The great hall of House Valen shimmered with warmth and gold, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadows that danced with every flicker of flame. Hundreds of beeswax candles blazed in wrought iron sconces, their light painting the carved oak beams overhead in honeyed amber. Ancient tapestries hung from the stone walls like silent witnesses—woven chronicles of battles long won and enemies long buried, their silk threads catching fire-light and throwing it back in gleams of crimson and gold.
The air hung thick and sweet, heavy with the scent of roasted venison and spiced wine, cinnamon and cloves mingling with the perfume of white roses scattered along the banquet tables. Pewter platters groaned beneath glazed capons and honey cakes, while servants in House Valen's blue and silver livery moved between the tables like ghosts, refilling goblets before they could empty.
Selene sat near the head of the long oak table, her dark hair twisted back with pearl combs that had belonged to her grandmother, a gown the shade of twilight velvet skimming her slender figure. The fabric whispered against the carved chair as she shifted, uncomfortable beneath the weight of too many eyes. On any other night, she might have found comfort in the grandeur—in the familiar warmth of home, the laughter of friends, the security of her father's strength.
Tonight, unease curled through her chest like smoke.
The feast rang too loud with forced cheer, wine cups emptied too quickly, and beneath the cheerful plucking of lutes and the bright trill of pipes, she caught whispers sharp as drawn steel. Lords leaned close to one another, their words lost in the din but their expressions telling enough. Some faces were flushed with wine and worry, others tight with barely concealed anger.
Her father rose from his seat at the table's head, and the hall quieted as it always did when Lord Valen commanded attention. He was tall and broad-shouldered still, though silver now threaded his dark hair, the kind of man who had never needed to raise his voice to fill a room. The weight of his presence settled over the gathering like a heavy cloak.
Lord Valen lifted his goblet high, the silver cup catching candlelight. His eyes swept the crowded hall—over familiar faces and foreign ones, over friends who had sat at this table for decades and new allies whose loyalty remained untested.
"To the crown," he declared, each word ringing clear as a bell through the stone hall. "Our loyalty remains unbroken. Tonight, we feast in King Damian's name."
The hall thundered with the expected response—cheers and the musical clinking of silver against silver as cups were raised. But Selene had learned to read the spaces between sounds, and she noticed how some smiles faltered too quickly, how a few gazes slid away rather than meet her father's steady stare. She saw Lord Harren's jaw clench before he drank, how Lady Morwyn's hand trembled slightly as she lifted her goblet.
Loyalty. The word sat heavy on Selene's tongue like wine gone sour. She knew others heard it differently—not as a vow, but as a warning wrapped in silk.
At her right, her younger sister Isolde leaned close, her breath warm against Selene's ear. "Do you think Father truly means it?" she whispered behind her hand, green eyes wide with the kind of curiosity that came from being fourteen and still believing the world made sense.
Selene's lips pressed together in a line. "He wouldn't say it otherwise."
"But you hear them, don't you?" Isolde's gaze darted toward the far end of the table where Lord Blackwood muttered with Lord Ashford, their graying heads bent together like conspirators. "They don't want loyalty. They want—"
"Careful." Selene's voice carried the sharp edge of command despite its softness. "Stone has ears, and wine loosens tongues."
Isolde bit her lower lip, properly chastened. She was quick to speak her thoughts, too young yet to understand that some truths were better kept locked away. Selene had learned caution through harsher lessons—watching her father navigate the treacherous currents of court politics, seeing how a careless word could topple houses that had stood for centuries.
Lord Valen continued, his goblet still raised like a banner. "We are not blind to the unrest that stirs beyond our borders. Whispers of rebellion carry on every wind, and discontent spreads like plague through the outer provinces." His voice carried the weight of absolute conviction. "Yet House Valen stands firm as mountain stone. The king's law is our law. The crown's strength is our strength."
He drank deeply then, the silver goblet draining in long swallows. The crowd followed suit, though Selene noticed how some lifted their cups with reluctance, how others barely wet their lips with wine.
The minstrels struck up a new song—something bright and martial about victory and glory—and servants bustled forward with fresh platters. Steam rose from glazed ham and roasted fowl, from trenchers of bread still warm from the ovens. The feast flowed back into merriment, but the underlying tension never quite disappeared.
Selene leaned back in her chair, letting her gaze sweep the hall with practiced casualness. Near the great hearth, young knights argued over a dice game, their voices growing louder with each round of wagering. Ladies twirled in their silk gowns, jewels glittering at their throats as they laughed at jests that weren't quite funny enough to warrant such brightness. At the far doors, servants moved in and out carrying wine jugs and empty platters.
One of them caught her attention—his step too measured for a man carrying heavy crockery, his eyes scanning the hall rather than watching his path. When their gazes met across the crowded space, he looked away too quickly.
"Selene?" Her mother's voice drew her back from her observations. Lady Valen's hand settled over hers, rings glinting in the candlelight—sapphires that had been wedding gifts, emeralds passed down through five generations. "You're quiet tonight, my dear."
Selene arranged her features into the serene mask she'd perfected over years of court training. "Just listening, Mother."
Lady Valen studied her daughter's face for a long moment, those pale gray eyes—so like Selene's own—missing nothing. Finally, she nodded as though Selene's answer satisfied her. But they understood each other well, she and her mother. They both possessed the same instinct for reading shadows, for hearing the words that lived in silence.
The night pressed onward through its familiar rhythms. Toasts were made to absent friends and present company. Young couples danced between the tables while their elders watched and remembered their own youth. Wine stained lips red as cherries and loosened tongues that should have stayed silent. Yet through it all, that feeling of wrongness clung to Selene like morning mist—impossible to grasp but impossible to ignore.
Then, in a single heartbeat, all the laughter died.
The great oak doors of the hall slammed open with such force that the sound cracked through the music like thunder, silencing lute strings mid-melody. Cold air rushed in, guttering candle flames and sending shadows leaping across the walls like demons given form.
Dozens of armored men poured through the doorway, their steel boots pounding against ancient stones worn smooth by centuries of feasts. Their mail gleamed dully in the firelight, and their cloaks bore the black raven and crimson field of the royal banners—King Damian's colors, but twisted somehow into something threatening.
Gasps broke from the crowd like waves against stone. Some nobles surged to their feet in alarm, hands reaching instinctively for sword hilts that weren't there—this was a feast, after all, not a battlefield. Others shrank back in their chairs as if they could disappear into the tapestried walls.
"By order of His Majesty, King Damian!" The lead soldier's voice echoed off the vaulted ceiling, harsh as the cry of carrion birds.
Selene's blood turned to ice water in her veins.
Her father stepped forward, abandoning his goblet on the table. "What is the meaning of this intrusion?" His voice still held the authority of a man who had commanded armies, but Selene caught the tension that tightened his jaw, the way his hand drifted toward where his sword would hang.
The soldier didn't answer. Instead, he raised his gauntleted fist and brought it down in a sharp signal. Steel sang as it was drawn from scabbards, and in the space between one breath and the next, the feast became chaos.
Screams split the air as soldiers overturned tables, sending precious silver clattering across stone, trampling food and flowers underfoot. Nobles scattered like startled birds, silk gowns tearing, jewels scattering across the floor like fallen stars. Women shrieked as they were shoved aside, men shouted orders that no one could hear above the din.
Selene grabbed Isolde's hand and hauled her younger sister from her chair. "Stay with me!"
They stumbled backward as the hall erupted around them. A servant girl fled past, her cap askew and tears streaming down her face. Lord Blackwood tried to draw a ceremonial dagger and was struck down by a mailed fist. Lady Morwyn pressed herself against the wall, her face white as bone.
One of the soldiers seized a burning torch from its sconce and hurled it into the ancient tapestries. "For King Damian!" he roared, and flames roared to life in answer.
The silk caught fire with terrifying speed, centuries of careful weaving reduced to ash and ember in moments. Smoke filled the air, acrid and choking, as the proud history of House Valen curled black and died.
Selene's breath caught in her throat as she watched the inferno spread. The hall that moments ago had glittered with laughter and light was now an inferno of screams, steel, and fire.
And in that blaze of destruction, she realized with crystalline clarity that nothing would ever be the same again.