Chapter IX – The Banquet of Masks
The palace of Lysium gleamed that night like a shrine of lies.
Gold chandeliers trembled beneath the breath of a thousand candles, and the marble floor mirrored their fire — every flicker, every deceitful shimmer. Musicians played in the corner, strings whispering sorrow beneath the pretence of joy. Perfume, laughter, and the faint scent of wine stained the air.
And amidst that glittering illusion stood Cael.
He wore a mask of ivory trimmed in black silk, its shape delicate — too elegant for a man who once burned. His eyes, pale as rainlight, wandered the ballroom as though tracing ghosts through silk and smiles.
The world had moved on since his death. The elders pretended to forget, the nobles pretended to forgive. Yet the banquet itself had been built upon the bones of that old sin.
"The Banquet of Renewal," they had called it.
He smiled beneath the mask. "Ah," he murmured to himself, "what is renewal, if not the repetition of ruin?"
A soft voice cut through the murmur of the crowd.
"You should not have come here."
Cael turned.
Lysander stood behind him, dressed in robes of silver and white, his mask a feathered thing of frost. Even in disguise, his presence drew the air taut. The candlelight trembled against the fine curve of his jaw, against the sorrow in his eyes — a sorrow that had never left since the night of fire.
"And yet," Cael said, "I am here."
"They will see you."
"They already do."
He stepped closer, his voice lowering.
"The question, my dearest saint, is — do they know who I am?"
Lysander's breath caught. Beneath his composure, a tremor ran through him, visible only to the man who had once known the rhythm of his soul.
"You speak as though this were a game."
"It always was," Cael replied. "Only the players changed."
The music swelled — violins sighing like ghosts. Couples drifted around them, masked, perfumed, laughing. None noticed the tension that coiled between the two men — a thread too thin, too dangerous, to be seen by mortal eyes.
Cael's gaze softened.
"Tell me, Lysander — do you remember this night?"
"This night?" Lysander repeated, though his voice faltered.
"Yes. The banquet. The laughter. The poison in the chalice. The betrayal sealed beneath a mask much like yours."
Lysander's fingers curled at his side.
"It was not I who betrayed you."
"No," Cael said quietly. "But you watched them light the fire."
"And I begged them to stop!"
The words cracked like glass. Heads turned — briefly, curiously — before the music swallowed the sound again.
Cael's expression softened further, as if regret itself had brushed across his face.
"I know," he whispered. "I heard your voice even through the flames. That is why I could not hate you."
For a moment, the air stilled — two souls caught in the current of what was and what might have been. Lysander looked away first, his lashes trembling.
"You should leave this place, Cael. If they discover—"
"Then let them." Cael's tone grew colder, almost wistful. "Let them see the ghost they made."
He moved past Lysander and descended the marble stairs that led toward the grand dais. The noblemen in their finery turned, murmuring in admiration — for none recognized him. To them, he was a stranger with the elegance of sin itself, a figure of mystery draped in night.
But to Lysander, he was the echo of a promise unfulfilled.
From behind a crystal curtain, a woman's laughter rang — the High Matron of the Court, her jewels catching light like drops of blood. She raised a golden cup.
"To the future!" she cried.
The crowd echoed: "To renewal!"
Cael reached the edge of the dais and lifted his own glass, his voice smooth, quiet — yet it carried through the hall.
"To remembrance," he said.
The word cut through the room like a blade. The music faltered. Laughter stilled.
For a heartbeat, only the fire in the chandeliers dared to move.
The Matron frowned behind her mask.
"And who, my lord, speaks thus? I do not recall inviting philosophers to my table."
"Ah, forgive me," Cael said, bowing slightly. "I am no philosopher, madam — merely a witness."
"To what, pray tell?"
"To the night when this hall reeked not of perfume, but of burning flesh."
The silence that followed was absolute.
One of the younger lords laughed nervously.
"A jest, surely?"
"Does it sound like one?" Cael asked softly.
He removed his mask.
The gasp that tore through the hall was near musical. Faces blanched; jewels rattled; someone dropped a glass, and it shattered like a cry against the marble.
Lysander took an involuntary step forward, his heart hammering.
"Cael—"
"Peace," Cael said without turning. "No harm will come. Not yet."
The elders who still lived among the court shrank into their seats, their old bones remembering too much.
"It cannot be," one whispered. "We saw you burn."
"And yet," Cael murmured, "I am here — again. The night repeats itself. Only the music changes."
He lifted his glass, studying the wine's dark shimmer.
"Do you taste it? The bitterness beneath the sweetness? That is what betrayal tastes like."
The Matron trembled but tried to smile.
"If you seek vengeance, you shall not find it here."
"Vengeance?" Cael smiled — the same slow, dangerous smile that had haunted the Council. "No. I seek truth. And perhaps… a dance."
He turned then, extending his hand toward Lysander.
"Will you dance with me, my saint?"
Gasps fluttered through the crowd. But Lysander — pale, trembling, torn between duty and desire — stepped forward. His hand found Cael's, their fingers brushing like a secret the world was not meant to see.
The musicians hesitated.
"Play," Cael ordered softly. "Something old. Something that remembers."
The violins obeyed.
They began to dance — slow, deliberate, haunting. Every step was a memory. Every turn, a confession. Cael's touch lingered, his palm warm against Lysander's wrist, his breath brushing against the curve of his ear.
"Why do you still tremble?" he murmured.
"Because I remember how it ended."
"Then remember this instead."
He spun him — and for an instant, they were alone within the whirl of silks and masks. The room blurred into light and shadow, a thousand eyes that dared not see.
"You once promised to protect me," Cael whispered.
"And I failed."
"No," Cael said gently. "You lived. That is punishment enough."
The music rose, the violins weeping. Lysander's mask slipped, revealing his eyes — wet, bright, and ancient with regret. Cael touched his cheek briefly, tenderly, the gesture both forbidden and sacred.
"You still carry guilt like a rosary," he murmured. "Let it go."
"And you still carry your pain like armour," Lysander whispered back. "You will never heal."
Cael's smile deepened — not cruel, but weary.
"Perhaps I was never meant to."
As the final note shivered through the hall, he released him. The crowd erupted into uncertain applause — not out of joy, but of fear. The music ended. The masks had cracked.
Cael bowed low, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable.
"Tonight," he said softly, "the past and present drink from the same cup. Tomorrow, the poison will settle."
He turned to leave, but the High Matron rose, voice trembling.
"Guards—!"
"Do not," Lysander warned sharply. "He means no harm."
"You defend him still?"
"Always," Lysander said, his mask falling fully away. "Always."
Cael paused at the door, his silhouette framed by candlelight. He looked back once, the faintest trace of sorrow flickering across his face.
"You should not have said that aloud," he murmured.
"It was true," Lysander replied.
"Then truth will destroy you."
Cael stepped into the corridor and vanished among the shadows, leaving behind only the echo of his footsteps — soft, measured, final.
The chandeliers flickered once, twice — and then one by one, each candle guttered out.
The last thing the court saw before darkness swallowed the hall was the faint gleam of his smile — a smile that was not of this world.