Finn stopped right in front of her, grinning as if he hadn't just marched us into the jaws of death.
"Lady Arora," he said, giving a short bow, "it is an honor to greet you finally." His voice carried an overeager warmth, the kind that made me want to sink into the floor.
Arora's eyes shifted to him, calm and measured. She inclined her head slightly, the faintest acknowledgment, her expression unreadable. "I see. And you are…?"
"Finn Culdros, third son of Baron Culdros," he replied with misplaced pride. "I have long admired your elegance."
Her gaze lingered for only a breath. "I appreciate your words. But I'm in the middle of a conversation." Her tone wasn't sharp, nor was it warm—it carried the gentleness of a curtain being drawn shut.
Any sensible man would have retreated. Fin was not a sensible man.
He glanced at Marcus Hered, who stood beside her like a pillar carved from confidence itself. The maroon suit, the gleaming tree insignia—everyone in this hall knew who he was. The Count's only son. The strongest among us, Regulars and Exceptionals, standing barely shy of the Prodigies' tier.
Finn gave a hurried bow. "Lord Marcus."
Marcus acknowledged him with the smallest of nods, nothing more. His attention was elsewhere.
I followed his gaze. Across the hall—Thalen.
Finn noticed too. His eyes flickered, a sly smile forming.
"Ah… were you watching him, my lord? I heard about his recent defeat in the underground arena. Quite the spectacle. To fall so miserably, it was so humiliating"
For the first time, Marcus moved. His eyes trembled, a crack in the flawless mask he wore.
A chill rippled through me.
'Finn, you damned fool…'
***
The hall stretched wide and tall, marble and crystal marvels rising above. Thirty chandeliers, dripping gold-leaf arms and crystal prisms, bathed the chamber in amber glow. Ivory walls veined with silver shimmered beneath crimson drapes trimmed in gold. Roses—scarlet, pink, ivory—filled gilded vases and garlands, their fragrance heavy on the air. Beauty radiated from every corner, dazzling even the most jaded.
For Thalen, the splendor rang hollow.
He wore a soft plum color suit. His jet-black hair fell in a deliberate mess, stylish without effort. Handsome enough to draw eyes. Every glance carried mockery.
Word of his loss in the underground arena had spread. It was no secret about Thalen's fights in the underground, and Thalen never made any effort to conceal them.
Regulars, emboldened, finally met his gaze. They believed the endless wounds he carried had broken him. Murmurs thickened, circling like vultures.
Thalen sat apart at the drinks table alone, sipping mixed fruit juice.
"Mango and pineapple," he muttered. "Not bad."
He savored it, ignoring the stares, counting the minutes until he could slip away.
The banquet was divided clearly. Prodigies filled the smaller hall with extravagance. The larger chamber held Regulars and Exceptionals, though Exceptionals dictated music, food, and flow. To Regulars, the hall was a gilded cage.
Tonight followed the pattern. Regulars suffered harassment, mockery, humiliation—fodder for cruel entertainment. Families never intervened; this hall belonged to the youth, and cruelty thrived in its rituals.
Only Thalen's skill kept him from that same disgrace.
He poured another drink—watermelon, lemon, and mint.
"Better than the last one," he thought, adjusting his private ranking list.
He leaned back, watching dancers spin and couples feast. For a moment, quiet settled.
"Ten more minutes, then I'm gone," he murmured.
Fate had other plans.
A group closed in—two boys in black suits from the Regulars, one maroon-clad boy, and a girl in pink from the Exceptionals. Strikingly enough, but none drew eyes the way Thalen did.
One Regular twitched with nervousness; the other grinned.
'Trouble.'
Thalen drained his glass, feigned a gag, and moved toward the restroom.
A voice cut through the hall, sharp and mocking.
"Didn't know you were talented in acting."
Thalen ignored it, quickening his pace. The voice rose, louder now, crafted for every ear.
"Since you're still not abandoned, Duke Azreil must be preparing a circus for you."
The room stilled. Laughter rippled out, cruel and eager.
At the mention of his father, Thalen froze. His feet rooted to the floor.
"So you can play the joker you are," the voice pressed. "A joker from Varkheil House."
"Hahaha, you'll go down in history as one of the world's wonders."
The mocking chorus caught fire, voices jeering:
"A joker from Varkheil House!"
"A joker from Varkheil House!"
At the center stood the maroon-clad boy, smiling at the chaos he had sparked. A tree insignia gleamed on his chest.
Marcus Hered. Peak of Exceptionals. Son of Count Rayan Hered.
Since childhood, Marcus had worshiped Duke Azreil as the perfect man—until Thalen's existence stained the ideal.
Marcus had awakened wind, just like the Duke.
He begged to train under him but, as an outsider, was denied. To him, ThaleAn was the stain that blocked the path that should have been his.
Now, at Adept rank, Tuning phase, Marcus' aura pulsed strongly, nearing Balanced stage.
The crowd leaned forward, eager, expectant. Plates lifted as if the hall had turned into a theater.
Noise pressed in, sparks darting between Marcus and Thalen.
Thalen's body tensed. His right hand twitched. Watchers noticed. The hall quieted, tension rising.
Slowly, Thalen turned. His hazel eyes darkened as they locked onto Marcus and his entourage.
Thalen's Pov:
Today, I was exhausted. I had no strength left to attend this stupid banquet, which felt like nothing more than a reminder of my status as a loser. And yet, strangely, I never felt all that shaken by it. I've always been an optimist, always believed I would awaken, grow stronger, and rise above everyone else.
But belief fades when it's buried under years of failure.
So tonight, I gave in. I accepted it—accepted that I was the loser.
I didn't like being here. I didn't like seeing their eyes—the eyes of the awakened, sharp and smug, as if I were something beneath them.
I never understood what made me different. Why I wasn't awakening? I told myself I wouldn't waste time chewing on that question again, but my mind betrayed me, dragging me into thoughts with no answers. Fighting, breaking my body and mind again and again… it left me hollow.
Yes, I was tired. I didn't want trouble. So I planned to slip out before trouble found me. But, as always, my luck had other ideas.
A boy I'd never even spoken to decided to stab right where it hurt the most.
If he'd just called me a joker, I wouldn't have cared. I'd already come to terms with that label. But no—he had to drag my father into it—my father, who never gave a speck of care for me. And still… somewhere in the cracks of my heart, the word "father" mattered in ways I couldn't explain.
The moment I heard those mocking words, my feet froze like they'd been nailed to the floor. My whole body tensed, my right hand twitching before I even realized it.
Yes, I was tired. Yes, I was exhausted. But my body betrayed my crumbling mind and turned me toward the boy and his little pack of jackals.
I didn't know what would happen now, but I had already taken the first step. And after that step, there was no turning back. The memory of my humiliating loss in the arena replayed in my head. My usual confidence was gone, but backing down wasn't an option.
"A maroon buffoon, and two black goats," I muttered under my breath. Not as quiet as I thought. Those nearby heard it sharply and clearly. Snickers followed, mocking me for arrogance.
I ignored them and studied the group. The maroon boy stood calm, but his eyes told a different story, and the fat goat was too excited.
While the other wore the expression of someone questioning why he'd been born at all..
And then there was the girl. She stood a step apart, detached, as if refusing to join the circus they were making of themselves. Maybe dignity still clung to her. Yet, I caught it—a fleeting glance she cast toward the maroon boy.