The moon and stars hung full and bright in the velvet sweep of the night sky, distant and indifferent witnesses to the quiet tension coiling beneath them. Their pale light washed over the royal palace of San Cordellion, silvering its towers and softening the sharp edges of stone into something almost gentle. From above, the palace looked serene, timeless, as though nothing within its walls could ever truly change.
In the palace garden, a single stone slab rested flush with the earth, indistinguishable from the surrounding flagstones that traced winding paths between hedges and rose beds. It was lighter than it appeared, designed not to bear the weight of centuries but the illusion of permanence, and it shifted now with careful precision. The slab lifted just enough for a pair of keen eyes to scan the garden beyond.
Oscar paused, half-emerged from the darkness below, his gaze cutting through the moonlit stillness. He measured the garden the way a hunter measured a clearing, noting the shadows cast by statues, the arching trellises heavy with night-blooming flowers, the absence of moving silhouettes. No guards lingered here, no nobles wandered this far from music and wine, because the garden and the gala hall sat at opposite ends of the palace, divided not only by distance but by intention. This space was meant for quiet reflection, not celebration.
Satisfied, Oscar pushed the stone slab aside and climbed out of the tunnel, easing it back into place behind him until it looked as untouched as it had moments before. He straightened, the black cloak settling around him, and for a heartbeat he simply stood there, breathing in the garden.
He had always admired it.
The scent of roses and night jasmine hung thick in the air, layered with damp earth and the faint sweetness of trimmed grass. Moonlight spilled through the leaves, turning petals translucent and casting intricate shadows that danced with every breeze. It was beautiful in a way that felt almost cruel, a reminder of everything that was being decided without consent just a few walls away. The sight tightened something in his chest, awe and urgency tangling together until he could not tell them apart.
Then he moved.
Oscar crossed the garden with measured steps, boots soundless against stone, and slipped through a side entrance that led from greenery into grandeur. The palace interior swallowed him in cool marble and echoing space, the transition from living garden to carved stone abrupt enough to feel like crossing between worlds.
At the far end of that world, the gala burned bright.
Music swelled and receded like a living tide, laughter ringing beneath vaulted ceilings while nobles drifted between conversations and dances with practiced ease. Crystal glasses caught the light, filled with champagne and wine imported at staggering cost, and silks whispered against polished floors. Lords and ladies spoke of profits and politics, of alliances and futures, blissfully unaware that smoke already curled through places they had never needed to notice.
Lord Silvain stood among them, discussing business strategies with animated confidence, unaware that much of his empire now existed only as charred memory and ash. Others danced, spun, toasted, and congratulated one another on surviving yet another season of courtly maneuvering.
Then a clear clink echoed through the hall.
A spoon tapped against crystal, sharp enough to cut through the music, and one by one conversations quieted as attention turned toward the raised dais. King Alaric stood there with the queen at his side and Lord Caelum Empyrion just behind them, his presence commanding without effort.
The king cleared his throat, a sound amplified by the sudden hush.
"My friends, honored guests, and esteemed allies," Alaric began, his voice warm and resonant, practiced to perfection. "I thank you all for gathering here tonight beneath this roof, for your presence honors not only my family but the kingdom itself."
Polite murmurs of approval rippled outward.
"Tonight is not merely historic," he continued, his gaze sweeping the room, "but joyous. We stand at the threshold of a future strengthened by unity, guided by wisdom, and secured through bonds that will echo for generations."
At his gesture, Caelum extended a hand, beckoning.
Stephanie felt the motion before she fully saw it, a pull in her chest that made her breath hitch. She stepped forward, the polished floor suddenly unsteady beneath her feet, and took his outstretched hand. His grip was firm, possessive, and as she moved to stand beside him she was acutely aware of every eye in the hall tracking her progress.
Her heart raced so hard she feared it might give her away.
"I am proud to announce," the king said, his tone rising with ceremony, "that Lord Caelum Empyrion of the world-renowned House Arcanveil has accepted our proposal of union. By mutual accord, he and my daughter, Princess Stephanie of San Cordellion, are now formally engaged and shall be wed in the coming fall."
Thunder erupted.
Applause crashed through the hall, loud and unrelenting, nobles rising to their feet as cheers layered atop clapping hands. The sound pressed in on Stephanie from all sides, a physical force that made her ears ring. Three months, her mind whispered, over and over again. Only three months until her life ceased to be her own.
The world tilted, just slightly, and she fought the urge to faint, focusing instead on breathing and the cold reality of Caelum's hand enclosing hers.
While the applause continued, a palace guard slipped into the hall through a side entrance, moving carefully so as not to draw attention. His expression was tight, worry etched deep enough to be unmistakable to those trained to see it. He made his way toward Lieutenant Rowan Highgarden, who stood not far from the princess, posture rigid despite the celebratory chaos.
The guard leaned in and whispered.
Rowan's expression darkened immediately, his jaw tightening as he asked in a low voice, "What is the situation now?"
"It isn't good, sir," the guard replied, just as quietly.
Rowan swore under his breath, sharp and sincere, before straightening. "Inform the patrol leaders I will be down shortly to give orders," he said. "And for now, tell those idiots not to inhale it."
The guard hesitated. "Sir?"
"You heard me."
As the guard hurried off, Rowan crossed the hall to where Commander Cedric stood, still watching the king and queen with professional vigilance. Rowan murmured the situation, and Cedric's reaction mirrored his own, concern cutting through the veneer of control.
"I'll check it out," Rowan said after a brief exchange. "You keep things steady here."
Cedric nodded once, grim.
Elsewhere in the palace, Oscar worked quickly.
The palace had been designed with both splendor and survival in mind, its ventilation system a network of vertical shafts and horizontal channels hidden behind decorative grates and false walls. Fresh air was drawn in through discreet intakes along the outer corridors and courtyards, filtered through rune-lined conduits, and distributed upward and inward to keep grand halls from suffocating beneath their own luxury.
Oscar found one of the primary access points tucked behind a tapestry depicting an ancient battle long since romanticized. He pulled the fabric aside just enough to reveal a narrow service door, slipped inside, and knelt beside the vent mechanism humming softly with arcane energy.
He unclipped a canister from his belt and twisted its top with practiced ease, adjusting the rune etched along its rim. These grenades were not ordinary smoke devices. Within them, dried and ground sativa had been infused with alchemical accelerants, the strain chosen not for lethargy but for its tendency to sharpen perception and scatter focus all at once. Where others might grow sluggish, the affected would feel restless, distracted, alert in the wrong ways, minds racing without direction.
He slotted the first canister into the vent and activated it, watching as pale smoke was drawn eagerly into the system, vanishing upward and outward. One by one, he placed the others, but when his hand went to his belt again, he felt the absence immediately.
"Damn it," he muttered.
He did not have enough.
For a moment, frustration flared hot and sharp, but Oscar did not hesitate for long. He reached into his bag of holding and withdrew a bundle he had hoped not to touch tonight. The smell hit him instantly, earthy and familiar, and he grimaced with something like fond regret.
"Affordable losses," he told himself, even as his eyes stung.
He lit the bundle, feeding the smoke directly into the vent intake, coughing as the thick haze curled upward. Tears streamed unbidden down his cheeks, his throat burning, but he held it there until the smoke grew dense enough to satisfy him. The combination would carry farther now, spread faster, and though it hurt to sacrifice so much, the trade was worth it.
"As long as I get her," he rasped, "I can make it up later."
The smoke poured through the palace's arteries, seeping first into the outer corridors where guards lounged and chatted, weapons propped carelessly against walls. Laughter faltered as eyes reddened and thoughts scattered, conversations dissolving into half-finished sentences. Some guards slumped where they stood, others stared into space with unfocused intensity, and a few sank down against the stone, sleep claiming them without ceremony.
Oscar moved through it all like a ghost.
The corridors filled with haze, moonlight filtering through tall windows and turning the smoke into shifting silver ribbons. He passed guards who blinked at him without recognition, their duty drowned beneath altered senses, and pressed deeper into the palace, every step measured against memory and instinct.
He paused at one window, the courtyard spread below, and there his breath caught.
Parked among the guest carriages was an Empyrion vehicle, its sleek lines and polished surface catching the moonlight like a blade. The design was elegant and powerful, runes etched seamlessly into its frame, the engine a quiet promise of speed and mastery. Oscar had dreamed of seeing one up close, of running his hand along its contours, of driving something like that across open roads beneath foreign skies.
"One day," he murmured, the dream flickering bright and brief.
Then he turned away and continued down the smoke-filled hall, the palace's breath carrying his disruption ever onward as the night edged closer to chaos.