Servants moved gracefully through the hall, carrying silver trays with glasses of wine. An orchestra played soft, serene music—its cadence soothing, casting a warm ambiance over the room.
Guests stood in semi-circles around the grand ballroom, chatting in clusters that left the polished marble floor clear in the center. The chandeliers above flickered gently, casting rippling golden reflections across the walls.
The Arcturus family soon entered the room, seamlessly blending into the dance of greetings and political pleasantries.
"Ahh, Arcturus—you've arrived," said an older gentleman in a tailored grey suit.
"Ahh yes… Lodwick," Alexandre replied, warmly embracing the man. "It's been too long."
"And what do you reckon the Duke has summoned us for, hmm?" Alexandre asked, lowering his voice, trying to extract information.
Lodwick, a well-known merchant, gave a sly smile. "You'll find out soon enough," he said mischievously, then slipped off to greet another cluster of nobles.
The interactions continued for nearly half an hour, the room alive with murmurs, laughter, and glances exchanged over crystal glasses.
CLANK. CLANK.
A sharp sound rang out as the Duke tapped his glass, calling for attention. The crowd began to quiet, voices fading into silence.
James had been performing admirably—holding his posture with noble grace. When he greeted a lord, he gave a slight nod: "My lord." For a lady, he took a respectful step back, offering a deeper, courtly bow. His eyes, however, now locked on the Duke.
The Duke stood at the top of the stairs, poised, dignified, and commanding.
"My lords… and ladies," he began, his voice clear and deliberate. "I am quite pleased to see so many of you here for this year's Winter Ball."
He paused, scanning the room with measured calm.
"You may be wondering why I've called you here—why the sudden invitation."
Another pause. A shift in the room.
"Well… it is because of the sudden news that my uncle will soon step down… as King."
Gasps. Whispers. A wave of murmuring swept through the hall like wind through dry leaves.
The crowd was clearly taken aback. While it was well known that the Duke was the King's nephew, referring to the monarch simply as 'my uncle'—and not 'His Majesty'—was a bold and deliberate slight. A subtle act of disrespect wrapped in casual words.
The Duke remained still, letting the reaction brew. His eyes swept over the gathering, focused and sharp—like a veteran surgeon preparing to make the first cut.
"You've all seen it. London was attacked not long ago. Children calling themselves the Heka are causing chaos."
A few heads turned sharply. Others nodded in recognition.
"I ask you—do we not need a new ruler?" he continued, his voice rising. "Someone capable of restoring order and preserving our fiefs?"
The crowd was silent at first—just nods, hesitant and unsure. But as the Duke continued, a strange energy seemed to pulse in the air around him. Words rolled from his tongue with unnatural precision, each one layered with subtle magic. Agreement spread.
From silent nods… to murmured approval… to scattered applause.
"Have you heard?" the Duke added. "In Islanda, the people are revolting against their monarch. Even the outer provinces whisper rebellion."
He raised his hand.
"Tell me—do you not need a competent king? A ruler who will protect your titles, your families, your legacies?"
Now the room swelled with approval. Cheers, claps, exclamations. A tide of consent, rising fast.
But then—
"Oh… but alas," the duke said, voice darkening. "That shall not happen."
A hush fell over the room once more.
"For you see… my cousin is next in line."
He said it with bitterness—like a man forced to swallow poison.
Subtle murmurs began to spread across the ballroom like ripples on glass.
"Of course," the Duke said, his voice calm but piercing, "that may all change…"
He took a breath, then raised his glass.
"I may be further down the line of succession, yes—but a duel, held under the eyes of the gods, can settle it all. So I ask you now: Who among you will stand with me? Who will help lead this country to greater heights?"
The room fell silent again as his words echoed.
Then—
"I will stand with the Duke," spoke Lordwick, stepping forward without hesitation.
Gasps. Whispers. A few nobles exchanged glances, then began to raise their voices.
"I… I will stand with the Duke!"
"Yes, the rightful ruler of the land!"
The support began to rise, one voice at a time.
But then—
"Blasphemy!"
A thunderous voice cracked through the hall.
All turned.
It was Markis Raven—a nobleman in his mid-forties, with jet-black hair and a carved raven-headed cane clenched tightly in his fist. His eyes burned with fury.
"What right to the throne… have you?" he spat, face reddening with rage.
The Duke moved slowly down the stairs, his steps deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey.
"What right have I?" the Duke echoed, a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth.
"Is it not true that my father and uncle shared the same blood? The same father… the late King."
His voice was soft now—but each word landed with weight.
"Is it not true… that my father died protecting his brother in the War of Centu?"
A pause.
"Is it not true that my grandmother—was the Queen herself?"
"TRUE!" the crowd replied in unison, voices raised almost involuntarily, drawn into his rhythm.
In the crowd, Arthur felt a chill crawl down his spine. He grasped James by the wrist and pulled him closer.
The Duke took one final step and stood face-to-face with Markis Raven.
"Then I ask you, Marki… what more right do I need to contest the throne?"
He leaned in, hand resting on Markis Raven's shoulder. He whispered something—inaudible, private.
Then he turned away and walked calmly back into the crowd.
A beat passed.
And then—Markis Raven collapsed.
His cane fell with a sharp clatter. His body shook violently on the marble floor, limbs twitching in unnatural angles.
Gasps erupted.
"Oh my—someone help him!" the Duke cried, voice laced with mock concern.
But no one moved.
Arthur tensed beside James. He made a step forward.
"Don't," Alexandre said sharply, his voice low and cold. "He is already dead. Don't throw your life away for a dead man."
The music had long stopped.
Only silence remained.
James looked up at his uncle, confusion written across his face.
"What's going on, Uncle?" he asked, his voice trembling.
But the question didn't need an answer.
James had seen death before—and what he saw on the ballroom floor could not be mistaken.
Moments later, a pair of servants arrived, quietly lifting Markis Raven's body from the polished marble.
"Tell his family I will pay them a visit… to express my deepest grief," the Duke announced somberly.
Then, with a sudden shift in tone, he clapped his hands.
"I know it is in bad taste," he said, smiling faintly, "but let us raise a toast—before we part ways—to consider my proposal."
Crystal chalices, filled with wine, floated elegantly through the air, landing in the hands of every guest.
"Give it here," Alexandre whispered.
James and Arthur handed over their glasses.
Alexandre held all three in his hands, eyes narrowing. He began to mutter softly, lips barely moving. A thin black smoke rose from the surface of the wine—subtle, nearly invisible at first, but unmistakable once it coiled upward.
He cupped the smoke in his palm like it were a living thing.
The substance hissed, twisted, and squirmed in his grasp, as though resisting. Alexandre winced—then the smoke burned a mark into his skin before dispersing entirely.
Without a word, he returned the glasses to James and Arthur.
At the head of the room, the Duke raised his chalice high.
"First, we mourn our dear friend, Markis Raven," he said.
He paused, just long enough.
"Then we celebrate the dawn of a new kingdom."
He drank deeply.
Around the room, glasses lifted in unison.
"Long live the Duke!"
"Strength to the realm!"
Cheers echoed, rising in volume, washing over the room like a tide of forced joy.
James did not cheer. He stared at the scar forming on Alexandre's hand, the ghost of black smoke still clinging to the air like a whisper.
As the Duke turned to leave, he gave one last parting line:
"Have a safe journey, my friends—until I call for you again."
And with that, the ballroom doors closed behind him.
With great haste, the Arcturus family left the ballroom.
They boarded their carriage in silence, and within moments, the hippogriffs had taken to the sky—gliding northward, toward the safety of their own fief.
Inside the carriage, the atmosphere was tense and still.
James looked up at his grandfather, his voice fragile, eyes shimmering with the threat of tears.
"Grandfather… are you alright?"
Alexandre turned to him and offered a faint smile.
"Oh, it's quite alright, boy."
But his voice carried a weariness James hadn't heard before.
Arthur, meanwhile, was busy—retrieving vials and small bottles from the cabinet built into the carriage wall. His hands moved quickly, mixing a glowing solution with practiced urgency.
"Let me see your hand, Father," Arthur said.
Alexandre unwrapped the cloth covering his palm. The wound was deep—almost blackened, rotting at the edges, pulsing faintly like something alive.
Arthur poured the concoction carefully over it. The moment the liquid touched the wound, it hissed violently. Dark smoke rose—twisting once, then vanishing into thin air.
The wound sealed closed.
But the scar remained.
"What… what is going on, Father?" Arthur asked, eyes narrowed.
There was a long pause.
Then Alexandre finally spoke.
His voice was low. Measured. Cold.
"That wasn't the Duke."