The banquet hall glowed like a jewel in the heart of the keep, its high-arched windows spilling warm light into the night. Silk banners in deep crimson and gold hung from the vaulted ceiling, swaying gently in the breath of winter air seeping through the stone. Musicians in the gallery played soft strings that seemed to curl through the air like delicate smoke.
It was a scene painted for peace—elegant, intoxicating, false.
Kael arrived before most of the guests, clad in black and silver, the flame sigil of his house embroidered subtly at the hem of his cloak. The Sovereign Flame thrummed within him, muted but restless, like a wolf kept on a chain. He could feel it prickling at the edges of his control, perhaps sensing the warning from the night before.
The tables were a display of excess: roasted pheasants glistening with glaze, trays of pomegranate and honeyed figs, silver goblets brimming with rich red wine. The air smelled of cinnamon, spiced meat, and just beneath it, a note Kael could not place—sharp, metallic.
Jorah appeared at his side, dressed plainly to blend among the guards. "Our men are in place," he murmured. "Three by the main doors, two near the kitchens, one in the rafters."
"Good," Kael said. His eyes swept the room, noting faces. Lords and ladies from the coastal cities. Guildmasters draped in fur and jewels. Envoys from across the sea, their eyes sharp and assessing. And, at the far table, members of the High Council—including Verrin, who raised his goblet to Kael in mock salute.
The musicians shifted into a brighter tune as the hall filled. Laughter rose, goblets clinked, the scent of roasted boar filled the air. On the surface, it was a night of celebration. Underneath, Kael could feel the tension coiled like a serpent.
He moved among the guests, exchanging polite words, offering carefully measured smiles. Every now and then, his gaze flicked to the wine—ruby liquid catching the light, swirling in cups. He remembered the words on the scorched parchment: Beware the wine.
Near the center table, he found Lady Serenya, the youngest daughter of a coastal lord. Her beauty was sharp as glass, her eyes a clear, calculating blue. She leaned close as he passed.
"Careful, Lord Kael," she said softly. "Your shadow tonight is longer than usual."
He tilted his head. "Meaning?"
She smiled faintly, as if amused at his caution. "Meaning there are knives in the room you cannot see." She raised her goblet, but did not drink.
The feast began in earnest. Platters of venison and bowls of spiced lentils were passed. Toasts were made to the prosperity of the realm, to the honor of the council, to the "peace" that had settled after the last rebellion. Kael raised his goblet when required but never let the wine touch his lips.
Halfway through the meal, a servant stumbled near the head table, nearly spilling an entire pitcher of wine across Verrin's lap. Verrin's eyes flashed and he hissed something Kael couldn't hear, but his hand shot out—not to shove the servant away, but to steady the pitcher.
Kael's eyes narrowed. Verrin drank deeply from his cup moments later.
So the wine is safe for some, Kael thought grimly, or he has an antidote.
The musicians struck a final chord and the first course was cleared. The hall was loud now, laughter filling the space, the scent of wine stronger. Kael's gaze was drawn to a balcony above the dining floor. A shadow flickered there—a figure, barely visible, moving with purpose.
"Rafters," Kael murmured to Jorah, who was already looking up.
The figure knelt, pulling something from a satchel.
Crossbow.
Kael didn't think—he moved. One moment he was at the far side of the hall, the next the Sovereign Flame surged through him, igniting his veins. In three strides he was atop the table, sending goblets crashing and roasted fowl tumbling. Guests shouted in alarm as Kael leapt for the balcony, the world narrowing to that single shadow.
The assassin turned, loosing the bolt—not at Kael, but at Verrin.
Kael's hand flared, a ribbon of white-gold fire snapping through the air and catching the bolt mid-flight, burning it to ash before it reached its mark. The heat washed over the nearest guests, their eyes wide with horror and awe.
The assassin fled, but Kael gave chase, weaving through the narrow corridors above the hall. The air grew colder here, the music fading to a distant hum. He caught glimpses of the man's cloak turning corners, boots pounding against the old wood.
In the uppermost corridor, Kael cornered him. The assassin spun, dagger in hand, eyes glinting beneath a hood.
"You should have drunk the wine," the man spat. "Would have saved us all the trouble."
Kael stepped forward, fire flickering along his arms. "Who sent you?"
The man laughed, bitter and breathless. "The same people who made you. And when they're done, they'll burn you too."
Kael's control faltered. The flame surged, engulfing the assassin in a blinding burst. When it faded, nothing remained but blackened stone and the faint scent of char.
By the time Kael returned to the banquet, the hall was in chaos. The guests whispered furiously, guards herded people toward the exits, Verrin was speaking in hushed, urgent tones to two council members.
Kael caught the end of it: "…and this will not go unanswered."
Their eyes met across the hall. Verrin raised his goblet again, this time without a smile.
Kael didn't drink.
He knew then that the Feast of Daggers had not been a single attack. It had been a declaration.
Someone wanted war.