They entered the great hall in a slow, ceremonial tide—the king first, flanked by his family—each of them finding their appointed seat as murmurs dwindled into respectful silence. The torches along the walls threw warm, restless light across banners still smelling faintly of smoke and oil from the campaign. When Daymond rose, the hall leaned in; even the clink of cutlery seemed to hush.
His speech was brief but steady. He spoke of strategy, luck, careful timing, and the danger they had turned aside. Where his voice softened, the men in the crowd straightened as if to catch every syllable; where he brightened, shoulders relaxed and small smiles broke out. He praised the soldiers by name and by deed, his words like handshakes—firm, approving, and final. It had been a difficult operation, he said, and the faces around the table reflected that hard-won relief: tired, relieved, and quietly proud. Then he thanked them—again and again—until the thanks felt like a benediction.
Rewards were distributed in a practiced rhythm. Noble houses that had taken the field and the subordinates who had stood under their banners each received crystal stones—enough to satisfy every recipient, and given with the formality of old rites. Gratitude was offered in return; special salutes were exchanged for nods, and the court buzzed with the small private contentments of men and women who had survived and been recognized.
The mages and the long-range warriors—archers who had shaped the horizons of battle—were called heroes and treated as such. Their recompense exceeded the ordinary: crystal stones, medicinal pills, and a weapon chosen to match each holder's level. Pride tightened their mouths; their eyes shone with the twin elations of reward and relief.
Formation masters came next, the quiet architects of cohesion. They had kept lines unbroken and souls unharmed; not a man returned with a wound. For that meticulous grace they received pills, formation disks, and crystal stones—gifts that acknowledged both skill and the strange, watchful patience of their craft.
When Diana was named, a ripple of approval moved through the hall. She had elevated the formation to its highest degree and kept Daniel—whose temper and impulsiveness might have shattered the carefully woven array—under strict control. If Daniel had interfered, the campaign's outcome would have swung into chaos. For her foresight and restraint, she received a generous share of high-quality crystal stones, formation disks, and pills. Her expression, cool and composed, relaxed for the briefest moment as her hands closed around the rewards.
The dukes who had led the fleets with commanding presence and long-range magic were then honored with peak-quality crystal stones, pills, and weapons of their choosing. Their bearing remained stately; victory had not dulled the gravity of their offices.
Unexpectedly, Ray's name rang out after the dukes. Murmurs rippled across the room—why him? He had saved a formation disk at a critical moment, preventing the fleet from spiraling into catastrophe. His reward: a sum of crystal stones and a small, sealed box. Daymond's voice lowered when he cautioned Ray not to open it in public, and Ray's salute was crisp and practiced; he tucked the box away and left with a careful, measured composure.
Then Duke Robert, the fleet commander whose concealing formation had carried their armada through the skies and nearly toppled Ashbourne's might, stood to receive his badge of honor. His plan had been clean and precise; the campaign had closed with zero injuries. He received the highest-quality crystals, pills, and a weapon—tokens fitting the scale of his success.
Daymond outlined a different treatment for those who had not borne arms but had kept the war machine supplied: families that had furnished pills, formations, talismans, and weapons would be rewarded separately. The king's voice was fair and economical; appreciation was measured to match each contribution.
Then came the harsher note: punishment. Five traitorous families were named and condemned. Their estates would be searched, any resistance met with lethal force, and their titles stripped. The room cooled; even the flicker of the torches seemed to draw back. This betrayal had nearly destroyed the fleet—Daymond's words left no room for mercy. Faces hardened; conversations stalled. In that moment, the veneer of festivity cracked, showing something more dangerous beneath.
After a final address from Daymond, the long tables dissolved into the soft chaos of a feast resumed: laughter, clinking goblets, and the rich smell of roasted meats and spiced bread. For a while, joy reasserted itself; plates were refilled, and the noise of celebration returned.
When the evening thinned and guests drifted toward their carriages, Ray readied himself to leave. A messenger hurried, breathless, and the king asked Ray and Robert to remain for a private audience. The carriage doors closed, and the two men, puzzled but obedient, returned to the palace.
A ripple of surprise moved through the assembled families. Robert had been expected to stay—why summon Ray as well? The wives exchanged glances like chess players evaluating a new move. Roxanne and Barbara exchanged tight smiles as they considered how their children's positions might be secured against whatever attention Ray was drawing. Selene watched quietly, an inquisitive stance in her posture. Diana's mouth twitched—a tease already forming about how much spotlight Ray attracted despite his reluctance.
In the conference room they sat across from the king and his wives. They did not wait long before Daymond spoke, the mood more grave now than earlier in the night.
"Ray," he said, "on our way back you warned us—other kingdoms, valleys, sects… you said they might come. Why do you think they will do that?"
Ray's warning had been given on the slow, swaying return in a hot air balloon: if one held a power that could sunder a kingdom in short order, others would assume they were vulnerable—curious visitors, trading delegations, emissaries… or worse, envoys demanding control. He had chuckled then, but the laugh had been thin.
"Imagine," he repeated now, "you possess something that could destroy a kingdom almost at a whim. What will the others think? They will think we might strike without warning. They will come, officially or otherwise, to see—or to test."
The council's faces darkened. Even the steady breath of Robert and the practiced calm of the king's wives could not smooth away the tension. A hostile response from multiple fronts could make their victory hollow.
Robert rapped Ray on the head with a light, affectionate chop. "If you've thought this far ahead," he said, "you must have a plan."
Ray touched his head and tilted an eye at his father, a thin, mock-peeved look. When he spoke, the plan was simple and mischievous and somehow brilliant in its audacity.
"Sell the hot air balloons at a higher price," Ray said. "Let them buy them. If they're content with gaining sky-borne trade and travel, we won't need to draw swords. And should someone come for war—then invite the other kingdoms to join us. Let the one who started trouble pay by giving balloons to those who help bring them down."
Silence fell for a heartbeat—and then the room changed. Eyes that had been heavy with worry brightened until the gloom evaporated. Conversation bubbled back, eager and practical, as they began to parse routes, trade terms, and the subtler art of diplomacy disguised as commerce. The threat remained, of course, but now it had the sheen of opportunity. The king's features softened into a small, pleased smile; hope, like a gust of warm wind, filled the chamber.