Chapter 8: The Embassy Ball
The Ducal Embassy was a fortress of glass and gold, illuminated by thousands of floating mana-lamps that bathed the manicured gardens in a surreal, amber glow. Carriages bearing the crests of the continent's most ancient bloodlines lined the grand boulevard. This was the theater of the elite, where wars were declared over glasses of champagne and reputations were executed with a single, sharp remark.
Rowan stood before the full-length mirror in his quarters, adjusting the high collar of his formal military doublet. It was charcoal grey, accented with silver filigree—the colors of a scholar-knight, yet it bore no house crest. He had officially discarded the Caelum sigil.
His reflection was jarring. The gaunt, hollow-cheeked "failure" was gone. In his place stood a young man with shoulders broadened by training and eyes that held the terrifying clarity of a predator. Beneath the fine silk of his sleeves, the Gold and Silver Lattice pulsed faintly, a hidden map of power waiting to be unleashed.
A soft knock at the door preceded a wave of familiar, cool resonance.
Seraphina stepped inside. For a moment, even Rowan's breath hitched. She wore a gown of midnight-blue silk that seemed to flow around her like water. Her silver hair was pinned up with ivory needles, exposing the elegant line of her neck. But it was her eyes—violet and piercing—that held the true weight. Around her neck sat a choker of Null-Stone, meant to dampen her mana spill-over, but Rowan could feel her power humming against the restraint.
"You look dangerous," she said, her gaze traveling over him.
"And you look like a storm wrapped in silk," Rowan replied, offering his arm.
"Tonight will be exactly that," she whispered, her hand sliding onto his sleeve. Through the Empathy link, he felt her underlying tension—not fear, but a cold, focused readiness. "The Senate, the Ironbound family, and your brother. They are all inside. They expect a beggar. Give them a god."
The Lion's Den
As they entered the Grand Ballroom, the orchestra faltered for a fraction of a second. The herald's voice rang out, carrying a note of visible confusion:
"Presenting Seraphina Valois of House Valois... and Rowan Caelum."
A suffocating silence descended. Hundreds of pairs of eyes—many belonging to the very nobles who had laughed at Rowan's "execution" only weeks ago—latched onto the pair.
"Is that him?"
"He looks... different. Where is the sling? Where is the limp?"
"Look at the way he stands. That isn't the posture of a mana-less defect."
Rowan ignored them, his focus locked on the dais at the end of the room. There, sitting in a velvet chair, was Lucius Caelum. His shoulder was still heavily bandaged beneath his white-and-gold uniform, and his face was pale, his eyes sunken. Beside him sat a man who radiated a pressure so immense it felt like a physical weight on the lungs: Duke Alaric Caelum, the "Iron Duke."
The Duke didn't look at Rowan with anger. He looked at him with the cold, clinical curiosity of a scientist examining a specimen that had refused to die.
"Rowan," the Duke's voice carried across the hall, low but commanding. "You've grown. It seems the mud of the Blackwood Ravine was more fertile than I anticipated."
Rowan walked to the center of the floor, Seraphina at his side. He didn't bow. The gasp from the surrounding nobility was audible.
"The mud was cold, Father," Rowan said, his voice steady. "But it had the benefit of being honest. Unlike the tea served in this house."
Lucius surged to his feet, his hand instinctively flying to the sword at his hip, only to wince as his severed aura artery protested the movement. "You arrogant—! You stand before the Duke! Kneel, or I'll have the guards—"
"The guards?" Rowan interrupted, tilting his head. "You mean the men who watched you try to murder me? I suspect they're more interested in seeing how this ends than in protecting a 'Prodigy' who can't even hold a fork with his right hand."
The Challenge of the Senate
Before the Duke could respond, the crowd parted. Theron Ironbound stepped forward. He was no longer in his training gear; he wore the heavy, bronze-plated formal wear of his house. His chest was still taped from where Rowan had shattered his ribs, and his face was a mask of humiliated fury.
"This is an embassy of the State, Caelum," Theron growled. "Personal family squabbles aside, you are an unranked student who assaulted a ranking Senator of the Gold Class. By the laws of the Academy and the Peerage, I challenge your right to stand here."
Behind Theron, several other members of the Senate stepped forward, their auras flaring in a coordinated show of intimidation. The air in the ballroom began to crackle with competing magics—fire, frost, and earth.
"A challenge?" Rowan asked. "Here? In the middle of a ball?"
"A Duel of Honor," Theron declared, a cruel smirk appearing. "No weapons. Pure mana output. Let the Duke see what his second son is truly made of. If you lose, you leave the Academy forever and return to the Duchy as a prisoner."
"And if I win?" Rowan asked.
"You won't," Theron sneered.
Duke Alaric leaned forward, his chin resting on a gloved hand. "Accept the challenge, Rowan. If you are truly a Caelum, prove that your 'Vacuum' is more than a parlor trick. If you fail... then Lucius was right to leave you in the woods."
The Vacuum Burst
The nobles backed away, creating a wide circle in the center of the ballroom. Theron stood opposite Rowan, his feet planted wide. He began to chant, his 4th-Circle Earth Mana surging. The very floorboards beneath them groaned as dust and stone fragments began to orbit Theron, forming a dense, rotating shield of kinetic energy.
"I won't make the mistake of underestimating your speed again!" Theron roared. "Try to touch me through this!"
He thrust his hands forward, sending a concentrated pillar of pressurized earth and mana directly at Rowan's chest.
Rowan didn't move. He didn't even raise his hands.
Soul-Bind Level 1: Empathy — Full Sync.
He felt Seraphina behind him. He felt her focus, her mana flowing into the "doorway" of his back.
As the pillar of earth hit him, the expected impact never came. Instead, the ballroom witnessed something impossible. The earth didn't shatter against him; it was inhaled.
Rowan's chest seemed to glow with a dark, bruised gold light. He wasn't just taking the mana; he was stripping the kinetic energy from the stones, turning the physical matter into dust that fell harmlessly to his feet.
"My turn," Rowan said.
He took a single step. The floor beneath him didn't just crack—it imploded. He utilized the Vacuum Blade technique, but instead of using a sword, he used his entire body as the edge.
He didn't punch. He didn't kick. He simply released the "breath" he had been holding.
[Display: Vacuum Wave — Total Output]
A shockwave of absolute nothingness tore through the air. It wasn't fire or wind; it was a sudden, violent absence of pressure. The atmospheric weight in the room shifted so fast that the windows of the embassy shattered outward.
Theron's earth shield didn't just break—it was sucked into the void and then spat back out as shrapnel. The giant of a man was blown backward, crashing through the buffet tables and slamming into the far wall, unconscious before he even hit the stone.
Rowan stood in the center of the wreckage, the gold light in his eyes slowly fading. He looked at his father, then at his trembling brother.
"Is that enough proof, Father?" Rowan asked, his voice echoing in the dead silence. "Or should I move on to the guards next?"
Duke Alaric stood up. For the first time, a shadow of something resembling a smile—or perhaps a predatory grin—crossed his face.
"The Gold Class has a new leader," the Duke announced. "And the Caelum family... has a new heir-apparent."
Lucius's face went bone-white. He had lost everything in a single heartbeat.
But as Rowan turned to leave with Seraphina, he felt a cold chill. In the corner of the room, the masked man from the bridge stood in the shadows, watching.