The inauguration of the new branch continued after the presentation of Elder Marduk's disciple and the public oath of protection over Elian's family. The hall still vibrated with murmurs and applause, echoes unwilling to fade.
Marduk descended from the mezzanine with the natural weight of his presence, greeting nobles and mages alike. Each gesture carried authority, bending the gathering to his will. Elian and his family followed, being introduced to members of the Dark Throne—men and women of the First and Second Hierarchy, their robes embroidered with intricate symbols that shimmered beneath the magical lights flooding the hall.
"Elian, go with Iolanda. Meet those you must, greet those you already know," Marduk decreed, his voice like iron striking stone. "I have other matters. If anything arises, rely on Iolanda."
Without another word, he departed, taking with him Count Albert Avenue. Baron Hoffmann, a shadow of unease, trailed after them, drawing curious glances and silent discomfort wherever he passed.
Iolanda led the way, guiding Elian through the sea of voices, clinking glasses, and rustling ceremonial cloaks. She pointed out names, ranks, and faces, whispering explanations Elian absorbed in silence, storing them like weapons for later.
Maria walked close behind, conscious of the eyes that followed them. Some curious, others disdainful, but all heavy with judgment. Yet she refused to bow beneath them. She no longer carried room for such burdens. Her strength now was to walk firmly beside her children.
Emanuelle clung to Elian's side, wide-eyed, her curiosity sharper than fear. At times she interrupted Iolanda with questions that drew clipped, precise answers. She seemed more fascinated by the order than her brother, who, introspective as ever, kept his attention hidden behind silence.
But before they could advance far, a figure intercepted them.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Elian." The voice was firm, feminine, softened by a studied grace.
She wore a deep crimson dress, golden trim lining the edges, black patterns woven like tangled roots. Age had etched her features, perhaps sixty years or so, yet her bearing remained proud and unbroken. Blonde hair, gathered in a polished knot, gleamed under the light, while her brown eyes examined Elian with sharp intent.
"My name is Isabelle, First Hierarchy Mage of the Dark Throne." She dipped her head lightly.
Elian returned the courtesy with practiced ease.
"The pleasure is mine, Maga Isabelle." He bowed in reverence.
Ever vigilant, Iolanda's tone cut in.
"How have you been, Maga Isabelle?" Her words were neutral, her eyes narrowed.
Isabelle lifted her shoulders faintly, lips curling in a thin smile.
"Still alive, as you see." The joke was light, but beneath it lingered an undertone only years of history could shape.
"I hope you remain so for many decades," Iolanda replied, her voice steady, edged as a blade wrapped in courtesy.
The words lingered, thin and sharp, a veil hiding something older than banter. Elian noted the tension immediately. Even within the same order, alliances and grudges lived side by side, fire smoldering beneath ashes.
"My apologies," Isabelle said suddenly, turning to Maria. Her eyes scanned her fully before settling into an ambiguous smile. "How could I forget the pleasure of meeting the mother of my junior?"
The phrase my junior fell strange, almost possessive. Maria betrayed nothing, only bowed with measured respect.
"The pleasure is mine, Maga Isabelle."
Then Isabelle's gaze drifted to Emanuelle, and curiosity gleamed.
"Ah, so this is the source of your beauty, girl," she said, eyes shifting between mother and daughter.
Emanuelle flushed, ducking slightly behind Elian.
The hall hummed around them, but in that small circle the air tightened, each word of Isabelle's slotting into some greater game unseen.
At last she turned to Anthony. Her scrutiny was cursory, her voice falsely cordial.
"And you must be the eldest?"
Anthony answered with poise.
"It is an honor, Maga Isabelle. Yes, I am the elder brother. My name is Anthony."
Isabelle inclined her head, but the indifference in her eyes was impossible to mask. Her words held no true interest, only cold formality. Maria saw it instantly. Iolanda saw it. And Elian, quiet and watchful, marked it too.
Sensing the need to sever the moment, Iolanda intervened.
"We must continue. There are still many to meet."
She guided them onward, pulling them back into the whirl of nobles, mages, and merchants. The air was rich with the scent of rare incense, the tang of wine, perfumes heavy as silk.
But then a man stopped them—a merchant in his late thirties, eyes narrowed upon Maria.
"Forgive me, do I know you from somewhere?" he asked, brows furrowed as if chasing a stubborn memory.
Maria's body stiffened instantly, breath pressing heavy in her lungs.
"I am certain you do not, sir."
He tilted his head, unconvinced.
"Truly? You remind me of someone I met thirteen years ago…"
Her heart faltered, but her voice struck like steel.
"Yes, I am certain. If I knew you, I would remember."
The man opened his mouth to press further—until a sharp voice cut across him.
"She has said she does not know you, sir. Cease troubling her."
It was Mage Anna. Her tone sliced with authority.
The merchant recoiled, stumbling into apology.
"I… I meant no offense. Forgive me." He withdrew quickly, vanishing into the crowd.
Yet the damage lingered. Maria's composure was intact, but Elian saw it: her expression had shifted. A shadow lay heavy in her gaze. The past had been touched, and its wounds had reopened.
But then Maria's eyes caught another face in the throng. "Ah, Elise." Her voice softened, relief flickering where tension had sat. "Thank you for coming."
"As if I would miss my apprentice's presentation," Elise replied, voice steady yet carrying rare pride. "Though it has only been weeks, I would not stay away."
Maria's smile was small, strained but genuine.
"I knew you wouldn't."
Elise gestured to the man at her side.
"Allow me to introduce Mage Lysander of the Third Hierarchy."
Maria noticed immediately the distinction—Elise now stood as Second Hierarchy, restored in full, her stature unmistakable. Lysander, despite his rank, carried a different weight.
He bowed politely, his cloak rippling with refinement.
"It is an honor to meet you, Lady Maria. Tell me—how does it feel to have two children accepted into two of the three great orders?"
Maria raised her chin, her eyes alight with maternal pride. Her hands rested upon Elian's and Emanuelle's shoulders, drawing them close.
"How else could a mother or father feel? Proud."
Simple words, yet heavy as stone. Lysander inclined his head, absorbing them.
"Indeed," he murmured, before gesturing the girl at his side forward.
She stepped out, delicate as moonlight. Silver hair cascaded to her shoulders, each strand catching the glow of the luminaires like threads of starlight. Her eyes, a deep ocean blue, shimmered with faint red beneath, like embers drowned beneath ice. Her features were fine, serene, sculpted as if from pale marble.
"This is my daughter, Celestia," Lysander announced, pride flickering in his voice.