Chapter 8 — The Sound of Power

The Grand Dining Hall of Velmoria's Imperial Palace was a living testament to extravagance. Towering marble pillars, each carved with depictions of legendary conquests, lined the room. Gilded moldings ran along the arched ceiling where hand-painted frescoes showcased the imperial bloodline—heroes with wings of flame, blades drawn against ancient beasts. A chandelier of silver branches, strung with enchanted crystal, cast light in shimmering waves over the polished obsidian floors.

Servants rushed across the floor like frantic waves under moonlight. Trays of roasted pheasant, baskets of golden bread, pitchers of rare morning elixirs—everything was timed with mechanical precision. One mistake, and the whole illusion of imperial perfection shattered.

Kael, his head bowed low, moved quietly among the scurrying bodies. In his arms, a massive covered dish—its polished lid engraved with lions and flame—tilted ever so slightly under the strain of its weight. No one offered to help. In fact, one maid sneered as she brushed past him, muttering, "Get out of the way, runt."

He grit his teeth and pressed on.

As he entered the main dining hall, his foot caught the edge of the crimson carpet. The heavy dish slipped. It fell.

With a deafening clang, the lid bounced across the black floor. Steaming hot broth and slices of meat spilled like an offering at a ruined altar.

Gasps followed. Kael dropped to his knees instantly, trying to clean the mess with the edge of his sleeve. His fingers burned from the heat.

A chill swept through the room.

Kael's heart froze before he even looked up.

Lady Virelle Decartes stood behind him, her expression serene—and poisonous. Her silver-blonde hair was knotted into a tight twist, not a strand out of place. The embroidery on her dark plum gown shimmered with threads of onyx, forming sharp and elegant swirls that mimicked the thorns of a rose. Her smile was gentle, but her eyes gleamed like a hawk spotting prey.

"Oh dear," she said sweetly. "Are we redecorating with soup now? How creative."

Kael didn't reply.

Her voice turned to silk edged in glass. "Why don't you lick it off the floor? That might be all you're good for. Actually—don't. I wouldn't want your filth staining the tiles."

She waved a hand toward a maid. "Bring me the disciplinary whip."

The room seemed to suck in a breath.

And then—

Heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway. Like a slow, rhythmic drumbeat of something immense and powerful drawing near.

The servants stiffened. The air turned heavier.

Virelle turned slightly, adjusting her gown with a composed expression, though her eyes glinted with anticipation.

The whip had not yet arrived.

---

Outside the hall, four silhouettes approached from the east corridor, their presence swallowing all else.

Prince Raelth Alvarien walked at the front, tall and commanding in a midnight-black coat adorned with subtle silver embroidery that caught the light like ghost-fire. His dark hair swept back in gentle waves, revealing sharp cheekbones and eyes like molten steel. His every step was deliberate, and the air around him pulsed with an unspoken command.

To his right strode Prince Vaelor, draped in a sapphire robe that trailed like water, lined with golden thread that danced as he walked. He carried himself with a casual elegance, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he toyed with a ribboned ring on his finger.

Behind them, Prince Zairen walked with effortless grace, his dark curls framing a youthful face marred only by the dangerous glint in his eyes. A long maroon scarf swirled around his shoulders like smoke.

Beside him, Prince Darian adjusted his deep forest-green tunic, fingers idly tracing the hilt of a short ceremonial blade. His eyes were sharp and watchful, ever alert, his calm exterior concealing the tempest within.

The four of them together were like a painting come alive—untouchable, devastating, and divine.

They paused before the dining hall.

Zairen arched a brow. "Your aura's flaring again, Darian."

"It's not just him," Vaelor muttered, glancing at Raelth. "Something's off."

Raelth said nothing. He simply strolled in through the gates of dining hall held open by the guards.

---

The dining hall was pristine.

The servants bowed low. Not a speck of disorder marred the floor. No scent of spilled broth. No sign of punishment or pain.

The princes entered with the quiet command of gods returning to their temple.

They sat.

As one, the hall adjusted to their presence. Conversations stopped. Eyes lowered.

Moments later, a booming voice echoed through the corridor: "Announcing His Imperial Majesty, King Valdareth Cynric Alvarien, and Her Grace, Queen Lysara Velenne Alvarien."

The doors opened again.

The king entered with the grandeur of a man who still believed he ruled with an iron fist. His robe was layered with deep reds and black fur, the imperial crest stitched over his chest. His golden circlet rested heavily on his brow.

The queen glided beside him, swathed in a pale lilac gown adorned with feathers and pearls. Her beauty was untouched by warmth—a woman of image and ambition, but little substance.

Protocol dictated the princes stand.

They did not.

The king's eyes narrowed, jaw clenching. But he said nothing.

They were beyond discipline now.

As breakfast commenced, servants quietly refilled goblets and placed dishes. The princes ate without acknowledging the royal couple.

The king's voice broke the tension, his tone falsely warm.

"I hear the northern garrisons are still understaffed. Vaelor—isn't that under your purview?"

Vaelor tilted his head slightly, not even pausing his bite of pastry. "I assumed the treasury's sudden reallocation to build your hunting lodge was the reason for the shortage. Priorities, after all."

Zairen snorted softly.

The king's hand clenched on his goblet.

Queen Lysara leaned in with her usual vapid smile. "I'm sure your father meant no offense, my dear. He only wishes for efficiency."

Raelth set his fork down, voice low and clear. "Efficiency would've been placing a man with sense in charge of defense instead of diverting funds to throw feasts for nobles who can't lift a blade."

A beat of silence followed. The king's nostrils flared.

Zairen leaned over to Darian. "I love when he gets like this."

Darian smirked. "So dramatic before noon."

Raelth's gaze never left the king. "If you're going to provoke my brother, at least try not to be so embarrassingly obvious."

Queen Lysara placed her spoon down with a soft sigh. "Honestly, Raelth. There's no need for such hostility."

Raelth looked at her once, briefly. "I wasn't talking to you."

She flinched, but quickly masked it with a sip from her crystal goblet.

The rest of the meal passed in a strained silence. The king and queen's posturing collapsed under the sheer weight of their sons' disregard.

No reconciliation was offered.

No punishment dared.

And no one—not a single soul—noticed the empty space near the lower ranks of servants.

Kael was not there.