure of her gaze but dared not meet it. Instead he looked out across the floor, catching sight of the bishop and his wife at the center of the hall.
Their reaction to Seraphine's choice registered in a near-automatic, human way: surprise, a quick measuring of the situation—then something softer. The wife's eyes flicked to Astra's curls and the violet of his gaze, and a knowing smile passed between her and the bishop that spoke of some private recognition or approval. The sight made him more uneasy than any open disdain could.
They don't seem to mind… how come? The thought scraped at him, small and panicked. Oh obviously it's due to the fact Im of Shadow. it seems this is obviously a political move on behalf of dune to show their allies. Damn how did I catch that.
For a moment he stood rigid, every muscle wired with the fear of misstep. The floor beneath their feet felt suddenly treacherous, and the music grew louder in his ears, a tide of strings and beat. Then, like a blade finding a seam, something in him shifted. He'd been taught to watch, feel, and move; to mirror with purpose rather than memorize with fear. The Shadow Sword's lessons — fluidity, reading weight and pivot, harmonizing with another body — rose up inside him and gave him a foothold. He simply had to feel her shadow and follow.
Shadow Sword was all about mirroring, about becoming one with the rhythm of battle, adapting to every move. It wasn't about knowing every step in advance, it was about feeling the rhythm in your body and responding to the flow of the moment. And in this case, the moment was Seraphine's graceful movements.
Astra began to mirror her and the mens movements nearby, almost instinctively. His feet, once hesitant, began to follow her steps. His body shifted in time with hers, adapting to the rhythm of the dance.
The movement flowed between them, and for a fleeting moment, Astra forgot the world around him—the glittering lights, the curious eyes of the guests, the hidden danger of House Dune. It was just him and Seraphine, dancing together.
They began with a close frame that spoke of careful restraint: her right hand light in his left, his right on the small of her back, the contact a private language of pressure and release. The music's phrasing led them—a gentle swell, a soft fall—and they moved together, initiating small travels and turns that, though simple in design, bloomed into something unexpectedly consequential. Seraphine favored subtle cues: a slight lift of the sternum, a half-breathed inhale, a minute shift in weight that made the pivot fall perfectly on the count. He learned those cues not by studying them but by listening with his body; the Shadow Sword had taught him to listen to the weight of a footfall as if it were a breath.
The two of them, both strikingly beautiful in their own ways, Astra, tall and lithe, with violet eyes Pale skin and curly hair as black as the night sky, Seraphine, a head shorter than Astra, with sapphire blue eyes, and raven black hair and skin so pale it was almost like snow, moved across the floor, a perfect balance of grace and poise. Astra, his usual commanding presence softened by the dance, was every bit as captivating as Seraphine.
As they swept, the dance grew. The first couple that followed them were careful at first—a duchess and her heir—timidly taking the marks of movement as if not to cross any invisible line. Then another pair, confidence and medals flashing, slid into step; then another, a shimmer of brocade and a whisper of velvet. Like beads on a string, more and more nobles drifted onto the floor, eager to be part of the spectacle or, perhaps, unwilling to be left out of whatever courtly drama Seraphine had orchestrated. The music widened to wrap the influx: strings layered in counterpoint, woodwinds adding color, the tempo easing to accommodate bodies of different schooling and grace.
They twisted through promenades beneath the chandeliers, their silhouettes carving slow arcs against the columns. Astra felt the hall's architecture rhythm with them—the carved stone seeming to pulse, the braziers leaning into the music's breath. The crowd receded into a ring, eyes bright and mouths softened. As the space filled, the choreography of the ballroom evolved: figures formed and dissolved, promenades widened into sweeping lines, then closed into smaller, more intimate turns. Nobles stepped forward with practiced bows then fell back with delicate excuses, stepping into the fray only to bow out when the curve of the music demanded a purer, more regal center.
More and more men joined the flow—marquises with clipped laughter, generals with military stillness turned supple, cat-eyed counts whose hands knew how to lift a wrist as if it were a chalice. They paired and unpaired like tides, some stepping forward eager and polished, others withdrawing mid-figure when they saw how Seraphine and Astra moved together. Each new coupling added a note to the hall's chorus: shoes whispering, skirts brushing, whispered compliments, discrete glances aimed like spears. The orchestra shaped itself to the swell, breath held and released in measured waves.
Despite the crowd's multiplication, the floor's center remained reserved—an island of light where the hosts and their chosen partners claimed a final sanctity. Pairs danced, spun, and then one by one bowed out as if following an invisible etiquette: a curtsey here, a slight nod there. They left space and softened the attention toward Seraphine and Astra, whose movement continued to hold that impossible line between technical grace and raw magnetism.
The pair looked like an angelic couple intertwined in a graceful dance
The circle thinned deliberately. Gentle hands drew their partners back; polite bows turned into small withdrawals. Whole sequences finished and dissolved while the hosts — the bishop and his lady — remained last, holding the floor with a sovereign calm. The music tightened, a measured coda that felt written to frame only them. The air condensed into a single held note; the hall leaned forward, collective breath imprisoned.
As the orchestra wound down, their steps slowed in lens-tight precision. Astra felt the final cadence land like a coin in the palm: one last pivot, a small, flawless dip. The applause that broke was immediate and full, a tide of clapping that rolled through the tiered aisles and balconies. To him, it sounded distant and intimate at once—an echo and a benediction.
As the music drew to a close, the dance ended as seamlessly as it had begun. The applause of the onlookers was a distant echo in Astra's ears, and he couldn't help but feel a rush of pride and embarrassment at the unexpected breakthrough.
He had danced—no, he had learned—in the span of a few minutes, a moment of clarity born from his chaotic training.
Seraphine stepped back and released his hand with an airy, theatrical bow. Her smile was open now, pleased in that dangerous way that suggested she had won something delicious. Around them, acknowledgments and murmurs threaded through the crowd—some admiration, some thinly veiled rancor, the court's usual mixture.
Seraphine let go of his hand, her smile widening as she gave him a mock bow. " Wow not bad, Astra, color me surprised. An outlaw who can dance?"
Astra simply smirked, trying to mask the thrill of his unexpected success. "I guess I just needed the right partner." His gaze flickered to hers, and there was a momentary flicker of something more between them.
Astra felt deep down that his mastery of Shadow Sword had progressed. If he were to look it would surly say The Sword of Shadows.[Mastery: 1/9]
The hosts remained at the center a heartbeat longer, returning the bows with the politeness of practiced rulers. Then, as custom demanded, they offered the final curtsy and withdrew—first the wife, then the bishop—each exit a signal that the spectacle had been witnessed, graded, and adjudicated. The last to leave were the hosts themselves, circling out amid a shower of polite claps, which carried the final seal of approval like a stamp.
The crowd began to dissipate as the music slowed and the banquet slowly wound down. Astra, now once again aware of the eyes upon him, made his way through the sea of noblemen and women, his heart still pounding with the exhilaration of the dance.
As he threaded through collected conversations and cooling wine, snippets of commentary brushed past him—half-phrases, clipped judgments, a few sincere praises. Some spoke of daring, some of impropriety. But the thing that thrummed under everything was recognition: that for a breath the court had seen him not as a shadowed oddity but as something worthy of the light.
Astra exhaled, letting his posture soften, though the air in his chest still felt wound tight from the evening's performance. His gaze wandered the gilded edges of the ballroom before, inevitably, finding the silhouette he had been avoiding.
Lord Tenebrous stood apart from the glittering congregation, a dark monolith at the room's edge. Arms crossed, head tilted in quiet appraisal.
Astra forced the unease down and closed the distance.
The bishop's lips curved upward, an expression that was neither warm nor cruel, but carried the weight of one who always knew more than he said. "Well, well, Astra," he murmured, his voice a blend of disbelief and thin amusement. "You certainly know how to make an impression."
Astra's gaze was steady, unreadable. "Impressions are all anyone ever expects, aren't they?"
The bishop's laughter was quiet, edged with something almost sharp. "To dance like that with a Royal Princess… Wow." His tone hung between mockery and reluctant admiration.
For a moment he studied Astra as though measuring an unfamiliar alloy—testing how much light, how much shadow it could bear. Before another word could anchor itself, the banquet's energy surged. Glasses rang, silk swirled, and the conversations spun outward like ribbons. But Astra felt the weight of Tenebrous's eyes long after the noise reclaimed the hall.
When they finally stepped into the night, the air was a cool balm against his skin. Music still vibrated faintly through the estate walls, mingling with the street's quieter chorus—the rustle of silk as late guests departed, the occasional roll of carriage wheels, the scent of sweet smoke curling from some distant brazier.
Seraphine's eyes lingered on them as they left, her expression unreadable. That look followed Astra into the street.
Astra sensing how, opposite of the bishops words, House Shadow had made quite a commotion at the ball tonight, Ignoring my own antics, The tall scion went straight to opposing rival houses and began conversing with them when they clearly hated him. Lord Alistair was socializing with a manner of Bishops and Knights at the event and they had clearly rolled in deep Dusk territory as if they owned it. Adding in my antics, it was quite a commotion.
"I thought we were supposed to keep a low profile," he said, his voice light, teasing, though the shadows seemed to catch the words and keep them.
Tenebrous's smile deepened fractionally."Low profile?" His laugh was sarcastic. "You see opposite what most think of House Shadow, when the time is right, we seldom stay hidden. Lord Vesperion alone is enough to cause a war if left unattended for too long, and now we have you. He smiled as he looked at Astra
Hmm so that crazy scions is actually a crazy lord, as expected the way the shadows reacted to him was too strong. It seems House Shadow is less hidden as they seem?
Alistair continued "No offense, but you look like a princess yourself and attracted the attention of many scions women and men included. He scoffed "Then you proceeded to mangle with the jewel of Dune herself, Princess Seraphine the whole night and then she proceeds to invite you to her dance of honor, do note she had cousins and brothers to choose from tonight. So while yes we were technically supposed to stay hidden, we simply cannot. I expect this much from someone of your lineage after all" he laughed heartily at the sheer absurdity.
"I am not a princess" Astra scoffed a little annoyed. Inwardly he couldn't help but mock his looks. Damnit why am I so pretty!
Alistair smiled as he walked. his coat, lined with something darker than velvet, swept the cobblestones as they walked, catching and releasing the lamplight. "Now," he said, the tone turning purposeful, "It is time you became acquainted with our house. One of our Saints in charge of the Duskfall region wishes to meet you. He will define the terms of your stay, convene the will of the council… and perhaps even challenge you to a wager."
A wager. The word curled pleasantly in Astra's mind, like the warm edge of a dangerous drink. "Very well," he said.
"Let us make haste, left Prince Vesperion and others as delegates—they'll remain until the banquet collapses under its own decadence. But you and I… we make for Shadow's Estate and Embassy. There you will be safest, and we can begin in earnest. "
Astra inclined his head. As they moved through the avenues, the street's pulse shifted. Lesser-ranked citizens lowered their eyes, stepping aside with a reverence that was almost devotional. It was the sort of respect that felt like both a crown and a chain—acknowledging the bishop not merely as a man, but as something more divine than mortal.
The air here was warm but touched by a playful night breeze. Above, the sky had shed the electric violet of day for a deeper indigo. The light of Duskfall was always otherworldly—by day, bright violet on the edge of pink; by night, a slow-moving ocean of deep blue threaded with magical glimmers that pulsed faintly, like the city's heartbeat reflected above.
Astra tilted his head back, thinking aloud. "Hmm. I walked here. I wonder how the bishop intends to leave the banquet."
The answer came as a soundless arrival.
As if on cue, a soft hum cut through the night, growing into a resonant, thrumming purr. Around the corner of the Dune Estate glided a mana-powered hovercraft—sleek and predatory in its elegance. Its hull shimmered obsidian-black, accented with veins of gold that caught the lamplight like molten sunlight trapped in metal. Even for someone who had seen many strange conveyances, Astra found himself thinking: That's… beautiful.
Transportation in the realms came in every form imaginable—summoned beasts and spectral mounts, airships that sailed the winds, carriages both simple and enchanted, steam trains, electrical trams, and, of course, mana-powered crafts. Duskfall, sprawling over hundreds of miles and housing hundreds of millions, depended on an endless web of such movement. The common folk—Ranks One and Two—packed themselves into the underground train systems, silver rail lines that glowed faintly with enchantments, the fare no more than a few copper standards. For the wealthy or Ranks Three and higher—there were airships drifting between the high spires, finely built carriages drawn by mana-bred steeds, personal crafts like this one or some use the regulated mounts and steeds, however the laws are strict regarding such, as one cannot simply just park a massive wyvern somewhere as he goes and eats. So crafts were the go to and nobility adored them—not merely for speed, but for status—and entire Houses built reputations on their manufacture and weaponization.
So no, Astra wasn't surprised to see such a craft here. But even knowing that… the sheer refinement of it stirred a faint, reluctant admiration.
Lord Tenebrous—Alistair now, in this less public skin—allowed himself a small smile as the craft settled before them. He stepped inside first, the door parting like a sigh.
Astra followed—and stopped.
The craft's interior was impossibly larger than the shell suggested, the air perfumed with cedar and faint ozone. Black leather seating curved in elegant arcs around low tables of glass-veined stone. Runes glimmered faintly beneath the surfaces, pulsing in time with the soft, steady hum of mana conduits. Alcoves along the walls shimmered with the illusion of deeper chambers—some leading to private lounges, others to curtained sleeping quarters. The floor underfoot was warm, as though it remembered sunlight.
It could easily seat thirty, though from the outside it looked barely large enough for four. Spatial mana—weaving the impossible into the inevitable. Servants moved quietly through the space, their presence smooth as the craft's motion.
Astra let his fingers brush the nearest seat's leather seam, noting the absence of even a hairline flaw. He wondered idly how such a vessel handled the presence of a demigod—whether the enchantments could hold if his power swelled, or if it would come apart like wet parchment in a gale. The thought was both absurd and entirely possible; after all, Alistair could destroy the craft with a single unchecked breath of mana, if he so wished.
The door closed, the outside world falling away into a faint, distant murmur. The craft lifted without a single jolt, the motion so smooth it was as if the street had fallen instead of they rising. Through a narrow viewing panel, Astra watched the city peel away beneath them—the chandeliers of the Dune estate shrinking to a glittering constellation, the violet-lit streets receding into the quiet, endless pulse of Duskfall's night.
Astra's mind flicked—half in awe, half in pragmatism—to the sheer fragility of it all. How could a vessel like this withstand the pressure of a demigod's mana? The truth was simple—it couldn't. If Lord Tenebrous so wished, his presence alone could make the entire thing implode into glittering shards of metal and magic.
He leaned back into the seat's embrace. This day had been a theater of masks, music, and political maneuvering—From inheriting a Church to Seraphine's grace, Tenebrous's smile and dangerous alliances to the silent agreements written in every glance. Each thread now wrapped around him, unseen but binding.
But for now, it floated in the night, a sleek, enchanted cocoon carrying them into the depths of Duskfall.
Astra saw the city from a new vantage as they left the gilded heart of the noble quarter. The center's marble towers and violet-glass windows gave way to broader avenues and shadow-washed streets, the hum of music from the banquet hall fading behind them.
The roads here were quiet but not empty—hooded figures in dark robes moved with silent purpose, their paths illuminated only by lanterns filled with slow-turning globes of phosphorescent mana. The violet twilight of Duskfall had deepened into a rich, almost-black indigo, and the air itself seemed heavier, thicker with unseen currents of magic.
As they reached the towering gates of House Shadow's estate, the atmosphere changed entirely. The air itself felt viscous with power, almost resisting the act of breathing. Wrought-iron gates taller than three men arched overhead, each bar engraved with moving runes—wards that shimmered and re-formed like ink in water. The stone of the outer wall was the deep black of volcanic glass, its surface so smooth it reflected ghostly shapes that weren't there a heartbeat later. The center of the gate had Shadows embelm, a large golden Ouroboros. The tail devourer.
The bishop raised one hand, and the gates parted without a sound. The guards on either side, clad in lacquered black armor with silver filigree, lowered their heads in wordless respect. Their faces were expressionless, but their eyes—shadowed by helms—flickered faintly with an inner light that was not entirely mortal. They gave the aura of a rank two but Astra felt something off.
Inside, the estate was a world unto itself. The main courtyard spread wide, ringed with colonnades carved from midnight stone, each pillar etched with scenes of saints and veiled angels whose eyes seemed to follow passersby. In the center stood the goddess's likeness: a tall, veiled figure, one hand extended, the other holding a scroll. Shadows pooled unnaturally at her feet, deep as wells, and Astra knew instantly these were divine in nature—immutable, eternal, untouchable by any mortal or mundane force. Only a god, or something perilously close, could ever change them. Interestingly enough, Astra felt a small connection.
The cloak of secrecy. Astra instantly thought, it was a symbol and godhood of Umbra he had inherited. Hmm it seems divine shadows can detect it subtly and react to me? how troublesome. Astra was not bothered by this however, it didn't really hinder him.
Still he felt watched—not by guards or servants, but by the place itself. The shadows here were not inert. They shifted subtly at the edges of vision, folding around the corners of halls and the ankles of passersby like living things. They never touched Astra, but he could feel them measuring him and even reacting to him. He felt if he so wished he could make them obey.
The estate was not still. It bustled quietly with clerks in black-and-silver tabards carrying scrolls, attendants gliding silently with trays, warriors in polished armor whose boots made no sound against the obsidian floors. Among them were scions—high-born heirs of House Shadow—draped in silks dyed in the house's deep greys blacks and golds. No one lingered. Everyone moved with purpose, as though aware that in this place, standing still too long meant being noticed.
Alistair moved through it all with the ease of a man who had walked these halls for decades. His long coat drifted behind him, catching on invisible currents of mana that pulsed like a heartbeat through the estate. Astra followed, his eyes darting between the flicker of enchanted sconces, the quiet murmurs of passing priests, and the ever-present whisper of shadow magic at the edges of his hearing.
Even with his training, even after standing in the presence of saints before, Astra could not ignore the pressure rolling off the bishop. It wasn't aggressive—it was the weight of a tide that could crush without ever meaning to. Somewhere in that measured gait and calm posture was the unspoken truth that Alistair could level a city quarter before the first scream reached the air.
They passed through a vaulted hall lined with stained glass. Instead of sunlight, the panes filtered moonlight stolen from the night sky itself, and the scenes they depicted seemed to shift when not directly observed: processions of veiled angels one moment, battlefields the next. Astra found himself glancing twice just to be sure.
And still, deeper they went.
"So what now?" Astra asked at last, breaking the silence that had begun to feel like a second skin.
Alistair didn't look back. "Now, we meet the others," he said evenly. "And you see what House Shadow truly has to offer."
The words were simple, but they carried a density that sat uneasily in Astra's chest. He had the distinct impression that "offer" might mean more than hospitality.
As they crossed into the inner keep, Astra's awareness sharpened. The shadows thickened here, less like absence of light and more like the presence of something unseen. He could feel their attention, cool and calculating, brushing against the edges of his thoughts. Somewhere far above, a bell rang—not a warning, not a call to prayer, but something older, heavier.
He thought of what Alistair had said earlier—that their estate housed multiple bishops, three saints, and sometimes angels.The Church of Night claims fifty saints, Astra recalled, with some bordering on angelic might… How does a great house at its height compare to an ancient church? And which is more dangerous—the ones who wield divinity, or the ones who know how to use it politically?
They came to a corridor lit only by thin bands of silver fire along the base of the walls. The air was cooler here, tinged with the faint scent of incense and something sharper—ozone, perhaps, from recent spellwork. Each step echoed too loudly for the space, as though the sound were being replayed a fraction of a second later.
The conference room lay ahead.
Astra felt it before he saw it: the press of multiple auras layered one atop another, weaving a suffocating net of presence. Saints, perhaps more. Each aura carried its own weight—some sharp as drawn steel, others heavy as deep water.
At the threshold, Alistair paused, one hand resting lightly on the doorframe. His eyes narrowed, not at Astra but at some unseen point beyond.
Probably communication of sorts, Astra guessed, feeling the faint ripple of mana in the air.I need to steel myself. Saints are terrifying. Angels are worse. If he can sense my cloak of secrecy, I'll know soon enough… but I doubt it.
The bishop's hand pushed forward. The door swung inward without a sound.
Cold rushed out to meet them, sharp enough to make Astra's breath catch. The temperature inside was lower by several degrees, yet the air felt denser, heavier with magic. As he stepped in, he could feel the room's awareness of him—the way its occupants, its walls, perhaps even its shadows, weighed him in an instant.
For the first time since setting foot in House Shadow's estate, Astra truly felt it: He was not a guest here. He was a piece in play.
The chamber was carved from the bones of shadow itself—arches bending toward an unseen height, the walls lit by braziers of black flame that gave no heat but filled the air with a low, resonant hum. Power gathered in the silence, heavy yet deliberate, as though even the stone understood the magnitude of what was about to occur.
Three figures waited within.
The first, a towering bishop in flowing midnight robes, radiated authority as tangible as a storm cloud. His aura pressed on the air, not crushing, but reminding all who entered that he had command of shadows older than empires. His eyes found Astra immediately—not dismissing him, not ignoring him—but holding him with the weight of recognition. The gaze wasn't curiosity; it was acknowledgement.
Beside him stood another bishop, a woman whose bearing was regal, spine unbending as a spear. Her features were carved sharp, yet her composure was as serene as an ancient monolith. She didn't appraise Astra like a curiosity to be measured—no, her eyes studied him as one measures an equal across the board of a long game. The faintest inclination of her chin marked him not as an interloper, but as a guest of consequence.
And then—the Saint.
High Duke Valerius Umbra, high son of House Shadow, stood at the room's heart. His presence was vast, a tide that bent the very atmosphere, a hymn of power woven into the marrow of the world. His aura resonated like a deep unfathomable chasm, ancient and inexorable. Yet when his dark eyes settled on Astra, they did not regard him as prey. They searched him, yes, but with the deliberate stillness one reserves for the arrival of something inevitable.
Well. No pressure, Astra mused dryly, forcing his lips not to twitch. Just a saint of shadows trying to stare into my soul. Nothing terrifying about that. Definitely not sweating under my very expensive shirt. Nope.
Alistair's voice finally cut through, calm and deliberate."High Duke Saint Valerius Umbra. High Lady Shilde and High Lord Vaelid of Shadow, I present to you Prince Astra Noctis, last heir of House Night and Caliph of the Church of Night. He stands not as mere mortal nor as adopted, but as guest and ally. By blood and by right."
Valerius was silent for a long time, letting the tension coil until even the air seemed to bend under it. Then he spoke, his voice resonant—thunder wrapped in velvet.
"So. An heir of the Night walks once more beneath these halls."
Not a question. Not a challenge. A fact. His gaze pressed, probing against the veils Astra had drawn around his spirit. When it met resistance, Valerius's lips curved—quiet amusement, not disdain.
"Greetings. Heir of Night."
"Greetings, Prince," High Lady Shilde and High Lord Vaelid echoed, their voices flat, their faces unreadable.
Astra smiled, thin but steady. "Good evening, Saint. Bishops."
Valerius inclined his head, eyes narrowing. His words carried cold weight."Blood of Night. Blood of Umbra. A contradiction… and a herald. You carry the echo of a dead god, and yet you walk with the pulse of the living night. A dangerous union."
Glad you noticed. Astra raised a brow, keeping his posture casual. Aloud, he said evenly:"As you know, your grace, I try to keep things interesting."
A flicker—both bishops' eyes shifting toward him, surprise flicked away as quickly as it came. Few spoke so lightly in a Saint's presence.
Valerius studied him a heartbeat longer, then inclined his head just so. Not derision. Not mockery. Recognition."Confidence is one thing. Endurance, another. Tell me, heir of stars—do you intend to stand as a prince… or play the fool who dares jest in these halls of power?"
Both, Astra thought immediately. Definitely both. Keeps people guessing.
He let a smirk ghost across his lips. "Why not both? I hear unpredictability keeps divinity entertained."
Silence fell—not disapproval, but weight. The kind of silence when a chess player makes an unexpected move. Or so Astra told himself, just to keep his heartbeat steady.
Astra wanted to not be overly respectful. He needed to act with power. "I cannot get too arrogant now." He reminded himself, Astra recalled his unpleasant upbringing In the outskirts, the ghettos of Duskfall. "Yes I cannot be one of those losers. Remember those who act with too much confidence or too little are always the weakest. Yet those who play in between and keep everyone guessing, always end up on top."
Astra had never feared those who were too loud or too quiet with their actions. No he had always feared those who were always just perfectly coasting the line, making one feel fear and apprehension to their real capabilities.
After all, it was never power itself that men feared most. It was the unknown.
Astra eyes narrowed as he spoke, his tone firm and measured."Saint, Bishops. I come to you today not only representing myself but also Umbra and Noctis. Furthermore, I am Caliph to the Church of Night in both status and power. I assure you—my jests are not hollow."
Both bishops inclined their heads—not deeply, but enough. Respect, political and real.
Valerius's gaze sharpened. "Very well. We welcome you—our guest, our ally… and perhaps more. Then let us see how the night-born prince weaves himself into the fabric of Duskfall. For shadows shift with change."
His gaze fixed on Astra once more, pressing hard, trying to pierce the veil around his soul. Yet he found nothing. Valerius's voice rolled through the silence like distant thunder."It seems change follows you like a herald's horn."
The Saint's words lingered in the hall. Not threat. Not welcome. Something more dangerous—acknowledgment.
Astra drew a slow breath, steadying his pulse. So this is how it always is, he thought bitterly. These demi-gods looming over me, weighing me, daring me to flinch. One day, I swear, I'll choke on this game—or die clawing for a sliver of respect.