At first the smoke arrived like a rumor, a thin veil slipping into the gala hall with such subtlety that it seemed more imagined than real, a pale breath curling along the ceiling before sinking slowly downward as if the room itself had begun to exhale. Music continued, glasses clinked, and laughter carried on, the nobility too wrapped in silk and self-importance to notice that something foreign had crossed the threshold of their celebration.
The first to react were the guards stationed along the perimeter of the hall, men trained to watch for steel and spell rather than something as insidious as air itself turning traitor. One of them coughed into his fist, brow furrowing as he glanced sideways at his partner, whose nose wrinkled in confusion while he made an exaggerated face, waving a hand as though he might shoo the sensation away. They shifted their footing, scanning the vaulted space for signs of fire or sabotage, yet finding nothing but drifting haze that refused to behave like ordinary smoke.
As the minutes stretched on, the veil thickened.
What had once been faint became unmistakable, the smoke pooling where the guards stood, gathering around their boots and climbing their legs like fog rolling in from a haunted shore. Coughing grew louder, no longer isolated, but spreading in uneven bursts along the walls. One guard cleared his throat repeatedly, eyes watering, while another bent forward slightly, hands on his knees, laughter bubbling up in spite of himself before he could stop it.
Among the nobles, the change was slower, dulled by wine and conversation. A lady in a pearl-lined gown paused mid-sentence, lifting her glass only to wrinkle her nose and fan the air delicately with her free hand. A man nearby chuckled and made a joke about poor ventilation, though his laugh ended in a cough he tried unsuccessfully to disguise behind his sleeve. Here and there, guests dabbed at watering eyes with embroidered handkerchiefs, pretending inconvenience rather than alarm.
A few of them knew exactly what this was.
They were the sort who purchased such indulgences quietly, who enjoyed their pleasures behind closed doors while condemning them loudly in public. Their expressions tightened with recognition, curiosity sparking beneath carefully neutral masks as they wondered who among them would dare something like this, and why now, of all nights. Even so, none of them spoke, each unwilling to draw attention to their own familiarity with the scent.
The king noticed.
He always noticed.
The smell reached him like an insult, a coarse hand brushing against his authority, and his face hardened as he drew in a sharp breath through his nose, only to regret it immediately. Disgust flashed across his features, followed by something darker, something close to fury. His gaze swept the room before settling on his daughter.
Stephanie stood amid the gathering haze with a smile that was not quite the one she had worn all evening. It was smaller, tighter, yet unmistakably different, as though a secret amusement tugged at the corners of her mouth despite her best efforts to restrain it. Her eyes tracked the smoke as it poured steadily from the vents, watched the nobles cough more openly now, their composure beginning to crack.
The king crossed the distance between them in long, angry strides and seized her arm with a grip that made nearby guests recoil.
"What have you done?" he demanded, voice low and sharp, fingers digging into her sleeve. "Are you responsible for this? Are you trying to ruin everything I have worked for?"
The queen moved at once, placing herself partially between them, her hands gentle but firm as she tried to pry his grip loose. She spoke softly, urgently, urging him to calm himself, to consider appearances, to not accuse their daughter without proof. Her eyes flicked to Stephanie with concern, then back to her husband, trying to temper his suspicion before it ignited fully.
The king would not hear it.
Stephanie met his glare without flinching, her smile fading into something smooth and unreadable. "Whatever do you mean, Father?" she asked evenly. "I have no idea what is happening."
He searched her face for a crack, a tell, anything that might confirm his fear, then turned sharply toward Commander Cedric Highgarden. The knight stood rigid, his expression caught between confusion and alarm, clearly unsettled by the fact that Rowan had not returned with a report or orders. When pressed for answers, Cedric had none ready, and the king's frustration only deepened.
His gaze slid from the commander to the young Empyrion.
The king's heart hammered with calculation as he took in Lord Caelum's composed stance, the wives gathered around him in a loose yet deliberate circle. They stood close enough that their sleeves brushed, their posture suggesting something practiced, something defensive. Their eyes were alert, tracking movement through the smoke with unsettling calm. The king knew, with chilling certainty, that if this night collapsed entirely, if harm came to the Empyrion heir, his ambitions would crumble alongside the shattered glass and toppled tables.
The deal would be off.
His head, metaphorically or otherwise, would be the price.
Lord Caelum, however, appeared almost amused, his expression unreadable as he watched the room descend into unease. His wives shifted subtly, maintaining their formation, their attention flicking toward doors and vents alike.
Then the sound came.
At first it was low, indistinct, a distant rumble that drew curious glances toward the closed gala doors. The noise grew louder with each passing second, a guttural growl echoing down the corridor beyond, reverberating through stone and wood alike. Whispers rippled through the nobles as they speculated wildly, some asking if a beast had been loosed within the palace, others clutching their companions as fear crept into their voices.
The smoke thickened further, turning anticipation into panic.
Coughing rose in volume, harsh and uncontrolled now, guests stumbling back from the doors as though whatever lurked beyond might burst through at any moment. The growling intensified, accompanied by heavy footfalls that sounded far too numerous to belong to a single creature.
The doors exploded inward.
Guards poured into the gala hall in a chaotic rush, their armor clanking wildly as they stumbled forward, eyes bloodshot and unfocused, mouths slack with drool and manic grins. Foam flecked their lips, and their expressions were feral, stripped of discipline and decorum. At their head was Rowan Highgarden, his face flushed, eyes blazing red, saliva trailing down his chin as he scanned the room with frantic intensity.
"I have to know where it is," he growled, voice barely human as he turned his head sharply from side to side. "Where is it?"
The nobles screamed.
Before anyone could form a response, Rowan's attention snapped to the banquet tables, still laden with extravagant dishes that had barely been touched. Silver platters gleamed beneath the lights, piled high with roasted meats, sugared fruits, and delicacies flown in from distant lands.
"Food," Rowan breathed, the word tearing from his throat like a revelation.
He charged.
The guards followed as one, trampling over fallen chairs and shrieking nobles alike, driven by a singular, overwhelming hunger. Guests were knocked aside, some sprawling onto the marble floor as the guards reached the tables, tearing into the spread with abandon. Rowan seized a platter and devoured its contents with frantic desperation, tears streaming down his face as though he had tasted something divine.
"It's perfect," he sobbed, laughing and crying at once as grease smeared his gauntlets.
The hall erupted into full chaos.
Smoke swallowed the space entirely now, thick clouds obscuring chandeliers and banners alike. Nobles screamed and shouted, some collapsing to the floor as they lost their footing or breath, others clawing toward exits that seemed to shift and vanish in the haze. The king coughed violently, one hand gripping the queen as she struggled to stay upright, her eyes watering but her expression oddly resolute.
Lord Caelum and his wives retreated together, moving as a unit, their silhouettes ghostly in the smoke, while Commander Cedric tried desperately to restore order, shouting commands that dissolved into coughing fits before they could take hold.
Through it all, a figure moved with purpose.
A tall shape in a black cloak cut through the chaos, steps precise, head lowered as though the smoke itself parted to let him pass. He navigated fallen bodies and overturned tables with practiced ease, his attention fixed on a single point near the center of the room.
Stephanie felt the tug on her wrist before she saw him.
Her breath caught as she turned, heart hammering, and met his eyes through the cloth mask that covered his face up to the bridge of his nose. In that instant, the world seemed to slow, the screams and coughing fading into distant echoes as emotion crashed over her in a dizzying wave. Relief, disbelief, gratitude, and something warmer all tangled together as she realized that she had trusted him, and he had not failed her.
He smiled at her, eyes bright despite the chaos. "I told you I'd come for you," he said softly. "Now it's time to run."
Her fingers tightened around his, but before she could move, her father's hand clamped down on her arm once more. He stared at the cloaked figure with fury and fear twisting his features.
"Who are you?" the king demanded hoarsely. "Are you responsible for this? Do you have any idea what you've done?"
Stephanie drew in a steadying breath, then straightened, her voice clear despite the smoke clawing at her lungs. "I'm sorry, Father," she said, meeting his eyes without flinching. "But I will not be getting married today, or any day."
She clenched her fist and swung.
The blow landed squarely against his jaw, the impact echoing in the stunned silence that followed as the king collapsed to the floor, shock etched across his face. The queen watched it all unfold, her lips curving into the faintest smile before she masked it with concern.
Around them, Lord Caelum, his wives, and Commander Cedric stared in disbelief, coughing and reeling as the smoke closed in tighter.
The cloaked figure squeezed Stephanie's hand. "Are you ready?" he asked.
She nodded, resolve hardening within her. "Yes."
They ran.
Hand in hand, they dashed through the chaos, weaving between fallen nobles and frenzied guards, disappearing into the smoke-filled corridors beyond the gala hall. Behind them, the king struggled to rise, shouting hoarsely for Cedric to pursue, his words breaking apart in coughing fits.
Commander Cedric wiped tears from his eyes and nodded grimly, drawing a shaky breath as he began his pursuit, even as the palace itself seemed to choke on the consequences of a single, defiant choice.