The palace of Caer Thalyss was a maze of beauty and quiet menace.
Aelric had been given quarters far from the central court — spacious, luxurious, yet unmistakably guarded. The kind of comfort designed to lull prisoners into submission.
It wouldn't work on him.
Three days passed. Interrogations disguised as polite discussions. Subtle probes into his abilities, the Shard, his past. Royal Magisters and veiled nobles alike circled him like wolves sniffing for weakness.
But Aelric had grown up among predators — first in the streets of the Hollowborn Quarter, later in the lawless fringes of the multiverse. He knew how to play this game.
Tonight, the court gathered for the Midwinter Masque — a grand, glittering event honoring unity, tradition… and control.
Aelric adjusted the simple black cloak draped over his shoulders. No noble house colors. No insignia. Just enough to blend — not enough to belong.
Rhea flanked him, dressed in dark blue velvet, twin daggers hidden beneath flowing fabric. Her sharp eyes missed nothing.
Bren followed, his formal attire uncomfortable but his hands never straying far from his belt — or the hidden knives within.
The ballroom glittered with illusionary snowfall. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead. Music drifted like smoke through the marble columns. Nobles danced, schemed, laughed behind painted masks.
It was all a façade.
Aelric's gaze swept the room. Royals. Magisters. Foreign envoys. And —
His breath caught for a moment.
Across the hall stood a woman. Tall, poised, copper-toned skin and golden hair cascading down her back like molten sunlight. Her mask, feathered and subtle, couldn't hide the faint glow beneath her eyes.
She wasn't human.
Phoenix-blooded. Rare. Dangerous. And judging by the distance nobles kept from her… important.
Their eyes met. A spark. A flicker of recognition that shouldn't exist.
But before Aelric could approach, a different figure intercepted him.
"Lord Veyne," came a smooth, familiar voice.
It was the Magister — the same one who'd escorted him here. "Enjoying our kingdom's hospitality?"
Aelric's expression didn't falter. "If you call gilded cages hospitality."
The Magister chuckled. "You misunderstand. You're not in a cage." His eyes glinted. "You're on a chessboard."
Aelric's fingers twitched toward the hidden Shard beneath his tunic. "I don't play chess."
"You will," the Magister promised. "Or you'll be the piece removed."
Aelric watched him melt back into the crowd, mask gleaming.
Across the room, the Phoenix-blooded woman still stood, watching. Unmoving. Patient.
The court whispered. The music swelled. And the shadows deepened.
Aelric straightened his cloak. The Riftborn were one threat. But this? The politics, the hidden blades, the ancient bloodlines?
This was another battlefield entirely.
And he had no intention of losing.
...
The crowd parted as Aelric approached, as if the ballroom itself sensed something inevitable in his stride. The music faded into a dull hum behind him.
The Phoenix-blooded woman stood alone beneath a towering crystal arch, the glow of the enchanted lights dancing across her golden hair and sun-kissed skin. Her mask was elegant, shaped like a flame, its edges lined with delicate crimson feathers.
But it couldn't conceal her eyes.
Amber-gold, faintly luminous, ancient in ways no mortal could fake.
She studied him with quiet curiosity as he stopped before her, the faintest hint of a smirk curling at the corner of her lips.
"You don't belong here," she said simply. Her voice was melodic, warm, yet carrying an undercurrent of dangerous amusement.
Aelric's expression remained cool. "Neither do you."
The woman tilted her head, as if weighing him. "I have the blood of the First Flame in my veins. I was invited."
"I sealed a Rift and saved your kingdom," Aelric countered. "I was dragged here."
She smiled at that — a real smile, sharp and knowing.
"Fair," she conceded. "But that's not what I meant." She stepped closer, her gaze steady. "You don't belong here, because you're not playing their game."
Aelric raised an eyebrow. "And you are?"
"Better than most." Her eyes flicked to the nobles, the courtiers, the veiled predators circling like vultures. "I've danced through these halls for years. I know the masks. The lies. The blood beneath the silk."
"And yet," Aelric observed, "you're alone."
For a moment, the mask slipped. A flicker of something old — grief, maybe — passed through her eyes.
"Sometimes," she murmured, "fire burns too bright for shadows to cling to."
Before he could respond, she extended a hand, palm upward. Tiny motes of flame danced along her fingertips — not ordinary fire, but phoenixfire. Pure. Eternal. Alive.
"I'm Seraphina Vale," she said at last. "Daughter of the High King. Phoenix-blooded."
Aelric's eyes narrowed. The daughter of Caedric Vale — the same man who practically threatened him days ago.
"You're royalty," Aelric stated flatly.
Her lips curved again. "Disappointed?"
Aelric considered her, then shook his head. "Cautious."
Seraphina chuckled, withdrawing her hand. The flame vanished.
"You should be," she agreed. "Because whether you know it or not, Lord Veyne…" Her gaze softened, yet something dangerous lingered beneath. "You've stepped into the heart of the storm."
She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"And storms like these?" Her eyes glowed faintly. "They don't care how clever, strong, or stubborn you are. They drown kings and gods alike."
Aelric held her gaze, unflinching. "I'm not here to drown."
A pause — then, unexpectedly, Seraphina smiled again, this time with genuine intrigue.
"Good," she said simply. "We may yet survive this mess."
Without waiting for his reply, she turned, gliding effortlessly back into the crowd, leaving behind only faint motes of phoenixfire in her wake.
Aelric exhaled slowly.
The Riftborn were simple — monsters to fight.
But the court? The Crown? The Phoenix-blooded princess?
They were far more dangerous.
And far more fascinating.