Draconic Cross Gala

Marcus Crenwell adjusted his platinum cufflinks and scowled at the empty serving platters lining the buffet tables. Twenty years managing the deepest seafloor mining operations in the Pacific, and he'd never seen such incompetence. The Yamamoto brat should have been his—a fresh investment opportunity with untapped potential. Instead, those damned rebels had crashed the foundations, and no one can say for certain who is even a participant for The Eclipse.

The Draconic Crossing Gala sprawled across the massive glass arena. Reinforced transparent walls curved overhead in perfect domes, betraying the otherwise cubic base of the building. The glass itself, was not see through but frosted, still allowing the beautiful lighting from the outside of the building to shine in.

Diamond chandeliers refracted the aurora into prismatic cascades that danced across silk gowns and tailored tuxedos. The arena's central stage rose from polished obsidian floors, surrounded by nothing but few long tables and space that encouraged both mingling and hierarchy. Corporate titans claimed the upper levels of the descending floor, leading away from the stage, while their subordinates gathered below, all united in their hunger for the evening's promised entertainment.

Marcus checked his vintage, golden dipped watch. Half past nine, and still nothing more than appetizers.

"Inexcusable," muttered Helena Voss from across their shared table. The heiress dabbed perspiration from her temple with a silk handkerchief. "My chef could have catered this blindfolded."

"Staff these days." Thomas Reynard, loosened his bow tie. "Probably hired some outer sector fools to cut costs. Mark my words, this delay reeks of idiocy."

Marcus's jaw tightened. The very mention of those freaks soured his mood further. Bad enough they'd disrupted legitimate business; now the thought of their influence poisoning an esteemed social gathering. He swept his gaze across the restless crowd, noting the security presence scattered throughout the arena.

"Where's the head of staff?" demanded Victoria Reynard, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. The weapons contractor's wife had spent the last hour complaining about everything from the temperature to the lighting. "Someone needs to answer for this disaster."

Conversations buzzed with increasing agitation. There was entirely too much to be frustrated over. Honestly, Marcus was unsure why the even wasn't simply delayed until the foundations could be rebuilt, and filled with more livestock. Crystal glasses clinked as servers refilled champagne flutes, but that wasn't enough to ignore the promised seven-course meal, which remained conspicuously absent. Marcus watched wealthy patrons check their phones, whisper among themselves, and shoot pointed glares toward the kitchen service doors.

Near the arena's center, a man with silver hair sat perfectly still among the chaos. Marcus didn't recognize him, but something about his composure unsettled him. While everyone else fidgeted and complained, this stranger radiated calm indifference. His dark eyes surveyed the crowd with clinical detachment, as if cataloguing each face for future reference.

"The organizers promised military precision," Helena continued, her voice rising. "Instead we get a few randoms. My husband's considering withdrawing our sponsorship."

"Five security breaches this month alone," Thomas added, swirling his brandy. "It's pretty obvious the authorities can't contain these terrorists."

Marcus nodded grimly. His own facilities had increased security protocols after recent Kynenn attacks. The freaks seemed to stay outside the Inner Circle anything to their own environmental agenda. Not that they really could do anything inside, after all they were nothing but over-confident rodents. Tonight's gathering represented everything they despised—wealth, power, progress. Marcus scanned over the ten guards flanked near the main entrances, their black uniforms a stark contrast against the opulent surroundings. Not nearly enough for a gathering this size. A young man in staff uniform moved along the arena's perimeter, checking sight lines and exit routes. His movements struck Marcus as soft, wavering. The kid's eyes swept the crowd with professional awareness, lingering on security positions and guest clusters.

"At least the entertainment better deliver," Victoria snapped, gesturing toward the stage. "After this debacle, they owe us something spectacular."

Marcus drained his whiskey and signaled for another. The kid from the Yamamoto clan had been most likely to win, so his bid wouldn't have been that favorable monetarily, but Marcus' mining contracts wouldn't negotiate themselves, and every minute spent here cost him money.

The ambient lighting dimmed slightly, casting deeper shadows across the arena floor. Waitstaff emerged from service corridors but carried only wine bottles—still no food. Murmurs of discontent rippled through the crowd like distant thunder.

Near the kitchen entrance, another server lingered longer than necessary, his attention fixed on the staff doors rather than the guests. Marcus frowned. Something felt wrong about tonight's rhythm, though he couldn't pinpoint exactly what.

The silver-haired man seemed to have noticed the same awkward movement as he checked his watch, smiled slightly, and settled deeper into his chair.

Marcus shoved his chair back with a scrape that drew irritated glares. He didn't care. This farce of a gala wasn't worth another goddamn minute. No food, worthless bid, and fewer Kynenn participants in this year's Eclipse—nothing worthwhile meant no investment opportunity. A complete waste. He threw back the last of his whiskey and rose sharply, buttoning his suit jacket.

Across the hall, the silver-haired man leaned back with a bland smile, eyes still idle but oddly intent. Marcus squinted in distaste. Too composed, too at ease among the tension boiling around him. Something stunk rotten here. Time to exit before whatever shitstorm brewed arrived.

Marcus weaved between tables, purposeful strides etched into the polished obsidian floors. Chandelier reflections scattered beneath his shoes as guests coughed politely or cleared out of his path. Nearing the main entry, Marcus' shoulder collided roughly into a broad torso stepping back inside.

"Watch it!" Marcus snarled, brushing off imaginary creases from his jacket sleeve.

"That was your fault," the stranger bit back, dark eyes narrowing above a silver-trimmed collar. Taller, younger, and smugly defiant—that irritating confidence of new money.

Marcus bristled. "Who the hell let you wander in here anyway? The gala's guests are getting cheaper every year."

The younger man's jawline tensed. "At least I'm not a fossil scurrying off because dinner's late."

Marcus stepped closer, heat rising red into his neck. "Arrogant bastard. Perhaps money could buy manners if you bothered making any yourself."

The newcomer's hand pressed against Marcus's chest, shoving lightly. "Move aside, old man. I've earned as much right to be here as you."

Marcus shoved back, hard. Pride, anger, and impatience boiled into reckless fury. Tables shifted as curious gazes turned their way. "You insolent—!"

A knotted fist grazed his jaw, barely controlled aggression igniting into messy swings. Marcus lunged forward, years of pent-up arrogance fueling the rush. Soon their struggle knocked over the gilt-framed placards, champagne flutes shattered onto obsidian tiles in glittering shards.

Guards by the doors surged inward, barking orders. In seconds, the entryway filled with half the event's available security. The silver-haired man remained in Marcus's peripheral vision, utterly relaxed as chaos spiraled into noise and shoving bodies.

He caught a whisper of a smirk—then darkness dropped like a guillotine over the neck. Chandeliers flickered out. The packed crowd held their breath in confusion, calls swallowed by abrupt black silence.

Five minutes stretched into eternity. Darkness pressed against the arena like a living thing, swallowing whispers and nervous shuffles. Crystal fragments crunched underfoot as guests stumbled between overturned chairs. The air thickened with expensive perfume and rising panic.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm." A voice cut through the black—smooth, practiced, belonging to someone accustomed to authority. "Technical difficulties are being resolved. While we wait, I'm pleased to announce significant developments regarding this year's Eclipse tournament."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Marcus felt bodies pressing closer, desperate for any anchor in the suffocating void.

"The contestant pool has been... refined. And in response to the recent destruction of the found—"

Glass exploded inward.