The banquet hall glittered with chandeliers, the marble floor polished until it reflected the distorted smiles of nobles and generals. Platters of exotic fruits and golden goblets brimmed with wine, yet beneath the perfume of luxury hung the unmistakable stench of suspicion.
The Watchmaker sat at the high table, draped in ceremonial robes he despised. To the crowd, he looked like a monarch—measured, unreadable, regal. But inside, he counted every face, every movement, every twitch of a hand too close to a hidden dagger.
This was not a celebration. It was a test.
Rumors had spread that an assassin from the fractured western states had slipped into the capital. Some whispered he would strike here, under the blinding light of the chandeliers, where pride made rulers vulnerable. Others thought the Watchmaker himself staged the whispers—bait for the desperate.
No one knew the truth. Not even those closest to him.
As the music played, the Watchmaker raised his goblet but did not drink. His golden eyes scanned the crowd. Each toast felt hollow, each laugh rehearsed. He could sense fear crawling under the skin of even the most arrogant lords.
Then—movement.
A servant approached, head bowed, carrying a silver tray with roast meat. Harmless. Forgettable. But the Watchmaker's ears caught the faint scrape of a concealed blade against the tray's underside.
His hand moved before thought. The goblet fell, spilling crimson wine like fresh blood. Gasps filled the hall. In that heartbeat of chaos, the Watchmaker flipped the table, its weightless motion betraying his inhuman control. The servant lunged, dagger flashing.
The blade never touched him.
A twist of the wrist, a silent crack. The servant collapsed with a scream cut short. The dagger clattered across the floor, ringing like a funeral bell.
The hall froze. Nobles paled, generals gripped their swords, but none dared move. The Watchmaker stood, shadow falling long and sharp across the marble. His voice broke the silence—calm, chilling.
"Even in the heart of my hall, they test me."
His words echoed like judgment. He looked at his shaken council, their eyes wide with terror, but also calculation. This was no mere assassination attempt. It was a message. Someone, somewhere, wanted to see how far they could push him.
The banquet ended without music, without laughter. The nobles dispersed in whispers, their silks dragging like shrouds. The Watchmaker remained standing long after the hall emptied, his gaze fixed on the abandoned dagger.
It was not the assassin he feared—it was the unseen hand that sent him.
And in that silence, he knew the war of shadows had only just begun