Chapter 3: The Gathering of Arcanum
Dawn spilled over the Imperial Palace in Valcrest, not as gentle light but as deliberate artistry: glyphs carved into marble columns flared with golden radiance, and floating sigils of protection bloomed open like lotus flowers, petals of living light folding outward to catch the first sun.
Varyn lay in his massive, canopied bed, tangled in silk sheets marked with shimmering runes. Even asleep he looked poised, one hand curled as if holding an imaginary blade.
He woke to the scrape of polished boots on marble.
"Your Highness," murmured his valet, voice pitched low with deference. "The dawn has broken."
Varyn sat up too quickly. His heart was hammering, as it had all week. The day of the Arcanum Council. He forced himself to breathe slowly.
Outside the window, the entire palace complex glowed. Walkways of obsidian-veined white stone were alight with glyph-script that pulsed in time with the sunrise, syncing with the central mana-ward of the empire. Spirit-lights darted overhead like will-o'-the-wisps, bearing written orders or small packages from one tower to another. Below, tame familiars padded on silent paws: sleek, many-tailed foxes in imperial colors, helping the staff by levitating stacked trays or opening doors with practiced flicks of their tails.
He watched it for a moment, trying to take it all in.
Then his valet cleared his throat again—carefully, to avoid offense.
"Your ceremonial attire, Highness."
The clothes were spread on a cedar stand nearby. Layered silks in black and gold, the Imperial colors. Runes of warding and shielding were stitched along the hems so precisely they appeared part of the design. A sash that glowed faintly with the Imperial seal waited to be tied at his waist.
Varyn brushed a finger over the cloth. Even the touch of it seemed to buzz with power.
Protect me. Hide me. Make me look worthy.
He hated that last thought but didn't banish it.
He let the servants help him dress. They worked in practiced silence, tightening the robes around his thin but wiry frame, braiding his black hair with strips of gold thread. Every few moments they would murmur the honorifics he was supposed to get used to.
"Your Highness."
"How regal you look, Your Highness."
"Truly fit to represent Valcrest, Your Highness."
He tried to stand still under their scrutiny, but his feet itched to move.
His heart felt like it would leap out of his chest.
The Arcanum Council. Father says it's the most important gathering of the year. I'll make sure they remember me.
Jewelry was clasped onto him next. A black onyx signet ring carved with the Imperial dragon. A torc of silver, run through with living mana lines that pulsed in rhythm with his own heartbeat. Amulets to mark him as heir apparent—if anyone doubted.
Servants scurried behind him, arranging the train of his robe, buffing enchanted silver mirror-panels that floated to show him every angle.
Varyn stared at himself.
Ten years old, but already aware of what power meant in this place.
He tried on a small, practiced smile.
"Will that do?" he asked, only half-joking.
The valet bowed so low he nearly hit the floor.
"It will awe them all, Your Highness."
Varyn nodded once, sharply, as he'd seen his father do.
Inside, though, he felt the tremor of excitement, of terror.
Today was no ordinary day.
Today he would stand before the emperors and kings of nations as well as the lords and masters of magic.
And he refused—utterly refused—to be forgotten.
Varyn followed his valet through the twisting, warded corridors of the palace, every step echoing on polished marble inlaid with mana conduits that glowed gently underfoot. He tried to appear serene, nodding to bowing servants who lined the way. In truth, he could feel sweat beading at the nape of his neck under the heavy gold-threaded braid.
He paused at the great doors to the Imperial Ballroom.
They were carved from blackstone veined with silver, etched so deeply with runes of protection and dominion that light pooled in the glyphs like trapped stars. At his approach, the twin doors swung open with a whisper of displaced air, triggered by the palace wards reading his Imperial seal.
And the sight stole his breath.
The ballroom had been utterly transformed.
Vaulted ceilings rose high above him, so far they might have belonged to a cathedral. Hundreds of floating crystal chandeliers hovered at varying heights, each containing caged motes of elemental light that shifted color—from warm dawn-gold to cold moonlight-blue—at the command of subtle spells. The effect was mesmerizing: soft waves of radiance pulsing through the chamber like a living aurora.
Long banquet tables of blackstone and gold dominated the floor, their surfaces etched with runic wards designed to repel poison, dampen aggressive spells, and keep the food perfectly warm. Varyn noted the subtle flicker of these wards testing the air above the plates.
Along the walls, massive glass windows projected illusions crafted by master enchanters. They showed Valcrest's power in all its dominion: snow-capped fortresses perched on jagged mountain peaks; bustling cities with canals that glowed from submerged light-runes; the endless straight line of the Imperial Highway slicing through rolling farmland, lined with flickering sigils of protection that looked like lanterns stretching to the horizon.
He swallowed.
This room was designed to remind everyone exactly who ruled this empire.
And not just Valcrest.
Banners hung from the ceiling in perfect military precision—not just the black-and-gold dragon of Valcrest, but those of every major power in Arcanum.
He turned his head slowly, memorizing them.
The emerald trees on silver for the Moonglade Kingdom, lush and vibrant even when rendered in cloth.
The silver stag on black for the Elven Woods, proud and unyielding.
The iron hammer of the Dwarven Holds, practical and uncompromising.
The crimson fang of the Orcish Plains, as blunt and threatening as its owners.
Father wants them to remember who hosts them. Who commands the space.
He realized he was grinning, and forced the expression back into a more dignified calm.
Servants in formal livery glided between the tables like ghosts, their uniforms enchanted with subtle color-shifting embroidery that shimmered with the Imperial colors when they turned. Hovering trays followed them obediently, pouring wine on command, even decanting bottles with perfect grace at a spoken word.
Varyn watched one servant flick his wrist, sending an entire tray of crystal goblets into the air to follow him like ducklings, the glasses clinking softly in perfect harmony.
Beyond that, he heard music tuning up.
He squinted and saw a small orchestra pit that had been modified for the night's spectacle: instruments floated in the air, bows moving of their own accord, horns and flutes adjusting themselves in readiness under the baton of a conductor who was chanting the spell to bind them all together.
Their notes hung like living things in the enchanted air, tasting of anticipation.
Varyn's stomach flipped with mingled dread and excitement.
They'll all be watching. The Kings. The Archmages.
He adjusted the collar of his robe self-consciously.
A servant noticed immediately and hurried forward to straighten it for him, bowing low.
"Thank you," Varyn said stiffly, remembering to sound Imperial rather than grateful.
The servant smiled quickly and retreated.
He let out a slow breath and forced his hands to stop fidgeting.
No mistakes today.
He drew himself to his full (still rather short) height and walked forward, head held high, letting the sound of the enchanted orchestra fill his ears as the great hall accepted him into its hungry, expectant light.
Trumpets sounded through the hall—clear, perfect notes that didn't just echo but resonated. Magic layered the sound so it reached every corner without distortion, as if the air itself obeyed the heralds.
Varyn flinched at the first note, then forced himself to relax. He could see the Imperial Herald now, resplendent in silver-and-black livery, raising his staff of office to signal the start of the formal procession.
He hurried to his place at the entrance.
Father and Mother were already there.
Emperor Aurelius Von Valcrest looked carved from obsidian and iron. His ceremonial armor wasn't mere ornament: blacksteel plates covered in etched sigils, each rune a protective ward or command of authority. The armor hummed with caged mana, enough to repel even an Archmage's casual hex. Black eyes like polished stone swept the room once, and the buzzing conversation hushed in deference.
Empress Lyriana was his cold mirror. She wore a gown of black and silver living silk, enchanted to store defensive spells like coiled serpents waiting to strike. It clung to her slender form with the elegance of a courtier but held the promise of violence. Mana shimmered faintly along the hem and sleeves, ready to answer her thoughts.
Varyn felt their combined presence like a weight on his chest. He tried to stand as tall as he could, adjusting his sash so the Imperial Seal sat perfectly at his waist.
To one side, his half-siblings gathered like a small, nervous flock. Some were older but too far removed in blood to truly matter. Others were very young—one barely able to stand for long in her tiny formal robes, constantly tugging at them while a nurse tried to hush her.
Varyn gave them a nod but didn't dare cross to them.
He had to stay with his parents.
The Empress's gaze flicked to him. Cool appraisal turned to the tiniest approving nod.
He felt absurdly proud.
Then the first delegates arrived.
They came in slow, measured steps, each announced in a voice magically amplified by the Herald's staff:
"His Majesty King Caelan of the Moonglade Kingdom, and Lady Ailina of the Sylvanel!"
Varyn caught the glimmer of emerald and silver as the Fairy royals entered, moving with preternatural grace. Their clothes rippled with living vines of mana-infused silk, flowers blooming and fading as they walked. King Caelan inclined his head, eyes shining with calm intelligence. Lady Ailina's prismatic gaze swept the room, missing nothing, though her face remained gentle.
Varyn bowed deeply. He'd practiced the exact angle all week.
Next:
"High Lord of the Dwarven Holds, Master of the Stone Pact, Thrain Ironbreaker!"
Heavy footsteps, the thunk of rune-etched boots on polished floor. A broad-shouldered figure in black and gold armor that glowed faintly with earth magic. His beard was braided with copper and rune-chalk. He looked around with frank suspicion, then gave a curt nod.
More followed.
Elven High Lords in flowing robes that shifted color with their moods, their haughty faces half-shielded by mana auras that suggested both elegance and warning.
Orcish chieftains clad in crimson-dyed leathers, flame runes smoldering at their throats and wrists. One of them locked eyes with an Elven delegate and offered a smile full of filed teeth. The Elf's nostrils flared, but he bowed stiffly.
Father says diplomacy is theatre. But here it's war in slow motion.
Varyn tried to track everything.
The Masters of the Thirteen Magic Towers arrived in swirling robes that changed color depending on their emotional state. Even at a distance he saw the flicker of worry, interest, ambition. Their apprentices and disciples flanked them like living shadows, young mages who wore the Tower sigil with quiet pride and made no effort to hide their hunger for patronage.
Archmages entered with less fuss but far more impact.
Ancient, dignified, some stooped with age and layered with enough magic to flatten armies. Others looked deceptively young, sharp-eyed, their mana fields so dense they bent the light around them.
Varyn swallowed as he watched them approach his parents.
Polite greetings. Carefully crafted flattery.
Lines that sounded respectful but carried razor edges of subtext.
"An honor to stand in Valcrest's hall once more. May our alliance remain… strong."
"A pleasure, Your Imperial Majesties. We trust the Empire's harvest has recovered from last year's storms?"
Father received them with perfect control, every word measured, every nod deliberate.
Mother did even better, offering subtle cues to Varyn with the barest glance.
Slightly shallower bow here—this one was only a minor king.
Warmer words there—the Elven delegate was famously sensitive, and it was best to soothe the tension with the Orcish Warchief nearby.
Varyn mimicked it all with fierce concentration.
He felt the sweat on his spine.
One mistake could insult an entire kingdom.
But I won't fail.
He took the Empress's cue and offered the Orcish Warchief a broader smile than he felt safe with. The Warchief's eyebrows rose, but he chuckled and bowed, making a show of deference.
Varyn hid his relief behind a small nod.
The hall filled with the layered hum of power and ambition.
All of them gathered under the Imperial banner.
All of them pretending at peace.
He felt the weight of it press into his bones.
This is Valcrest. This is the world Father says I'll inherit.
He straightened his back.
And vowed to learn every lie in the room.
The noise in the ballroom faded on cue.
Servants snapped their fingers or tapped rune-etched staves, casting small silencing spells along the banquet tables. Even the floating orchestra quieted, their instruments descending to hover in perfect, expectant stillness.
Varyn felt the hush like a living thing.
The Emperor rose from his massive chair at the head of the grand oval arrangement of tables. The movement was unhurried, deliberate. Every eye turned to him.
Aurelius Von Valcrest didn't need magic to command attention.
But he used it anyway.
When he spoke, his voice didn't merely carry—it resonated. Enchantment layered in his words made them warm yet unyielding, filling the hall without strain.
"Honored Kings and Queens. High Lords and Chieftains. Masters of the Towers. Archmages. Friends of the Empire."
He paused. Even silence seemed to listen.
"You gather tonight in Valcrest not simply to feast, but to uphold the sacred duty of the Arcanum Council. We meet to keep peace. To foster trade. To ensure that magic—our greatest blessing and most terrible weapon—remains in check."
A subtle stir ran through the guests. Varyn felt it like a ripple in water: some nodding approval, others carefully blank, a few bristling at the mention of restraint.
His father's eyes missed nothing.
"Valcrest is proud to host you," the Emperor continued. "Proud to offer our hall, our food, our protection. Proud to lead—as we have always led—not through fear alone, but through shared purpose."
He gestured broadly to the banners overhead, their symbols of empires and kingdoms, tribes and towers.
"We are many. We are different. We disagree, we compete. But we stand against chaos together."
There was a low sound then—not quite cheering, not quite applause. A polite, controlled approval designed to save face for those too proud to clap first.
Varyn's heart hammered.
He watched the faces of the guests closely, exactly as he'd been taught.
Some smiled broadly: the Dwarven Lord with his bristling red beard split in a grin of genuine approval.
Others remained careful. The Elven delegates offered slight, serene smiles that hid everything but their calculation.
The Orcish Warchief barked a single laugh before muttering something to his second, who snorted in reply.
The Fairy King and Queen nodded gracefully, their expressions mild and diplomatic.
Varyn tried to memorize them all.
Who was genuinely pleased.
Who was masking resentment.
Who looked worried.
His gaze swept the tables, noting how the Masters of the Magic Towers leaned together in whispered conferences even as they applauded politely. How the Archmages held themselves apart, a gravity in their eyes that no speech could sway.
One day, he thought, breath catching in his throat, I'll stand there.
I'll keep them all together.
He felt his fingers clench in his lap before he forced them to relax.
The Emperor's final words rang through the hush:
"Let us dine tonight as allies, even rivals. Let us leave here as partners against the darkness beyond our borders—and the darkness within our hearts."
Another polite round of applause, this one stronger, more unified.
The Emperor sat.
The spell of his voice dissipated like morning fog burned away by the sun.
Conversations resumed, quieter now, more cautious.
Varyn drew a slow breath and let it out carefully, determined to hold onto every word his father had spoken.
Because one day, the voice filling the great hall would be his.
The meal paused as the orchestra fell silent once more.
A hush spread over the grand hall.
Servants extinguished the floating candelabras at the center of each table with a single word, plunging the room into an expectant gloom lit only by the colored mana auras of the guests.
Varyn straightened in his chair, heart thrumming. He knew what was coming.
A voice rang out—this time the Imperial Herald's, charged with magic that made it echo from every wall.
"Honored guests, we present the Masters of the Thirteen Towers, and the Archmages of Arcanum!"
They were already seated among the delegates, but now they stood, moving with solemn precision.
Their apprentices and favored disciples hurried to adjust cloaks, hold staves, smooth robes woven with spells so old they practically hummed with sentience.
Varyn swallowed hard as he watched them approach the cleared space at the center of the hall.
The Masters of the Towers went first. Their robes changed color in the dim light, reflecting emotions carefully controlled: calm green for composure, pale blue for focus, and once—briefly—angry red before it was crushed to dull grey.
Each bowed toward the Emperor and Empress in turn.
They spoke words of fealty and alliance—formal, rehearsed, but edged with polite wariness.
Varyn noticed Father's small nods of approval, the Empress's barely perceptible glances that meant softer greeting here, sharper there.
Then came the Archmages.
They needed no introduction, but the Herald gave them one anyway, voice rippling with magical gravity as he named each by title and domain: Illusions, Elements, Mind, Shadow, Death.
Each moved forward with the certainty of beings who held entire cities in check with a word.
Some appeared ancient, stooped and liver-spotted, but radiating lethal energy like coiled vipers. Others looked young, beautiful in an inhuman way, eyes aglow with power that bent the air around them.
Varyn felt his stomach clench.
One day I might stand among them.
The Herald raised his staff, and the hall dimmed even further.
"This night, as tradition demands, the Archmages demonstrate their mastery for the Council—proof that they hold the peace by force of will and skill alike."
Silence fell so absolute that even the magical orchestra went still, instruments quivering as if afraid to make a sound.
One by one, the Archmages performed.
A woman whose fingers danced in the air, weaving illusions so real Varyn could smell the sea, hear gulls crying overhead.
A towering man with earth and flame affinities who conjured a miniature mountain that smoldered and cracked with lava before he crushed it to dust with a closing fist.
A thin, sharp-eyed mage who projected his voice into everyone's mind simultaneously, the words soft as silk yet echoing with absolute command: We are the balance against chaos.
Varyn's heart hammered.
He wanted to look away. He couldn't.
He knew their names from hours of study. He'd traced their family trees, read their treatises on magic theory until his head ached.
Now they were here. Real. Dangerous. Unimpressed by his father's throne.
He felt a shiver of fear crawl up his back.
And excitement.
I will be one of them. Somehow. Even if they say I can't.
Beside him, the Empress leaned slightly closer, her voice pitched for his ears alone.
"Which one do you think is the most powerful?"
He licked his lips, realizing he'd been holding his breath.
"All of them," he whispered back.
Her black eyes gleamed.
"Correct. But remember—power isn't everything."
He nodded once, forcing himself to steady his breathing.
Not everything.
But tonight, watching the raw majesty of the Archmages and the carefully contained tension of the Tower Masters, it felt like power was most things.
And he would not forget that.
The last of the Archmages bowed and withdrew, their demonstrations lingering in the charged air like the smell of burnt ozone. The orchestra resumed, cautiously at first, filling the silence with stately chords meant to soothe rattled nerves.
Servants relit the candelabras with whispered cantrips. Conversations resumed, hushed but urgent—delegates leaning close to confer about the power they'd just witnessed.
Varyn felt lightheaded, almost dizzy. His fingers drummed on the arm of his chair.
I'll get there. I have to.
But the tension hadn't broken completely. The room still held its collective breath.
Because everyone knew there was one more arrival to come.
The Imperial Herald raised his staff again. The magical amplification returned, resonating in the bones of the hall.
He intoned with ritual precision:
"Her Highness, Grandmaster Mage Selene Von Valcrest, Daughter of the Dragon Throne!"
The doors at the far end swung open.
No creak. No sound at all but the sigh of air displaced by magic.
And she stood there.
Selene Von Valcrest, fifteen years old, yet holding the room as if she'd been born on a throne of iron and fire.
She was dressed in layered mage-robes of deep imperial black and molten gold, the fabric woven through with elemental sigils that writhed and flickered like living flame. Runes of Water, Air, Earth, Fire, and Arcane Mana—all five affinities—glowed faintly, cycling in sequence like a heartbeat of raw power.
Her black hair was pulled back in an intricate braid interlaced with silver thread, revealing sharp, elegant features that made her look older than her years—older, colder, more certain.
But what struck Varyn most was her eyes.
Black as his own, but burning from within with stored mana. They weren't lit brightly—she wasn't showing off—but the faint glow was enough to remind every mage present that she could bend them to ash if she chose.
The hush in the hall deepened.
Courtiers stared, some in awe, some in envy.
Varyn heard the whispers:
"She's only fifteen? A Grandmaster already?"
"It took Lord Theran until he was fifty."
The Archmages watched her too. Varyn noted the subtle differences in their reactions.
A few nodded approval, eyes narrowing in appraisal.
Others merely watched, wary, calculating.
Selene stepped forward, her robe-train gliding behind her without touching the floor, animated by silent spells.
She bowed deeply to the Emperor and Empress.
"Father. Mother."
Her voice carried without magical aid. Clear, strong, respectful.
The Empress's black eyes softened by a fraction, the corner of her lips curving in a ghost of a smile.
The Emperor, famously implacable, couldn't hide the brief flare of pride in his gaze.
He gave her the smallest of nods, the closest he ever came to open affection in public.
Varyn watched it all with his heart pounding.
He felt a strange mix of awe and resentment roiling in his stomach, so strong it made him feel unsteady.
She stood there, bathed in the shifting light of the enchanted chandeliers, power wrapped around her like a living thing, and for just a second she turned her head.
Their eyes met.
He swallowed hard.
She didn't smile.
But her gaze softened—just for him.
And he felt something loosen in his chest.
The hall shifted around them as Selene finished her bow and straightened.
Servants moved again, resetting chairs and tables with seamless precision, enchanted trays hovering out of the way. Courtiers and foreign delegates murmured to each other, the room's focus fracturing as people processed her arrival.
But for Varyn, the world narrowed to a single line: the path between his chair and his sister.
He didn't even wait for permission.
He slipped from his seat so quickly his ceremonial robe snagged for an instant on the armrest, jerking him back. He cursed under his breath—too quiet for anyone but himself to hear—and tugged it free, nearly tripping over the trailing silk.
He caught himself just in time and stalked forward, trying to smooth his face into something regal.
But his heart was hammering.
Selene's eyes tracked him immediately. That faint glow of stored mana brightened just enough to catch in the crystal light above them.
When he stopped in front of her, he forgot every courtly phrase, every carefully drilled bow.
He just grinned.
"Selene."
Her lips twitched. She folded her arms across her chest, studying him like a teacher examining a barely acceptable essay.
"Look at you," she drawled. "Up before dawn. Wearing half the treasury on your back."
He scowled. "You know how Father is about appearances."
Her eyes danced. "Yes. I notice you're doing your best not to trip over all those 'appearances.'"
He flushed. "I didn't trip."
She sighed in mock disappointment. "Tragic. The whole hall was waiting for it."
He crossed his arms too, trying to mimic her stance, but the robe's layered silks made it look ridiculous. He felt his ears heat under the braids.
She leaned in, ignoring the watching court.
"Still getting up before dawn to spar?" she asked, her voice low enough to be private.
He lifted his chin. "I beat three nobles last week."
Her brows rose, impressed but not conceding. "Only three? Slacking."
He snorted despite himself. "They cried when they lost."
Her smile curved sharp and proud.
Then she dropped the teasing for a moment. She reached up and ruffled his carefully braided hair, undoing a bit of the valet's work.
"Stop it!" he hissed, swatting her hand away.
She laughed.
It was brief, quiet enough not to echo too far in the hall, but real.
And for a moment she wasn't the Grandmaster Mage of five affinities who turned Archmages wary. She was just his sister.
She bent slightly so they were face to face. Her eyes softened, the glow in them dimming like banked coals.
"I heard you're preparing for your Awakening," she said.
He swallowed. "I want as many affinities as you."
For a second, something flickered across her face. Regret? Pity? He couldn't tell.
But she didn't let it stay.
She set her hands on his shoulders with a surprising gentleness.
"Then work harder," she murmured. "I want my little brother to be even better than me."
He nodded fiercely.
She gave his shoulders a last squeeze before pulling him into a hug.
Varyn froze at first. Formal. Stiff.
But he let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and let his arms circle her in return.
Around them, courtiers and foreign delegates watched, some with polite smiles, some clearly charmed, others wary.
He didn't care.
Empress Lyriana observed with her usual mask of serene composure, but one black eyebrow lifted just a hair in approval.
Emperor Aurelius didn't smile. Of course not.
But he didn't look away.
If anything, he watched them both with the hard, assessing gaze of a man measuring future worth—and finding it sufficient.
Selene drew back, smoothing the front of his robe like a mother fussing over a child.
He batted at her hands, face flushed.
She leaned in one last time, voice low enough that no one else would hear.
"Don't embarrass me tonight."
He tried to look outraged.
"I won't! I'm going to make friends with everyone."
She huffed, amused. "That's the spirit."
They broke apart at last, the Imperial family resuming its regal formation even as the hall buzzed with fresh gossip and laughter at the unexpected warmth.
Varyn straightened, forcing his face back into the princely mask he'd practiced.
But inside he felt lighter.
The great hall settled once more as the orchestra took up a softer, stately tune, the kind meant to accompany dignified conversation rather than command silence.
Servants, eyes carefully averted, guided the Imperial family to their places of honor at the head table.
The Emperor took the center with slow, deliberate movements, ceremonial armor creaking just enough to remind everyone it was real. He sat with the gravity of a man who'd held an empire together by will alone.
Empress Lyriana arranged her gown with careful precision beside him. Mana wards in the living silk coiled obediently, folding into intricate patterns at her thought. She looked calm, unbothered, but her eyes missed nothing.
Varyn claimed the seat on his father's other side, his own robe's trailing silks smoothed by a pair of nervous valets. He tried not to squirm, aware of every eye still tracking them.
Selene swept around behind him and sat on the Empress's side, folding her robes with practiced ease. She didn't even glance at the mana runes flickering along her hem—they obeyed her like trained animals.
Beyond them, the concubines arranged themselves in lower, smaller seats nearby. The Emperor's orders had been clear: they were to be present but not overshadow the core line.
Yet the tone was surprisingly warm.
One of the senior concubines—Lady Marissa, with hair in iron-grey braids and dark eyes soft with laughter lines—caught Varyn's gaze and winked.
He grinned despite himself.
The youngest half-siblings were the real chaos.
A girl of barely five twisted in her formal robes, trying to see everything at once. Her minder hissed futile instructions at her. When she caught Varyn's eye she beamed, waving so energetically she nearly toppled from her chair.
He lifted two fingers in a subtle salute, making her giggle so loudly that the nearby servants flinched.
Even the Emperor's mouth twitched.
"Silence at the head table," he rumbled, but the weight behind the words was absent.
The Empress sighed, barely audible. "They're children. Let them learn."
A pause.
Then she added, to no one in particular, "But they will behave tonight. The world is watching."
Varyn nodded solemnly. "I'll help keep them in line."
"Ha," Selene said dryly. "That'll be the day."
Varyn scowled at her.
She just raised an eyebrow in challenge.
One of the middle children—a boy of eight with the same black eyes and hair as the Emperor—leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially to Varyn, "Is she always like this?"
Varyn considered, then nodded. "Worse."
Selene's head snapped around. "I heard that."
The boy squeaked and ducked back.
For a moment, the entire head table rippled with quiet laughter, even the Empress exhaling something suspiciously close to a chuckle.
When it died down, Emperor Aurelius surveyed them all.
He didn't smile, but his gaze softened in the firelight.
"We're proud of you both," he said, voice pitched low enough that only family would hear.
Varyn sat up straighter.
Selene tilted her chin slightly, feigning indifference—but she didn't hide the small smile pulling at her mouth.
"The Empire's future is secure," Aurelius added.
Empress Lyriana laid one graceful hand on the table, fingers tapping once.
"Behave tonight," she murmured. "The world is watching."
Selene didn't miss a beat. She shifted her gaze to Varyn with mock severity.
"I'll keep him in line."
Varyn rolled his eyes, though he was grinning.
The Empress gave them both a long, unreadable look.
And finally—finally—let her lips curve, just barely, into something almost maternal.
The Emperor exhaled slowly, as if settling the weight of state across his broad shoulders.
And the head table—Imperial family, concubines, legitimate heirs and half-siblings alike—settled into their places as the orchestra swelled.
For a moment, at least, they looked exactly like what they wanted the world to see.
A family.
Music filled the ballroom as the next wave of dishes arrived in flawless procession.
Plates and bowls floated on glimmering currents of controlled mana, each dish a masterpiece of culinary magic. The orchestral anthem shifted from the Imperial march to the official Arcanum Council hymn, an ancient tune that wove together the melodies of every realm.
Varyn sat at the head table, trying to look composed while his eyes darted everywhere.
He watched the servers work in choreographed silence, mage-trained, their gestures crisp as sword-forms. At a flick of a wrist, decanters poured by themselves. Enchanted utensils adjusted heat or chill at a command word. Dishes steamed, smoked, or glowed as they floated toward their rightful seats.
The guests seemed to fall naturally into their old rivalries and alliances.
On the far side of the ballroom, the Orcish envoy threw his head back and roared with laughter, tankard in hand. Across from him, the Elven diplomat sipped wine with an expression carved from marble, nodding once—grudgingly—when the Orc bellowed something in accented Elvish.
Their respective seconds watched each other like hawks, translation spells shimmering in the air between them.
Varyn couldn't help smiling a little.
At least they're trying not to kill each other tonight.
Closer by, Tower Masters clustered in tight circles, gesturing subtly with jeweled fingers. Their conversation looked mild, but Varyn noticed the occasional pointed glance in his father's direction—or his sister's. He guessed at the topics even without hearing them.
Apprenticeships. Alliances. Who to favor. Who to undermine.
Archmages held their own court at a prominent table, refusing to cluster too closely. Some spoke in low tones that made the air around them quiver with contained power. Others sat in watchful silence, eyes flicking across the hall with the detachment of predators assessing a crowded forest.
Varyn felt a prickle of unease as one of them, a gaunt old man with a white staff banded in black runes, turned to study him.
The Archmage didn't smile.
But he inclined his head once.
Varyn swallowed and returned the nod as regally as he could manage.
Beside him, Selene nudged his boot under the table.
He glared at her.
She smirked.
"Stop looking like you're about to bolt," she said, voice pitched so only he would hear. "You're Valcrest's prince. Act like it."
He took a breath, straightened his spine, and set his jaw.
"Better," she said, and returned her attention to her wine.
He bit back a retort, choosing instead to focus on the hall.
Courtiers whispered rumors behind fans or goblets. Varyn heard fragments drift up:
"...border skirmishes last winter..."
"...Moonglade's new portal trade..."
"...Outlands raids, so conveniently timed..."
He noted every word. Every face.
Servants slipped between the tables with quiet, effortless grace. A young mage-servant paused to pour Fairy wine into his goblet, the liquid catching the candlelight like emerald flame.
"Your Highness," the servant murmured, bowing so low the braid of his livery brushed the floor.
"Thank you," Varyn replied, carefully polite.
He felt Selene watching him again.
She said nothing, but her approving silence was more satisfying than any praise.
Farther down the table, the youngest half-siblings had grown bored of diplomacy. The five-year-old was drawing patterns in a condensation ring with one tiny finger. The eight-year-old was whispering jokes to a concubine who kept trying—and failing—not to laugh.
The Emperor didn't scold.
But his gaze swept them once, and silence fell like a drawn blade.
Even so, it wasn't harsh.
The Empress leaned in to murmur something in his ear.
He made a noise halfway between a grunt and a laugh.
Varyn watched them, something tightening in his chest.
They are terrifying. But they're... still family.
He forced himself to breathe, to listen.
To learn.
Every guest here was a piece on a board he'd someday have to command.
The music swelled again, richer now, strings and horns layering harmonies that felt like the empire itself—orderly, controlled, but undeniably powerful.
Varyn sipped his glowing wine, feeling the warmth settle in his chest, heart racing.
The banquet roared to life as the final courses arrived.
Plates piled high with enchanted delicacies. Wines that glowed in colors no natural grape could produce. Desserts sculpted from mana-infused cream that held their shape like glass until touched.
The orchestra shifted to something grander, formal anthems of the Arcanum Council layered with the old Valcrest marches. The music gave the hall a sense of rising, rolling inevitability, like a tide coming in.
Laughter pealed, forced and genuine in equal measure.
Courtiers traded whispered secrets behind shielding spells that shone briefly before fading.
Elven and Orcish envoys clinked cups—warily, but with showy goodwill—while their aides side-eyed each other over every toast.
Masters of the Magic Towers huddled in intense conversations, fingers flicking out minor illusions and diagrams in the air to argue over theory or strategy.
Archmages sat apart, some withdrawn in thought, others quietly debating points of magical doctrine that had once set entire regions ablaze.
And the Imperial family sat above it all.
Varyn watched everything.
He felt overwhelmed—there was too much to see, too much to track. Every time he focused on one conversation, five others slipped away.
But he tried.
God, he tried.
Memorize the faces. The words. The alliances.
He noted who laughed too hard at a joke. Who smiled with too many teeth. Who risked a glare at his father's armor or his sister's glowing sigils.
He felt the wine warming his blood, the smell of spiced meats and strange foreign herbs filling his nose until it was dizzying.
But he didn't let himself relax.
He had to learn.
One day, they'll all be looking at me.
Beside him, Selene leaned back in her chair, gaze cool and dissecting. She looked like she belonged there—like she was born for it.
Across from him, the Empress observed everything with black eyes that seemed to see through people like glass.
The Emperor sat unmoving, massive gauntleted hands resting lightly on the arms of his chair. Watching, judging, owning the room without a word.
Varyn swallowed.
He wanted that.
All of it.
He felt Selene's boot tap his again under the table, drawing him from his thoughts.
When he glanced at her, she didn't say anything. Just gave him the smallest, briefest nod.
He exhaled, shoulders straightening.
Then he felt the Empress's gaze on him.
She didn't smile.
But she leaned in just slightly, voice pitched to reach only his ears.
"Tomorrow, the real Council sessions begin," she said softly. "Watch carefully tonight. These are the powers you'll have to master one day."
The words landed like a weight on his chest.
But he didn't flinch.
He turned back to the hall, eyes wide, heart racing.
He watched.
He listened.
He memorized.
I'll be ready.