Evening came.
Like a curtain over the imperial city, it washed the towering spires in gold and shadow.
The streets below flickered with lanterns, but the brightest light of all seemed to burn in the Imperial Palace, where the Grand Hall had opened its huge doors to an audience of elites.
The banquet had begun.
One by one, the guests arrived—each more resplendent and self-assured than the last, draped in fine clothing, accompanied by whispers of legacy and might.
The Grand Hall—a marvel of marble and magic had crystal chandeliers floating on invisible currents that threw soft light onto a dark floor so polished it mirrored the stars above.
At its heart was a long, crescent-shaped table raised a few steps above the rest of the gathering, where the high seats were.
The guests fell into three distinct groups.
First were those with no noble blood, but whose strength and legend had carved them a place in the empire's memory.
Wanderers, duelists, merc prodigies—individuals whose swords and souls had written stories too loud to ignore. Their skin bore the scuffs of training grounds and the pride of self-earned status.
Then came the nobility—young lords and ladies from esteemed houses who had yet to pledge themselves to any faction. They walked like they already owned parts of the world, which, to be fair, they probably did.
Their gazes were careful, their words weighed like coin, and their alliances lay waiting behind smiles.
And finally, there was royalty.
Few in number. Heavy in weight.
At the head sat Iris Solaris, the Imperial Princess herself. Storm-blue eyes calm, posture regal, gown like flowing ink. She spoke little, but her presence was the center of gravity around which the room turned.
To her right sat Prince Izal Raehound, heir of the Raehound Kingdom. Tall, sharp-featured, wrapped in dark scale-mail lined with fur. He sipped from his glass as if every movement was a calculated threat.
The Raehound Kingdom bordered imperial territory to the north, and Izal's presence here was no idle gesture.
Flanking Iris were three others—chosen few who had already earned their places at the high table:
—Lady Verene of House Duskgrave, a noble born mage whose talent with spatial arts had shattered three duel arenas. Her dark skin lit faintly from runic tattoos, her voice soft yet dangerous.
—Sir Calux Vire, a sword prodigy from the southern mage academy, known for defeating two noble heirs in one duel. His eyes were sun-gold, his smile too charming to be harmless.
—And lastly, Lessie of the Shattered Choir, a former priestess turned battlemage, unaligned to any noble house but rumored to have slain a dragonspawn with a single chant. Her gaze occasionally flicked toward every speaker like she was weighing their soul.
The air carried careful laughter and sharper words.
They mingled in clusters—power drawn to power, ambition brushing ambition. Toasts were made in half-sincerity. Compliments masked questions. Allies tested each other with wine and wit.
Every smile held a blade beneath it, and every gesture screamed: Choose me.
But even amid the music and light, a small mystery remained.
One chair was still empty at the high table.
The finest wine untouched. The place-setting immaculate. Some of the guests began to notice. Eyes glanced toward Iris, then to the chair, then back again.
Whispers passed like contraband.
"Who is that seat for?"
"Is it symbolic?"
"Another prince, maybe?"
No answer came. Iris remained silent, sipping from her goblet, gaze flicking across the crowd like an appraiser deciding the worth of her wares.
Then—
Footsteps.
Measured. Not quick. Echoing across the marble like a countdown.
Heads turned.
And the final guest arrived.
He stepped into the hall dressed in carefully tailored, dark imperial attire—sewn to precision, lined with deep crimson thread that refracted the light.
His boots struck clean against the floor, each step unhurried, each movement carried intent. His black hair was swept back neatly, his face composed and unreadable, his eyes the color of faded stormlight.
A sword hung at his waist—not too ornate, not plain either. Practical. Worn.
Could be dangerous.
The moment he entered, the hall shifted. Conversations faltered. Glasses paused mid-air.
Because they recognized him.
Lanard Solaris IV.
The fourth prince.
The failure.
The disgrace.
The rumors had been endless after his actions at his last banquet. That he had gone mad. That he was an overcompensating fool. That he was exiled to die as punishment for his actions.
And yet here he was—walking calmly toward the high table like none of that had ever happened.
Lan paused just inside the threshold and bowed faintly toward the dais.
"Apologies for my lateness, Your Highness," he said, voice clear, unhurried. "The imperial dressers were… rather passionate about their task."
A flicker of laughter was earned from Iris. The rest of the room however, they remained uneasy, confused.
Then came the whispers, spreading sharper now.
"Isn't that the Solaris prince?"
"What is he doing in a place like this?"
"Why is he walking to the high table?"
"Was the rumor true, then? He was invited?"
"Invited? That can't be right—"
They talked, but none stopped him.
Lan walked the length of the grand hall, eyes forward, the murmurs brushing off him like leaves in wind. The further he walked, the quieter the room became.
He reached the high table. Every seat was filled—except one.
He paused beside it, letting his gaze move briefly across those gathered. Izal raised a brow. Verene narrowed her eyes. Calux tilted his head, assessing. Lessie simply watched.
Then his eyes met Iris's.
She said nothing.
And he sat.
Lan's voice was light, a thread of amusement in it as he settled back in the chair.
"Well, don't let me interrupt. Please, continue with the evening."
There was a long, stunned silence.
Then the music resumed, and the banquet moved forward—though its balance had changed.
Definitively.