The nobles stared as if the air itself had changed. It was not simply awe, though awe was certainly present. It was the peculiar, hollow reverence of people who had lived their entire lives beneath one ceiling of power, only to realize another ceiling existed above it—higher, colder, and utterly indifferent to their prayers.
An Empyrion walked among them.
He was young, almost deceptively so, his frame still lean with adolescence, but nothing in the way he carried himself suggested uncertainty. He moved with the calm assurance of someone who had never once questioned his place in the world. His wives followed behind him in a quiet constellation, dresses flowing like liquid color, steps synchronized not by command but by habit. They were beautiful in a distant, polished way, like art pieces curated to enhance the presence at their center.
Conversation thinned as he approached the dais.
The King and Queen of Colorada'Sierra stood waiting, crowns gleaming beneath the chandeliers. For a heartbeat, it looked as though the room itself leaned forward, breath held, waiting to see which way the scales would tip.
Then the King bowed his head.
Not deeply. Not submissively. But unmistakably.
The Queen followed a breath later.
The collective gasp rippled through the hall, soft but unmistakable, like silk tearing just a little. Nobles froze mid-sip, mid-whisper, mid-thought. Some looked thrilled. Others looked sick. A few smiled with naked ambition, eyes already calculating how this moment might be leveraged.
The Empyrion smiled.
It was not a wide smile, nor a cruel one. It was worse than either—small, contained, and satisfied. The smile of someone watching gravity behave exactly as expected.
"Your hospitality has been… adequate," he said, voice smooth and measured.
The King straightened, expression serene through sheer force of will. "We are honored by your presence."
"As you should be." His reply short and sharply.
The Queen's smile did not falter, though the tension around her eyes betrayed effort. "We hope the journey from your domain was comfortable."
"It was efficient," the Empyrion replied. "Efficiency is its own comfort." His gaze shifted then, drifting past the crowns, past the gathered nobility, until it found Princess Stephanie.
The effect was immediate.
Stephanie felt it before she fully registered it, like a subtle pressure against her spine, guiding her attention whether she wished it or not. Her posture stiffened on instinct, years of etiquette snapping into place even as unease coiled tight in her chest.
The Empyrion stepped closer.
He took her hand with ceremonial grace, lifting it just enough to press his lips against her knuckles. The gesture was formal, almost archaic, but Stephanie's fingers tensed all the same, her muscles betraying what her expression refused to show.
"You are even more striking in person," he said, eyes lingering in a way that felt less like admiration and more like appraisal. "I find myself looking forward to our wedding."
Behind him, his wives reacted in soft harmony—shared looks, quiet laughter, a ripple of amusement that felt rehearsed. One leaned toward another, murmuring something too low to hear, her smile sharp with knowing.
Stephanie did not smile and she did not pull away either.
Rowen stood just behind her, close enough to step in, far enough to respect protocol. His shoulders tensed, broad frame rigid beneath his formal attire. He kept his face carefully neutral, the expression of a man trained to observe without reacting, but inside his thoughts collided like fists.
Am I really getting annoyed right now? he wondered. Over a kid?
The realization irritated him almost as much as the feeling itself.
It wasn't jealousy—not exactly. It was the way the Empyrion spoke, the assumption threaded through every word, like the future had already been signed, sealed, and delivered without bothering to ask anyone involved.
Rowen clenched his jaw, teeth grinding once before he forced himself to relax. He shifted his weight, a habitual motion, grounding himself the way he did before a bout. If he looked bored, it was by design.
The Empyrion released Stephanie's hand only to offer it again, palm up.
"A dance," he said lightly. "It seems fitting."
Stephanie hesitated for a fraction of a second, just long enough for her mother to notice.
Then she placed her hand in his.
The musicians did not wait for instruction. The melody rose almost immediately, a slow, elegant composition that curled through the hall like warm smoke. Couples began to move, some joining eagerly, others content to watch from the edges, glasses raised, eyes sharp.
The Empyrion led with confidence. His steps were precise, practiced, his posture immaculate. Stephanie followed flawlessly, her movements smooth and controlled, every turn executed with the grace drilled into her since childhood.
To the watching nobles, they were a vision—power aligned, future secured, a living illustration of political inevitability.
Rowen watched from the edge of the floor, arms folding across his chest. His gaze tracked every step, every subtle shift of the Empyrion's hand at Stephanie's waist.
Man, he thought grimly, if arrogance counted as muscle, this kid would bench a damn castle.
Cedric stood nearby, armored presence immovable, eyes forward, expression carved from stone. Guards lined the walls, their silence heavy with readiness. The palace was locked down tight tonight, layers of steel and vigilance wrapped around silk and wine.
Midnight had passed.
Candles burned lower now, wax pooling at their bases. The moon hung full beyond the tall windows, stars scattered across the sky like careless brushstrokes. The night pressed close, watching.
Stephanie turned beneath the Empyrion's guiding hand, skirts whispering across the polished floor. When she smiled for the crowd, it was perfect—soft, radiant, obedient.
Inside, her thoughts screamed.
"This is a cage," she thought. "And they're calling it a future." She wanted future to her own and no one else's.
****
Far beyond the palace walls, the night told a different story.
Arthur slammed the dealer into the dirt, the impact knocking the wind from both of them. Smoke rolled thick through the weed fields, heavy and sweet, burning his lungs with every breath he tried not to take. Flames leapt from row to row, devouring the plants with hungry enthusiasm, embers drifting upward like sparks from a forge.
Arthur coughed, tried to shallow his breathing, failed.
The smoke tasted wrong—sweet, biting, intoxicating in a way that made his head feel light even as panic hammered in his chest. His vision swam, edges blurring as he tightened his grip, pinning the dealer beneath him.
The man struggled once, then stilled.
Arthur leaned closer, heart pounding, adrenaline surging. Then the dealer's lips twitched. A smile spread across his face.
Arthur froze.
The smile broke into a giggle.
Soft at first, breathless and strange, then louder, bubbling up with reckless abandon. It echoed oddly through the crackle of flames, laughter weaving with the roar of fire.
Arthur stared down at him. "Oh gods," Arthur muttered, annoyance present in his tone.
The laughter grew, shaking the dealer's shoulders as smoke curled around them like a living thing. His eyes were unfocused, glassy, but sharp with a manic gleam.
"What the matter this is some good stuff," the dealer wheezed between laughs, looking up at Arthur as if they were sharing a private joke. "You feel it too, huh, knight boy?"
Arthur tried to answer, tried to push himself up, but his limbs felt heavy, his thoughts slipping like wet stone. He shook his head once, hard, trying to clear it, but the motion only made the world tilt.
The dealer seized the moment.
With a sudden burst of strength, he bucked hard, twisting his body just enough to slip free from Arthur's hold. Arthur stumbled back, boots skidding in the dirt, coughing hard as the smoke filled his lungs again.
The dealer scrambled to his feet, laughter trailing behind him like a curse.
"Nice try ,knight boy," he called over his shoulder, already turning.
Arthur tried to move, tried to give chase, but his legs felt sluggish, his reactions dulled. He watched, blinking through watering eyes, as the dealer bolted toward the warehouse at the edge of the fields, silhouette cutting through firelight and smoke.
"No—wait," Arthur rasped, the words dissolving into another cough.
The dealer didn't look back for a second.
Arthur dropped to one knee, chest heaving, forcing himself to breathe despite every instinct screaming not to. The laughter still echoed in his ears, mingling with the roar of flames and the distant chaos of shouts and cracking wood.
Back at the palace, the music swelled.
Gold gleamed beneath candlelight. Power smiled behind practiced courtesies. And beneath it all, unseen and unacknowledged, consequences burned their way closer—patient, inevitable, and already too far gone to stop.