Chapter 23: A Noble Waste of Time
Gala nights are supposed to be magical. Lavish. Life-changing, even.
Turns out, they're mostly just an overpriced headache with extra embroidery.
The Starcrest Gala, or as I like to call it, "Rich People Cosplaying Relevance," was held in the Thornbridge Grand Estate, which, I kid you not, looked like someone tried to weaponize architecture. Gold trim on everything. Chandeliers the size of carriages. A staircase that probably had its own political agenda.
I arrived in a tailored black coat with subtle crimson trim—because symbolism, right? The gauntlet was hidden under a fancy glove, and my best attempt at combed hair made me look like a respectable delinquent. Seraphine, of course, looked like someone who had read too many tragic romance novels and decided to cosplay as the heroine.
The guards at the door glanced at me like I was a misplaced intern. I smiled back. Not my problem. Inside, nobles floated from one marble-tiled conversation to the next. Wine, lies, and forced laughter made up 90% of the room.
There were masks involved. Not actual masks—just the metaphorical kind. Everyone smiling too wide, bowing too deep, speaking in phrases that meant the opposite of what they said. It was exhausting. I preferred assassination attempts. At least those were honest.
I stayed within the agreed ten-foot radius of Seraphine, which was harder than expected. She drifted between cliques of powerful people like she belonged. Her words were smooth, her smile sharper than the daggers some of these nobles probably had tucked into their sleeves. I didn't recognize most of them, but I got the vibe: old money, new paranoia.
"Oh, and this is my escort," she said once, gesturing toward me during a conversation with a particularly bloated baron who smelled like melted butter and disappointment.
I nodded politely. "Hi. I stab things."
They laughed. Thought it was a joke. I didn't correct them.
There were performances. Dancers. Some fire mage doing tricks for applause. A bard singing a ballad about some war that probably didn't happen. A light mage created floating sculptures in midair—shimmering illusions of beasts, roses, and duels. Everyone clapped.
I tried not to fall asleep.
Dinner came next. A multi-course extravaganza involving silverware with more forks than logic allowed. I ended up eating a roast that may or may not have been wyvern. It was good. Still didn't justify the fact that the waiter poured my water like he was casting a spell.
Seraphine barely touched her food. She was too focused on people. Watching. Measuring. I followed her gaze. One man, seated near the host's table, caught her attention. Gray-haired, sharp-featured, and wearing robes lined with thread-of-gold.
She leaned toward me. "That's Lord Vaerin. He's the reason we're here."
"What does he do?"
"Depends on who you ask. Trade negotiator, information broker, alchemist. Rumor says he collects forbidden artifacts."
Great. My favorite kind of hobbyist.
We didn't approach him. Not that night. She said the timing wasn't right. Translation: politics.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of small talk, dramatic wine-drinking, and at least two nobles challenging each other to a duel over an insult involving shoe polish. I wish I was joking.
Eventually, Seraphine excused herself, leaving me by one of the massive windows. I used the time to check my coat pocket.
The prism was still there. Still cold. Still quiet.
I held it for a second. No reaction.
I looked around the ballroom again. No sudden glows. No triggered alarms. Just rich people pretending they weren't bored out of their skulls.
Maybe it really was just a pretty rock.
Eventually, the gala began to wind down. Music softened. People started making their way toward the guest quarters. Servants moved through the halls with sleepy eyes and trays of midnight tea.
The first night was over.
And then, just as I was heading back toward my assigned room, it happened.
A scream.
Loud. Raw. Female.
It echoed through the entire estate, sharp enough to stop footsteps and shatter silence.
People froze. Conversations ended mid-sentence. Glasses clinked against marble. Then came the chaos.
Guards rushed toward the source. Nobles backed into corners. Servants dropped trays. Panic set in fast.
And me?
I reached into my coat.
The prism was warm.
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