Once upon another time, on a continent beyond the seas, there was a kingdom called Nivara.
That day, Nivara celebrated.
The banquet hall brimmed with chatter. Chandeliers glittered above, scattering light across gilded ornaments and crystal-clear glasses. Round tables filled the floor, men in fine waistcoats and women in embroidered silk gowns gathered at their edges.
Upon the dais stood a man in dark crimson. His presence declared him king long before his words.
"My ministers, my friends," his voice rang clear, "you have heard the whispers. Today, I make them truth. Our northern friend Loraque has extended their goodwill. I hereby announce that my daughter is now betrothed to the Crown Prince of Loraque. The wedding will be held within two years, upon her coming of age."
As the words rang out, the intricate doors swung wide.
The Princess entered, the Queen at her side. Beauty, poised and radiant, followed their every step. The room thundered with claps as the two figures moved forward, silken gowns swaying with their measured grace. At the dais, they curtsied to the King, before taking their seats at the high table.
Only then did the King continue.
"This union marks a turning point in our history. Two hundred years have passed since the discovery of the Ignium mine. In that time, we alone have guarded its blessing, wielded its fire, and thrived. But always, its glory was ours alone. Now, with this marriage, we shall share it with Loraque, our trusted friend. Together, we begin a new chapter—a new era of peace."
He raised his glass high.
The hall followed, the chorus booming: "To lasting peace. To Nivara." Crystal clinked; men and women drank deep.
The Princess raised no such toast. Her glass held only water, clear and dull. Her gaze lingered on it—a flicker of dismay crossed her eyes—before she composed her smile again, serene and practiced.
At the King's nod, the feast began. Servants streamed in, uniforms neat, their gestures exact. Entrées were laid across the tables. Guests spread linens over their laps, and the hall filled with the sounds of feasting.
The King soon joined his wife and daughter at the high table. He kissed the Queen's cheek, before turning to his child, his face alight. "Look how beautiful you are tonight," he said. "The Prince of Loraque is fortunate indeed. He had better treat you well."
The Princess smiled back. "I wouldn't be so sure, Father. The man seeks our Ignium as much as I seek his gemstones and mines."
The King laughed, pride warming in his tone. "Wise beyond your years. Truly my daughter."
The Princess leaned closer, eyes bright with curiosity. "May I taste the wine, just a sip?"
"You are too young," the Queen replied, firm but affectionate. She had known her daughter would ask—sixteen, and restless.
"Perhaps just a taste," the King said, his smile indulgent. "It is her day, after all."
The Princess wasted no time siding with him. "Father is always kind and wise."
The Queen cast a pointed glance at her husband, then at her daughter's flattery, before her expression softened into reluctant affection. She signaled a servant. A fresh glass was poured, the ruby liquid shimmering beneath the golden light above.
The Princess lifted the glass with care, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. She had longed for this taste, imagined it often. Perhaps an engagement brought with it certain privileges. But the moment the wine touched her lips, her face twisted in disgust.
"What is this?" she hissed.
The King and Queen only laughed softly, as if they had expected nothing less. "And that," the Queen said, her smile knowing, "is why you are not allowed such things."
The Princess's frown deepened. She set the glass aside in one motion. The taste she had longed for soured in an instant, embarrassment prickling her cheeks. She turned to safer ground instead.
"Have you heard from Roen, Father?"
At once, the King's smile dimmed. "An incident at the western border delayed him. He regrets missing the banquet, but swore he will return before nightfall."
Disappointment darkened her face. "And how are things with Dravina?" The western kingdom's name slid bitterly from her tongue.
His expression grew heavy. "There are still skirmishes, their propaganda still creeps into our towns. Yet nothing our great army cannot hold at bay. We keep the fire from flaring into war—though it is a wearisome watch."
"I hope this marriage spares you that burden, Father," she said, her face heavy with sorrow.
But the King would not let the weight linger. "Nivara is blessed to have you," he replied. "But we need not speak of grim matters tonight. Not when we celebrate your joy."
Her smile returned, soft and radiant once more. She lowered her gaze to her plate, piercing a slice of meat. Yet before the bite could reach her lips, a sound split the air.
A man's scream.
She looked up sharply. Across the hall, a man doubled over, clutching his stomach, his cries raw with agony. The man beside him lurched, then the woman across, clutching her throat. One by one, they heaved. Blood spattered across the linens, soaking the white cloth in garish stains.
The sickness spread like fire. Chairs scraped back, wood shrieking against marble. Guests clawed at tablecloths, dragging goblets and knives to the floor in a storm of glass and porcelain. Some tried to stand, only to fold again over their laps. Some gasped and coughed until the air left them. Faces froze mid-contortion, mouths rimmed in red.
Servants stood stricken, horror carved into their faces. Some rushed to help, others fled for guards. But the banquet was already a nightmare.
And it did not spare the high table.
Before the Princess could grasp the horror before her eyes, her parents convulsed. The King's white shirt bloomed scarlet; blood spilled down the Queen's jeweled gown.
"Father! Mother!" Her scream tore from her throat. "Help! Someone help!"
She lunged forward to reach them—only to be struck herself. Pain seared her abdomen, sudden and merciless. She doubled over, teeth clenched as something surged from her stomach to her throat. She pressed a hand to her mouth, as if sheer will alone could hold it back, but it was useless. Blood poured through her fingers, streaking her chin, dripping into the folds of her gown.
"Your Highness! Your Highness!" voices cried, panicked, close and far at once.
Hands reached for her, but she was already falling. The floor met her body.
The hall dissolved into chaos: boots thundering against marble, frantic voices calling orders, the metallic stench of blood thick in the air. Someone shook her, someone tried to clear her airway, someone's arms lifted her—but already the edges of the world were slipping into darkness.
And so the banquet ended.
---
© 2025 KIKI YUYUME. All rights reserved.
Nivara and all associated characters, artworks, settings, and concepts are the original creations of the author. Unauthorized reproduction or distribution is prohibited.