The grim weight of the war council was temporarily lifted, not by genuine relief, but by the cold, calculated necessities of diplomacy. King Arthur's servants, moving with the practiced efficiency of those who serve highly volatile masters, swept away the maps and scrolls, replacing them with polished silver trays, deep flagons of spiced wine, and bowls overflowing with nuts and candied fruits. The black basalt table, only moments ago the stage for prophecies of universal annihilation, was now merely a centerpiece for a king's hospitality.
A lone minstrel, positioned strategically in the high rafters where he could observe without being observed, plucked at a twelve-string lute, weaving a delicate, melancholic melody through the cavernous space. It was music fit for a siege or a solemn wake—a reminder that joy in Aethelgard was always fleeting, always purchased at the expense of a greater tragedy. The assembled nobles, lords, and warriors of the Round Table, recovering from the shock of kneeling before the Primes, quickly adopted the practiced rituals of courtly revelry. They spoke in hushed, nervous tones, their eyes constantly flicking towards the seven masked figures who stood apart, an impenetrable cohort of power.
Lancelot, the very image of a knight carved from ice and honour, chose this moment of false camaraderie to advance. He moved like liquid steel, crossing the stone floor with a predator's grace, coming to a halt beside Aron and Kai, who stood near a crackling hearth, the firelight catching the polished black of their ceremonial masks.
"Your pardon, Primes," Lancelot murmured, his voice low and respectful, yet carrying the subtle entitlement of a man who knows he is the King's shadow. He inclined his head toward Aron's face, which was now obscured by the ornate, stylized head of a black and silver tiger—a creature of focused power and savage wisdom. Kai, conversely, wore the stern, rigid visage of a stylized bronze lion, all fixed majesty and implacable authority.
"I confess, I am filled with curiosity, a common mortal affliction," Lancelot admitted, allowing a thin, practiced smile to touch his lips. "Why the severe visages? Why the masks? Surely the sight of the Founders would be an honour, not a hazard."
The heat from the fire did little to warm the cold, hollow core of Aron's voice, which seemed to flow not from his lips but from the depths of the black tiger mask itself, carrying a heavy, echoing resonance.
"For men are not to see the face of the gods, Sir Lancelot," Aron replied, his tone devoid of personal warmth, focused entirely on the ancient dictum. "For it would be overwhelming. The sight of true divinity is blinding, not in glory, but in its boundless, indifferent truth. We carry the cosmos in our eyes; the sight would shatter the minds of lesser men. Furthermore, others would fall for the gods," he added, with a subtle, chilling edge. "They would mistake duty for desire, and worship for lust. The masks enforce distance, protection for you, and necessary isolation for us."
Kai, the Prime of Law, nodded stiffly at Aron's statement, appreciating the formal, hierarchical justification. He hated these mortal events, viewing them as dangerously chaotic; the masks were the only thing preserving his composure.
"I understand," Lancelot conceded, though his keen eyes suggested he filed the answer away as a fascinating political necessity rather than a spiritual one. He paused, looking momentarily towards the King, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice further, entering the realm of the King's personal affairs.
"And by the way, Prime Aron," he continued, the formality of his voice now laced with familiarity. "Arthur asks of when you will allow him to see Asher. The heir's absence is noted by his enemies. It invites speculation. He seeks assurance that the boy remains well and is prepared for his destiny."
The question, simple and direct, struck a low, dangerous chord between the two Primes. Asher was the Prince, Arthur's heir, entrusted to the secluded care of the Founders' most sacred sanctuary. He was the most powerful asset in the realm—the future of the Pendragon line, shielded from all mortal and abyssal influence. His existence was the insurance policy of Aethelgard.
Aron's tiger mask was unreadable, but his shoulders seemed to settle, the movement betraying a deep, ingrained weariness. "Soon, my friend," he replied, using the term with calculated ambiguity. "Soon. The forging of a King requires more than tutors and lessons in courtly manners. He is well, but not yet ready to bear the weight of a world that is already trembling."
Lancelot accepted the answer, knowing it was the best he would receive. He backed away slightly, leaving the two Primes to their cold vigil.
At that moment, the entire hall shifted its collective attention. The music subtly changed, rising from a mournful ballad to a quick, dramatic movement meant to fill the floor. All eyes turned toward King Arthur.
Arthur, having completed his duties as host, had crossed the floor to where Lady Ophilia stood amidst her attendants. Ophilia was the daughter of the powerful Lord of the Southern Vales, a man whose vast, grain-rich lands were crucial to feeding Arthur's armies. She was striking in her deep green velvet, her face pale and beautiful, suggesting less a woman of the court and more an instrument of powerful, calculated alliance.
Arthur offered her his hand. Ophilia looked deep into the King's eyes—a moment of agonizing, public stillness that lasted too long for mere courtesy. It was not a look of love, but a shared gaze of profound understanding: two people bound by destiny and the cold contract of governance. She then performed a precise, theatrical gesture, lifting her hand slightly, wrist arched, for him to kiss. He did so, his lips brushing her skin with utmost formality, and they began to move onto the dance floor.
The King and the Lady danced with reserved grace, their movements stiff, formal, perfectly matched. It was a political ballet, an act of public propaganda designed to reassure the lords that the succession was secure and the south bound to the north. As they moved, couples began to join them, the nobles eager to mimic their ruler's movements, turning the hall into a dizzying whirl of colour, light, and carefully maintained pretense.
The movement brought Lancelot into the orbit of Aza, the Prime of the Veil, who still stood like a bronze statue, her dragon-mask catching the distant torchlight. Aza was the most beautiful and the most terrifying of the female Primes, embodying exotic, hidden power.
Lancelot, ever the dutiful and confident courtier, saw an opportunity to practice his charm and regain the composure he'd momentarily lost to Aron's cold pronouncements. He stopped before her and offered a perfectly executed, courtly bow.
"May I have this dance, mi-lady?" he requested, the question less a plea and more a confident expectation.
Aza slowly turned her dragon mask toward him, the intricate bronze carvings seeming to stare past Lancelot into the deeper shadows of the hall. She remained silent for a beat too long, letting the rejection hang in the air, allowing him to feel the weight of her indifference.
"I'm afraid not," she replied, her voice smooth and chilling, like the sound of polished stones grinding together beneath a glacier. Lancelot's polite expression faltered, surprised by the abrupt snub.
Then, Aza's hand shot out with startling speed, not toward the mortified Lancelot, but past him, grasping the heavy velvet sleeve of Kai. The Prime of Law, the Lion-Masked Angel, the most rigid and socially inept of the seven, had been standing nearby, maintaining a vigil of supreme boredom and disdain. He turned, utterly surprised, his whole body stiffening at the unexpected, physical demand.
"…For Kai had already offered me a dance," she stated, the lie delivered with flawless conviction, her tone suggesting this arrangement was a long-standing, secret understanding between them.
Kai's shock was total. He looked down at the hand clamped on his arm, then across the hall at the dancing figures, then quickly over at Aron.
The Master Magician was leaning against a stone column, his tiger mask angled toward them. Aron, the Prime of Ancient Wisdom, offered a small, barely perceptible smile beneath the mask and delivered a slow, deliberate wink at Kai—an act of pure, silent political command. The alliance must be sealed. The show of unity must be flawless. Dance, my brother.
A flicker of reluctant acceptance passed through Kai. He was a creature of Law; once the command (or the public necessity of the lie) was established, he was bound to adhere to it. The stiff, proud bearing of the bronze lion suddenly melted into the cold resolve of a man performing a necessary ritual.
Aza looked up at him, her turquoise-coloured eyes—the only part of her true self visible beneath the mask—glimmering brightly in challenge and calculation. They held the light and the mystery of deep ocean water.
Kai, without a word of protest, took Aza's right hand in his own large, leather-gloved grasp, his touch formal and cool. He placed his remaining hand, heavy and authoritative, on the small of her back, where her velvet dress met the curve of her hip. She placed her own hand upon his shoulder, maintaining the perfect, formal distance required by the elaborate court dance.
And thus, the Prime of Law and the Prime of the Veil—the rigid guardian and the hidden sorceress—joined the throng of mortal dancers. They did not move with grace, but with heavy, rhythmic precision. Kai's steps were measured and stiff, like the movement of a great, geological plate, while Aza's were deliberate, weaving around him, their contrasting masks drawing every eye in the hall.
It was not a dance of pleasure, but a dance of power. It was a statement of unbreakable alliance between the two most formidable factions of the Primes, a chilling display of unity that silently reaffirmed their dominance over the world, even as they danced the night off, performing the necessary, cold theatre of friendship for the King of Camelot.