Chapter 5
The Anniversary of the Rousth Conglomerate
At last, the day arrived.
Amarantha entered the heart of the Sovereigns' Palace as part of a procession of maids moving with ghostly synchrony, like pieces of a meticulously rehearsed ritual. The Grand Hall opened before them with imposing vastness: white marble columns rose until they vanished into a vaulted ceiling, adorned with gilded reliefs depicting ancient conquests, lineages, and victories. Between the pillars, statues of heroic figures and forgotten gods watched the scene with eternal, frozen expressions—silent judges of the power gathered there.
The air was saturated with exotic perfumes, soft incense, and expensive wine, blended into a dense fragrance that clung to the skin. Beneath that scent throbbed a constant murmur: low voices thick with ambition, measured laughter, and deals sealed mid-sentence. Everything unfolded under warm lighting cast by gold chandeliers and suspended lamps, their light reflecting off jewels, crystal stemware, and polished surfaces.
It was a stage of unbridled opulence. Along a red carpet that seemed endless, embroidered with imperial symbols and motifs of ancient noble houses, the true pinnacle of the known world had gathered. The local Sovereigns shared the space with high-born aristocrats wrapped in white and cream tunics trimmed with gold, necklaces of precious stones resting on their chests, rings sealing every gesture. Beside them mingled magnates who had bought their status with blood and gold, dressed in luxurious fabrics yet heavy with aggressive ostentation, as if they needed to remind the world their power did not come from inheritance, but from violence.
Between crimson tablecloths stretched across endless tables, brimming goblets, and the banners of ancient houses hanging between columns, the palace was not merely displaying wealth—it was displaying domination. And in the midst of that suffocating magnificence, Amarantha moved in silence, invisible, reduced to a function… while the heart of power beat around her.
Among the crowd, guests from foreign kingdoms also stood out: ambassadors dressed in unfamiliar silks, emissaries from distant lands, and political figures whose influence transcended Rousth's borders. It was a concentration of power without precedent, where every face present represented a key link in the global economy.
Suddenly, a man stepped onto the main dais, and his voice—amplified by the hall's acoustics—rose above the revelry:
"Welcome, everyone! In celebration of the anniversary of the creation of Rousth's Political Conglomerate, we extend a cordial welcome to the Houses that sustain the Kingdom's economy, and to our distinguished foreign allies."
Amarantha remained motionless, holding a silver tray, blended among the other cloth maids. To those present, she was nothing more than a functional object, a piece of the décor. Yet her eyes—cold and calculating—scanned the crowd with technical precision. Amarantha analyzed the emblems on the guests' cloaks, the gestures of complicity between foreign delegates, and the hierarchy implicit in every toast.
As the procession of guests advanced along the red carpet, a memory forced its way into Amarantha's mind. She saw herself again in one of Reydem's bases, listening to Victor's somber voice:
"I don't want to frighten you, Amarantha… but the Sovereigns are twisted beings. The most powerful and influential Houses hold an absolute monopoly over Rousth. There are Sovereigns of different status, but even those with great economic backing are looked down upon by the 'Magno Sovereigns'… the true pinnacle of power."
The memory dissolved as quickly as it had come.
In the Grand Hall, the crowd parted to make way for a man walking with predatory arrogance. The presenter announced his arrival with pomp:
"The illustrious Fusuro, heir of House Susaku!"
Fusuro, Sovereign of House Susaku (37 years old)
Fusuro advanced, followed by four naked women whose necks were cinched with gold chains. He held them naturally, as if they were leashes. They did not walk at his side: they trailed behind him.
Amarantha watched the scene with an expressionless face. The echo of Victor's warning returned to her memory, as if he had told her only hours ago.
"Don't worry, go on. I need to be informed," she had replied back then.
"Alright," Victor had said. "Let's talk about Fusuro. From what I was able to investigate, he's the most twisted of them all. He enjoys public humiliation and constantly needs to display his superiority to prove he belongs to the circle of Rousth's six most powerful. He paused briefly. With him, it's almost certain you'll face situations meant to degrade your identity. His personality is an unpredictable mix of irony, cruelty… and absolute egocentrism."
In the middle of the hall, Fusuro suddenly stopped. His eyes locked onto a man trying to go unnoticed among the crowd.
"Shuyo!" he exclaimed, his voice dripping with biting sarcasm.
The man addressed— a Sovereign from a minor House—tensed before answering:
"Yes… Fusuro."
Fusuro smiled.
"Come here and clean my feet. Now."
The silence that followed wasn't surprise. It was routine. Other Sovereigns exchanged looks of resignation and weariness. The foreign guests pretended not to see. No one intervened. No one protested. Everyone knew they had to tolerate these insults if they didn't want to make an enemy of House Susaku.
Shuyo, humiliated under the gaze of the aristocracy, moved forward slowly. He knelt. And he began to clean Fusuro's footwear with his own hands. Fusuro watched him the way one watches an obedient animal.
"That's it, Shuyo…" he said, satisfied. "Now leave."
Shuyo stood and walked away with his head lowered, swallowing his pride before the court. Amarantha recorded every detail of the exchange. She understood immediately that dealing with Fusuro would not be only a test of physical endurance… but a battle to keep what fragments of her humanity she had left safe from his sadism.
Without breaking stride, Amarantha headed to her assigned place and took her position, blending back into the palace's silence. The presenter, after finishing his speech, raised his voice again to announce the next guest:
"We now welcome Ganza, of the illustrious House Tudeth!"
Ganza, Sovereign of House Tudeth (50 years old)
The name fell over the hall like a stone. Amarantha didn't move, but something inside her tightened. Victor's memory returned with an unpleasant clarity, as if the very air of the palace carried his words from that distant Reydem base. His tone had been different when he spoke of that man. Lower. Rougher. Not out of fear… but out of disgust.
"Another of the Magnos Sovereigns is Ganza," he had told her. "He's a pig. A perverse creature who lives solely for lust and the lowest pleasures." Victor had paused. "I don't need to be specific about what he might do to you. I'll only tell you one thing: the day your mission ends… if you have the chance to kill him, make sure his death is slow. His eyes, in that moment, had carried a dark glint. "That animal deserves to suffer for every atrocity he's committed."
In the Grand Hall, Ganza moved toward the main table with a vulgar heaviness. He didn't walk like Fusuro, with that calculated arrogance. He didn't impose like Eliotas, with that cutting coldness. Ganza was different: he moved with the certainty of someone who knows he can soil everything… and still no one will touch him. His eyes swept the hall with a lechery that seemed to stain whatever they landed on. He didn't distinguish jewels from bodies, or power from beauty: he measured everything with the same hunger.
Amarantha watched him without blinking. And then, as if she couldn't contain it, in that memory she had asked the question that had been lodged in her for years.
"He's the one who orders the kidnappings of young women all across Rousth, isn't he?"
Victor hadn't looked surprised. He only answered bitterly.
"Yes. It's him. He's turned his House into a brothel of innocents."
Amarantha remembered with sharp clarity what that sentence meant. The slums. Broken families. Fathers shouting names in empty alleys. Mothers who no longer cried, because crying never brought anyone back. Girls vanishing without a trace, swallowed by a system that not only didn't protect them… but sold them.
Back in the present, Ganza took his seat at the main table. He slumped into it with a satisfied smile, surrounded by delicacies, overflowing goblets, and trays of fruit, as if abundance could erase the trail of his victims. Amarantha held the tray firmly. She tightened her fingers just slightly—enough to feel she still had control over her own body.
Until that moment, her mission had been information. But now, looking at Ganza, she understood something else. She wasn't just infiltrated at the center of power. She was standing before a target. One the world would never punish. One no one would dare touch. And for that very reason… one who would have to pay someday.
The presenter, keeping the solemn tone of the ceremony, announced the third Magno Sovereign:
"Let us welcome with honors Angelos, of the prestigious House Ludesth!"
Angelos, Sovereign of House Ludesth (40 years old)
The man entered the hall with a presence unlike the previous ones. He didn't move with that open arrogance that demanded attention. Nor did he walk like someone who needed to impose his authority with every step. Angelos simply entered.
His face was cheerful, his expression warm—almost kind—as if that place, filled with power, excess, and hierarchy, were nothing more than a pleasant social gathering. He greeted several nobles with calm gestures, unhurried, without tension. His smile was serene. Too serene.
Amarantha didn't lower her gaze. Victor's warning returned to her. With Angelos, her companion's tone had been different: drier, more restrained, as if it bothered him not to have a clear answer.
"There's one who always seems to be in a good mood," he had told her. "Angelos."
Victor had paused briefly before continuing.
"We don't know much about him. Not as much as we'd like." His eyes had hardened. "But what we do know is this: he's in the circle. He's present. He sits with them. He shows up at meetings, at celebrations… even at Ganza and Fusuro's private parties."
Amarantha remembered that sentence with sharp clarity, because it was the only thing that mattered. Being there, by choice, was already an answer.
"He's one of the pillars of the system," the memory faded. "He may seem indifferent, calm… even pleasant. But don't mistake that for neutrality."
In the Grand Hall, Angelos raised his hand to greet the crowd, receiving gestures of respect and admiration from aristocrats and foreign guests. No one seemed uneasy around him. No one avoided him. He was the kind of presence that didn't raise alarms. And for that very reason, he was unsettling.
Amarantha watched him pass in front of her. For an instant, she felt that dissonance: there was no obvious violence, no vulgarity, no explicit threat… but there was no relief either. Only a clean calm, perfectly placed—like a mask that didn't crack, not even in a place like Rousth.
Angelos took his seat at the main table with elegance, without needing to impose himself. Amarantha remained steady, motionless at her post. She understood something then—simple, but dangerous: with Ganza and Fusuro, the horror was obvious. With Angelos… the horror was not knowing what was beneath.
The presenter, without losing his solemn tone, announced the next guest of honor:
"Let us welcome, with the respect his lineage demands, Eliotas, Sovereign of House Dumstrein!"
Eliotas, Sovereign of House Dumstrein (53 years old)
The murmur in the hall broke in a subtle way. It wasn't absolute silence, nor a theatrical cut—it was something more real: the kind of pause that happens when people remember there are names that aren't spoken lightly.
Eliotas appeared at the entrance and advanced without haste, but with a straightness that reminded one of a man trained never to yield a single step. He didn't smile. He didn't seek attention. He didn't need to prove anything. He walked as if the place had belonged to him before the Conglomerate even existed, as if every carpet, every column, and every person were part of an order he considered natural.
His gaze moved over the crowd without stopping on common faces. It wasn't simple indifference—it was a form of selection. As if, while observing, he decided who deserved to exist within his field of vision. Amarantha remained motionless, holding the tray firmly.
Then she remembered Victor. The way he had spoken of Eliotas hadn't been disgust, like with the others. It had been different: tired, heavy, as if describing him alone was enough to sour his mood.
"Eliotas…" he had said, letting out a breath. "He is classism personified."
Amarantha remembered that Victor hadn't called him a monster for pleasure or perversity. He had called him something worse, in practical terms.
"He's not sick like the others," Victor had continued, "but his arrogance and contempt for other people's lives are the purest form of indifference that exists in Rousth."
In the present, Eliotas moved among the nobles without shifting even a millimeter to make room for anyone. It was the others who moved. The others who made themselves small. Amarantha watched him adjust his posture as he reached the main table. It wasn't ostentatious, but it was exact: impeccable elegance, measured, cold.
And in that same instant, another warning from Victor returned, spoken with clarity, as if it were a survival instruction.
"He doesn't tolerate mistakes."
The phrase had lodged itself in her memory.
"He's an obsessive perfectionist. Try not to break anything, or spill a single drop near him. He may not torture you or seek… what the others seek. But if he considers you useless, he won't hesitate for a second to have you executed for the simple fact of disturbing his order."
Victor had paused before finishing, with bitter calm:
"To Eliotas, everyone is a nuisance if they don't possess a social status he considers worthy. A cloth maid, in his eyes, is worth less than the crystal of his glass."
Eliotas took his seat at the main table with cutting sobriety. He didn't toast. He didn't react to greetings. He simply settled in like an inevitable piece. Amarantha watched him from her position.
If with the others she had to protect her body, with Eliotas she had to protect something more fragile: her precision. In his world, a mistake in service wasn't a fault. It was a sentence.
The presenter, whose voice was beginning to show the strain of so much ceremony, continued down the list:
"Continuing with the other Houses, we welcome Furher, of House Freide!"
Furher, Sovereign of House Freide (51 years old)
The name didn't stir the same excitement as the others. Not because it was less important, but because Furher wasn't a man associated with parties, excess, or public displays. His reputation carried a different kind of weight—one that wasn't celebrated, but feared.
When he appeared at the entrance, Amarantha recognized him immediately by one simple detail. His clothing was light and functional, and over it he wore pieces of restrained, well-fitted armor that made him look more like a war officer than a noble of the Conglomerate. His stride was firm and direct, without hesitation. And his face—serious and pragmatic—didn't linger on the spectacle of the hall.
Furher didn't look at the place like someone who came to indulge. He looked at it like someone who measured. Amarantha felt her back tense slightly, almost against her will. Then she remembered Victor's most important warning. Not the cruelest. The most urgent.
"All the Sovereigns are careless and arrogant," he had told her, "but the man we need to be careful with is Furher."
In the memory, Victor's voice wasn't full of anger. It was serious.
"Unlike the others, he isn't a sadist, or a pervert, or excessively classist… but he's the smartest of them all. He's been responsible for the most effective attacks against our organization. He's the most tactical. He was the one who led and secured the decisive victory against the northern Vikings."
Amarantha never forgot that detail. Not because the northern war mattered to her, but because it gave her a real measure of what Furher was capable of when he deemed a target necessary.
"With him, you must be extremely careful and try not to raise suspicion," Victor had added. "You can fool the other Sovereigns to their face. Not Furher."
Furher reached his area and took his seat with sobriety. He didn't toast. He didn't get swept up in the music. He didn't take part in the atmosphere. But he didn't seem isolated either. His eyes swept the hall with an uncomfortable precision, as if even at a gala, his mind were still on a battlefield.
Amarantha kept her face still, obedient, without straying. She knew she was facing a different kind of enemy. One who didn't need to shout to destroy you. One who could do it calmly, methodically… and without making mistakes.
The presenter, trying to recover the air of solemnity, extended his arms toward the main entrance.
"Now, let us welcome the representatives of the prestigious House Pertrabish… and its leader, Sovereign Lederas!"
The announcement had an immediate effect. In different corners of the Grand Hall, several conversations died at once. Some goblets froze halfway to lips; other guests leaned slightly forward to see better, their curiosity restrained. Even among the foreign emissaries, a subtle shift could be felt: Lederas wasn't just another noble. He was a major piece in the Direcrim's machinery.
All attention turned to the entrance. However, the murmur of expectation quickly turned into confusion. No imposing Magno Sovereign walked down the red carpet. Instead, a small group of envoys and lower-ranking representatives advanced, dressed in the sober luxury of those who didn't need exaggeration to project authority.
The absence was immediate. Visible. Deliberate. A silent insult.
Eliotas, whose patience for etiquette was nearly nonexistent, leaned forward with an icy stare and asked bluntly:
"And Lederas?"
One of the representatives stopped, held his composure, and answered carefully:
"Sovereign Lederas… stated that he had other commitments of the utmost importance to attend to, Your Excellency."
Eliotas tapped the table lightly with his fingers. It wasn't violent, nor an outburst. It was worse: a contained signal. The kind of tension that doesn't release, only accumulates.
"Other commitments?" he repeated. "It's the anniversary of the Conglomerate… and you're telling me Lederas had other commitments?"
At the other end of the table, Fusuro let out a dry laugh, leaning back in his chair with an amused smile.
"Lederas… as unpredictable as ever," he remarked. "I don't know why you're surprised, Eliotas."
From her position, Amarantha watched the scene without moving. This wasn't a simple breach of courtesy. It was a crack. The fact that one of the Magno Sovereigns openly disregarded a Direcrim gathering revealed a fracture in the system. And in Rousth, even a fracture could become an opportunity.
The presenter continued down the list of honors for several more minutes. More Houses entered: Lothpraus, Vareldh, Krenthis, Marneth, Odris, Halveron… But the air in the hall no longer felt solemn. It felt tense. The main Sovereigns barely paid attention.
Until Eliotas raised a hand. It was a minimal gesture. Sharp.
"That's enough. No more."
The presenter froze.
"But… Your Excellency, there are still more Houses to be announced. Important families are waiting for their turn."
Fusuro let out a short laugh, laced with threat.
"You heard Eliotas, didn't you?"
The presenter went pale instantly. Ganza laughed as well, lifting his goblet toward Eliotas with a grin. Eliotas barely looked at him. The presenter cut the speech short and withdrew. The remaining lesser Houses had no choice but to enter without announcement, blending into the crowd. The message was clear: only they mattered.
With a gesture from the leaders, the feast formally began.
The Grand Hall filled with the constant sound of silver cutlery and crystal goblets. Amarantha remained in her position, watching as opulence covered the tension. The banquet was underway. And with it came the moment when she needed to start moving.
She moved between the tables with mechanical precision. Her eyes registered hierarchies, gestures, alliances. She paused first on Furher, watching him from a distance: his posture never loosened. He looked like he was there out of duty, not pleasure.
Then she shifted her gaze slightly toward the table assigned to House Pertrabish. Only the envoys were there. The main seat remained empty. And that was when the last fragment of her conversation with Victor returned with clarity:
"The last of the Magno Sovereigns, and one of the most powerful, is Lederas," Victor had told her. "We don't know much about him. Unlike the others, Lederas doesn't seek attention through his lifestyle. He's the most hermetic and reserved of them all. He isn't known for public acts of perversion or cruelty. But don't be mistaken: he's one of the pillars who funds Direcrim's external threats. Neutral or not, he's our enemy. And his money is what pays for our heads."
The Pertrabish table, with its emptiness at the center, took on a different weight. Not showing up was a way of asserting dominance. A silent gesture, but heavy with intent.
Amarantha refocused on her service. She distributed goblets, leaning just enough to be close to the whispers. In that hall, she understood something with uncomfortable clarity: a Magno Sovereign's presence was a threat. But his absence could be even more dangerous.
Amarantha didn't lower her guard. She knew the palace's calm was only a surface. And sooner or later… that surface would break.