Shadows Beneath the Celebration

Chapter 4: Shadows Beneath the Celebration

The hall, still buzzing with the energy of the earlier celebration, was abruptly silenced as the messenger was thrown to the ground, pinned beneath the weight of two imperial knights. His voice cracked with urgency. "A message for His Majesty! Grave news from the East!"

Marcus stepped forward immediately, raising a hand. "Unhand him."

The knights obeyed, stepping back. The man coughed as he staggered to his feet, his uniform dusty and bloodied, holding out a sealed scroll with trembling fingers. His legs barely held him upright. Clearly, he had ridden hard.

Taking the letter, Marcus inspected the seal—distinct, the emblem of House Thornstad. He frowned. "A court marquess?"

Ascending a few steps closer to the throne, Marcus broke the wax seal and unfolded the scroll. As his eyes scanned the contents, his expression briefly darkened before he returned to his usual composed demeanor.

He raised his voice and began to read:

"Your Majesty, Emperor Lucas Everhart the Radiant, Light of the Empire, Wisdom Incarnate, Scion of the Sun, Beacon of All Nations, Divine Flame of Civilization, Everlasting Guardian of the Eternal Crown, First of His Name, the Unyielding Dawn, the Voice of Heaven's Will, the Supreme Arbiter of Justice, and Beloved of the Stars…"

A few dukes in the corner exchanged weary glances, struggling to keep their expressions neutral. One of them muttered under his breath, "They're getting more creative with the titles. Stars help us."

"...With great humility, awe, and trembling reverence, I, Court Marquess Terroval of the Eastern Inquiry Office and lifelong servant of the Imperial Light, lay forth a plea and a warning of dire import. I pray you forgive my unworthy ink, which seeks to capture a tragedy that words can scarcely hold.

Darkness, unholy and unnatural, has fallen upon Blackroot City within the sacred territories overseen by noble House Thornstad. An event of unspeakable horror has transpired. Over 4,000 innocent civilians and 312 brave imperial soldiers have perished in two distinct massacres—first in the surrounding villages, then within the city itself. Blood stained the soil before dawn, and the sun refused to shine above the ruins.

Our finest investigators have concluded, beyond doubt, the presence of demonic aura—thick, ancient, and malevolent. Reports indicate a residual stench of brimstone, and many witnesses were driven mad from simply hearing the creature's whisper.

Further sorrow must be reported: Marquess Drengal, who was tasked with securing this region, has failed to act with the swiftness, discipline, and vision that Your Majesty embodies. His negligence, I fear, has allowed this evil to take root and bloom. His methods are coarse, his pride unchecked, and his ignorance has endangered the realm.

Therefore, with all humility, I beg Your Radiant Majesty's boundless wisdom, mercy, and divine clarity to guide the Empire in these dark hours. Strike down corruption where it festers. Shine Your celestial light into the deepest abyss. Only through Your hand can this festering evil be cleansed.

May your light never dim, may your name echo across generations, and may your shadow stretch across eternity."

A heavy silence followed. Even the musicians had stopped playing.

The Emperor sat still, staring at his fingernails. He yawned, as if the horrors described were no more than minor courtly complaints.

"Is that it?" he asked.

Marcus blinked, surprised. "Yes... Your Majesty."

Emperor Lucas tilted his head slightly and suddenly smiled as if struck by brilliance. "Then I shall send the Sixth Prince, Malcolm, and the Eighth Prince, Dazul, along with two legions of imperial soldiers and a corps of enforcers."

A murmur passed through the room. Many understood the real meaning—this was yet another pretext for raiding the Balarothian Kingdom. Its border with Thornstad made it an easy target, and its gold-rich mines too tempting for the Empire's dwindling coffers. It had become routine: send half-prepared legions to plunder before Balaroth could recover.

The emperor basked in self-satisfaction, completely ignoring the demonic threat.

The ministers and nobles clapped politely, some even genuinely praising his 'brilliant solution.'

Elena sighed.

He's a damned fool. All that pomp and gold, and not a sliver of sense. That isn't just a demon. That's a rank 9 Legend... And the real problem comes after.

In her past life, Elena had read the after-action reports.

The legions were slaughtered. The princes fell. The enforcers perished one by one. The demon used their blood to summon something worse—a Rank 10 Mythic Demonic Bloodhound from the Abyss. It ravaged everything in its path, until it stumbled into the domain of Grand Duke Zevalon, a war-hardened Rank 10 mythic Swordmaster, one of the Grand Dukes of the East. He killed it after sustaining light injuries and then systematically erased the rest of the demonic threat, including the summoner.

I need to deal with this quietly, she thought. They won't believe me, and frankly... I don't care about Malcolm or Dazul. Let them march to their deaths. But two legions... that's thousands of lives, gone for nothing. That I won't allow.

And then her thoughts darkened, eyes narrowing as she stared at the space where the Emperor had once sat.

Malcolm... that depraved bastard. How many innocent nobles and merchants did he have assassinated in the name of 'imperial order'? How many slaves bought just for sport, only to be hunted in his private forest like animals? He laughed at their screams.

And Dazul? That gluttonous swine has starved entire cities. He and his men robbed food wagons bound for the imperial cities and sold them back to the starving poor at triple the price. Families died with empty bellies while he bought golden bathtubs and warhorses made for show. And those wandering bandit brigades he 'couldn't catch'? Half of them were on his payroll—burning villages, looting, enslaving children for his brothels.

No. Let them go. Let the demon have them.

As the Emperor dismissed the court and retired to his chambers, the celebration entered its final, less formal stage. Nobles flowed like silk across the marbled floors, some taking to the dance floor, others gossiping wildly or slipping into corners to whisper of political deals.

Elena moved through the crowd, Bernard at her side, a tall wall of quiet menace, his presence warding off ambitious young nobles seeking her hand for a dance. Still, she knew some would get past him eventually.

Then she saw him—Dragonguard—cutting through the noble chaos like a storm given form. He was already heading toward the grand doors, his long cloak brushing the floor behind him like the wings of a black hawk.

Her eyes gleamed.

She glided across the floor, graceful as a swan, and intercepted him just before he reached the grand doors.

"Dro'vaar Strunmah, Zu'u Fron, Zu'u Vahzen."  she said smoothly in Draconian tongue, "The storm never fades, it merely moves somewhere else."

Dragonguard halted. He didn't turn immediately. But he wasn't surprised either.

Elena pouted inwardly. He's as composed as ever.

He turned slowly to face her, those storm-gray eyes unreadable. "How do you know that?" he asked in a low voice.

But Elena was already walking away, her dress flowing behind her like spilled ink. hips swaying ever so slightly, back toward the dance floor. Then, over her shoulder, she cast him a glance—playful, daring, full of challenge.

If you want answers... you'll have to ask me to dance.

He stood there a moment longer, contemplating.

Then, silently, he stepped forward.

"Princess Elena," he said calmly, extending a hand. "Will you honor me with this dance?"

She turned, her smile bright but mysterious. "I would be delighted."

They stepped onto the dance floor. The music swelled.

And the hall turned, just for a moment, to watch the storm and the noble flame begin to dance.