On the third night of snowfall,
white covered the city's rooftops, quieting the market's noise.
The streets of Asteir lay still, as if waiting for something greater than usual.
At the heart of the capital, the White Snow Hall was preparing to receive the nobility.
Torches burned along the edges of the walkways.
Banners bearing the colors of the great houses hung high.
Guards in silver uniforms stood in rows at the gate,
while attendants waited to record the names of those entering.
**
The Valryk carriage arrived at the outer gate.
Kaizlan stepped down, wearing a dark coat trimmed with fine gray thread,
a leather belt at his waist holding a ceremonial sword.
He stood for a moment, taking in the wide, open hall before him.
People entered with the ease of those born within the palace walls.
One attendant's voice rang out:
"Kaizlan, son of Sevald Valryk, of the Eralin District."
No one turned.
His name carried no weight here—yet.
But among the dozens of names called,
someone did glance his way briefly,
before returning to his drink without a word.
**
The banquet hall was vast,
its walls covered in golden murals of ancient battles,
its tall candles mounted on spear-black columns.
In the center, the tables were arranged by rank.
The great houses and their heirs sat closest to the dais.
The lesser-born and newcomers were placed along the edges.
Kaizlan was seated at a table with five young nobles.
He greeted them quietly and took his place without drawing attention.
One of them—a blond youth in a green cloak—remarked:
"Valryk? I've only seen that name in tax records."
Kaizlan replied steadily:
"Perhaps because we make little noise… and work in silence."
The young man laughed, shaking his head.
"That answer saved you from something less polite."
**
As the first dishes were served,
Lord Seraphel Mortani, head of the hosting family, entered.
Tall, lean, with a steady stride,
he wore a gray fur coat, and across his chest a slanted sash bearing the golden emblem of a raven with open wings—
the Mortani crest,
symbol of wisdom in darkness, as told in old northern songs.
Behind him came members of other great houses.
But among them…
one figure drew every eye.
A young man in his twenties, dressed in elegant black—
without ornament, yet carrying a quiet power in his simplicity.
His face was handsome, features refined yet unmoving.
His eyes were gray, as if they belonged to no light at all.
He did not look around much.
He spoke even less.
But anyone who saw him knew—he was not ordinary.
A young noble at Kaizlan's table leaned in to whisper:
"That's Elian Griffin… son of House Griffin of the North."
Another added:
"His family rarely appears in public,
but they control the great trade routes of the north—
especially the iron mines and royal stone quarries."
Without thinking, Kaizlan asked:
"Why doesn't anyone speak to him?"
The answer came:
"Because he's never wrong when he's silent."
They laughed.
He did not.
Kaizlan watched him for a moment.
He didn't know why…
but there was something in Elian that set him apart.
**
The evening went on.
Pleasantries were exchanged.
Speeches made.
Cups raised.
Smiles carefully crafted,
while rivalries hid behind silver platters.
But in one corner of the hall…
Elian stood alone, watching in silence—
as if guarding something that should never be spoken.
And at some moment,
his eyes met Kaizlan's.
No reason. No words.
It wasn't a look of threat…
but it wasn't casual either.
After a breath,
Elian turned away and walked toward the side corridor,
as though nothing had happened.
**
That night,
Kaizlan returned to the guest quarters without speaking to anyone.
But in his mind,
names began to settle…
faces carved into memory…
and first judgments quietly overturned.
He knew that a banquet like this
was never truly a feast of food—
but a table of thoughts, masks,
and promises left unspoken.
What he didn't yet know…
was that someone at that table,
behind his smile,
wore another face entirely—
a face known as the Elegant Man.