It already felt as though everyone had arrived. Barely five minutes had passed, yet the hall was filled to the brim.
Nobles mingled with commoners in equal measure, though none seemed certain what they were waiting for.
Davy had been clear: this banquet would be broadcast. Surely, the Academy had a schedule to follow.
Questions hung in the air, unspoken—until the music changed.
The playful harmony of strings and flutes shifted into something sharper, more deliberate. Regal, the sort of melody reserved for courts and diplomatic gatherings.
Conversation faded without command. Silence spread simply because it was demanded by the moment.
Butlers and waitresses slipped discreetly to the sides.
The atmosphere thickened. Not with power, but with anticipation.
Then, with deliberate slowness, the great doors began to open.
Two guards—one to each side—pulled them wide, then stepped back into rigid salutes.
Through the growing hush, the first of three figures stepped into view.
Every eye in the hall fixed on him as he moved down the red carpet.
His boots gleamed like mirrors. At his hip, a sword glimmered, its scabbard inlaid with gems of every color. His attire was elegant, masterfully tailored.
Not quite a king's regalia.
Closer, perhaps… to that of a prince.
Alfred Robert Thandros. Wise Heir, Crown Prince, and all the rest—everyone knew the drill.
His entrance, however, was… unusual. Among nobles, especially royalty, appearances were everything. First impressions were sharpened into weapons, and an entrance was often the sharpest of them all. Yet Alfred seemed utterly indifferent to the performance surrounding him.
The crown prince of the Thandros Empire moved with unhurried grace, as though the red carpet had been laid for his convenience alone. At its end, a slightly raised platform awaited him.
From the empty air, a throne of gleaming gold shimmered into existence—just in time for Alfred to settle casually upon it, as if it had always been there.
Around him, nobles bowed their heads in acknowledgment. Even the Sylwenne dignitaries, rivals in all but name, inclined respectfully. The alliance between their nations ran deep.
Then, the music cut off.
Utter silence. Every gaze shifted toward the grand doorway, where two silhouettes waited.
A heartbeat later, the orchestra struck again—this time, the anthem of the Sylwenne Empire.
As one, the hall dropped to a knee. Heads bowed low, reverence instinctive. The only exceptions were Alfred upon his throne, and the cameras that broadcasted every second across the world.
Vael knelt as well. His jaw clenched, bitterness coiled in his chest. Yet with millions watching, defiance was not an option.
The duo entered. Their steps were measured, mirrored—posture flawless, chins raised, the embodiment of imperial grace.
The man's presence was magnetic. His features were cut as if by the hand of a sculptor, radiating a quiet inevitability—someone destined to succeed, whether he wished it or not.
Short, light-brown hair framed his sharp face. A trace of stubble hinted at maturity, while his steel-grey eyes held the calm confidence of command.
His attire was pristine, but the woman at his side stole the room's breath.
A gown of violet silk curved elegantly along her form—not meant to seduce, but to declare sovereignty.
Cascades of curly brown hair framed her gentle face. The same storm-grey eyes as her brother softened by warmth, a kindness so disarming it could sway even the most unyielding hearts.
The twin jewels of the Sylwenne Empire.
Josh Frederic Sylwenne, and his sister, Olivia Iliana Sylwenne.
From where he knelt, Vael lowered his gaze with the rest. He didn't need to look to know the kind of people they were—untouchable, dazzling to the crowd, and dangerous all the same.
They followed the same path as their fellow dynast.
Two more thrones emerged, no less opulent than Alfred's. Josh's claimed the center, with Alfred to his right and his sister to his left.
They sat in unison, the anthem fading into silence.
The future of the continent, gathered in a single chamber. Upon thrones sat the operators of the machine. Below them, kneeling, its fuel.