The grand banquet hall glittered under the shine of chandeliers strung with crystal and polished like stars captured in glass, while noblemen and women filled the floor, their silks and velvets whispering of wealth, secrets, and deadly ambition.
The scent of rare wines and spices hung around, mingling with laughter a bit too sharp and smiles a tad too wide. Tonight, the court of Valeria had gathered to welcome home the forgotten prince.
Aric stepped inside, his figure dark against the lavish light, cutting through the decadence with a presence that silenced the room in a heartbeat.
His expression was blank, eyes cold as tempered steel, and at his side stood Serina—a shadow of loyalty, her gaze sharp and wary as she matched his every step.
This was a hall of lions dressed as lambs, predators dressed in embroidery and jewels. But here was Aric, the man who knew war and death, resurrected by his own resilience.
This court, this glittering assemblage, was just a spectacle now; he had no intentions of being a player in their games.
Yet, to them, he was a curiosity—a returning shadow, the prince they thought too weak to leave his sickbed.
Whispers coiled around the room like vipers, nobles with raised goblets and half-hidden glances, reassessing him, calculating, fearful. No one had expected Aric to survive, much less to rise.
Across the room, the factions stood clustered, separate yet intertwined like a poisonous web, each reflecting their allegiance and ambition.
At the far end, Duke Garamond Rothval of the Iron Circle watched, the glint of pride and arrogance in his gaze as he leaned close to his son-in-law, Valen Valerian.
House Rothval, with its iron grip on the empire’s military strength, waited like a beast in a cage, loyal to Valen with a brutality honed in battle and bloodshed.
Near him, Lady Elyra Brienne of the Shadow League, her gaze sly and calculating, sipped her wine with a kind of languid venom that belied her faction’s secretive power over the empire’s food supplies.
They whispered among themselves, masters of subterfuge and espionage, securing Sylas’s claim through subtle sabotage rather than strength.
Aric’s gaze moved to the other end, where the Silver Dawn’s Count Lysander Drakov stood with his fellow reformists.
His voice was an undertone, passionate yet ambitious, the mark of a noble who thought himself above the old guard. The Silver Dawn claimed a faction of progress, of positive change—but most knew better than to trust their promises.
With them stood Gerald Vane, he was known for his rather indulgent lifestyle, slick tongue and ambition disguised as refinement. House Vane saw itself as pioneers, merchants at heart but courtiers in attire, whispering for reform only because it served their pockets and influence.
And in the shadows, the Ashen Covenant.
Only a few nobles dared speak of them, but their eyes flickered with interest as they watched Aric, like moths drawn to a deadly flame.
Viscount Kael Draylen, head of the once-great House Draylen, nodded faintly in Aric’s direction—a silent salute from one who had tasted the empire’s betrayal and carried the hunger for vengeance.
A silence fell, thick and tense, until Gerald’s expression twisted, his pride flaring as he took a step forward, his voice raised.
"You overstep, Fourth Prince," he snarled, voice sharp enough to slice the air. "You think your rank entitles you to—"
Aric’s gaze did not waver, nor did his voice rise. Instead, he met Gerald’s outburst with a terrifying calm, each word a blade poised just above the nobleman’s throat.
"Is today truly the day you wish to die, Lord Vane?"
A chill swept through the hall, the murmurs of the nobles ceasing in an instant as a collective breath was held. Gerald paled, his voice faltering, for he saw the steel behind Aric’s words, the promise of death lurking beneath his calm exterior.
"You...you cannot simply..." Gerald stammered, his confidence draining under the weight of Aric’s gaze. "You wouldn’t dare..."
"Try me." Aric’s voice was a whisper, but it carried through the hall like thunder, unyielding, deadly. "I implore you, Lord Vane. Test your courage and let’s see how long your words keep you alive."
Gerald’s face twisted in fury, his pride shattered as he felt Aric’s challenge press down upon him. But the eyes of the court were on him, the whispers and snickers of his peers ringing in his ears.
Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered his gaze, a begrudging apology slipping from his lips like poison.
"My...apologies, Your Highness," he said, each word thick with resentment.
Aric raised a hand, stopping him mid-turn, unsatisfied by the excuse of an apology.
"And where, exactly, do you think you’re going?"
Gerald froze, a flicker of fear passing over his face as he realized his mistake. He turned back, facing the prince with a trembling facade of composure.
Aric’s gaze was merciless, his lips curling in a faint, chilling smile.
"If you hunger for death so eagerly, Lord Vane," he said, voice low, "then you should have simply asked. But perhaps...your pride would prefer you grovel a bit longer?"
Gerald clenched his fists, his jaw tight as he forced himself to bow deeply, his words dripping with humiliation.
"Forgive me...Your Highness."
Aric held him there for a moment longer, his gaze unrelenting before he finally turned away, dismissing him with a flick of his hand.
The nobles watched in stunned silence, the power in that dismissal echoing through the hall like the strike of a bell.
And every lord and lady, from the Iron Circle to the Ashen Covenant, could see it plainly: the fourth Prince was a threat—and perhaps he always was.