The Invitation to Diamond Hall

CHAPTER V) The Invitation to Diamond Hall

Morning of the second day came not with stillness but with a pulse , as if the world itself had drawn in a breath and was now exhaling it in song. Through the thin walls of the carriage, a tide of sound spilled in: voices raised in laughter, the clang of instruments tuning, merchants calling out their wares, and the soft thunder of many feet upon earth. The air, veiled in a light haze of morning smoke, was thick with the aroma of fried dough, spice-laced wine, and freshly brewed ale. Sunlight crept in golden streaks through the clouds, brushing across the canvas tents and the row of carriages like a benediction.

Caelum was the first to stir. For a moment, he simply lay there, eyes half-lidded, listening to the world stretch and stir beyond the fabric. Then he turned his head,Syrex still slept with his mouth half open, and Fenn, huddled beneath a frayed blanket, snored softly from the far corner.

Carefully, Caelum sat up, slipping through the door without waking them. Morning greeted him with a sharp, bracing breath of cool air, though the sun was already beginning to warm the cobblestones. He stretched until his back gave a satisfying crack, then looked around.

The square was alive.

Children wove between the stalls like ribbons, vendors set up their wares with the practiced ease of the seasoned, and somewhere above the bustle, a group of lutenists rehearsed in harmonious disarray.

Then,a door swung open.

It was a carriage like no other nearby: dark wood carved with filigree, gilded at the edges, but curiously unmarked by crest or seal. From it stepped a man dressed in a deep navy coat, silver buttons gleaming in the light. His hair was slicked back to a sharp part, gloves pulled tight over his hands.

He walked toward Caelum with the calm precision of someone used to silence following his steps.

"Good morning," the man said in a voice that was deep, smooth, and laced with the faintest thread of tension. "This is for your company."

He extended a sealed letter , thick parchment bound with black wax. No crest. No name.

Caelum narrowed his eyes but took the letter.

"Who are you? Who sent this?"

The man gave a shallow bow. "The sender wishes to remain unknown. Simply read it. Today."

His gaze lingered a heartbeat longer, then he turned, climbed back into the carriage, and was gone , swallowed whole by the city's noise.

Caelum stood frozen, the letter growing heavier in his hand with every second. The parchment was coarse and expensive beneath his fingers, the wax already beginning to crack under the pressure of his thumb.

He broke the seal and unfolded the paper.

No name. No signature. Only words, written in elegant, sloping script:

"To the boy with fair hair and blue eyes…"

That was how it began , a sentence woven with silken confidence, penned by a calligrapher's hand. The message that followed was brief but pristine: a personal invitation to the Diamond Hall, the place where, on the second day of the festival, the nobility and upper echelons gathered for dealings, performances, and displays of elegance reserved for those born to rule.

Caelum blinked, lips forming the words without sound.

Diamond Hall? For nobles?

He turned on his heel and strode back toward the carriage, flinging the door open and knocking sharply on the wooden wall.

"Wake up," he called. "Syrex. Fenn. We need to talk."

A groan rose from beneath a blanket. "It's barely dawn…"

"The second day's already begun," Caelum said, his voice steady. "And I just received an anonymous invitation. To the Diamond Hall."

Syrex sat up abruptly, eyes wide.

"You're sure?"

Caelum nodded, then stepped past him to the shadowed corner.

"Fenn. Wake up."

The old man opened one eye with a raspy breath.

"Let me guess… debt collectors?"

"Worse," Caelum muttered. "Someone wants me at the Diamond Hall. And they won't say who."

Fenn sat upright with a grunt, stretching out his limbs with a chorus of creaks. Silence settled inside the carriage, muffling the sounds of celebration just beyond the canvas.

"Let me see it," Fenn said.

Caelum handed over the letter.

Fenn unfolded it with care, eyes scanning not just the lines but the space between them. He didn't read , he searched.

"This isn't some prank," he murmured. "This paper isn't cheap, the handwriting's too refined. Someone with status wrote this. And they knew what they were doing."

"What's the Diamond Hall?" Caelum asked.

Fenn didn't look up. "Where the blood-gilded walk. Lords, dukes, kings. Second day of the festival, it becomes a fortress of deals and secrets , auctions, alliances, performances, appearances. Sometimes, even royalty descends. And if fortune leans in your favor… princesses."

He looked up, slowly folding the letter.

"This is real. If you show them this, they'll let you in."

Caelum frowned. "But why me? How would anyone there even know who I am?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" Fenn said. "So… what will you do?"

Caelum looked down at the letter once more. Something coiled in his chest , not fear, not hope, but a restless, burning curiosity.

"I need to know who sent it," he said quietly. "I need to know why."

Fenn nodded, then smiled faintly. "Then go. Find out. We'll be at the arena if you need us. Try not to get yourself executed for speaking out of turn."

Caelum stepped out into the sunlight alone.

The city still bloomed around him , scents of roasted almonds, flowers, and warm stone danced on the breeze , but he no longer felt like a part of it. Every step he took brought him closer to a place not meant for commoners. Here the air changed. The streets widened, polished and pristine. Marble lions guarded gardens. Balconies spilled ivy over golden railings. Here, the bloodlines walked upright and distant.

Men in tailored brocade gave him narrowed glances. Women in silks watched him with curious eyes.

He didn't belong. And yet , he walked as though he did.

The Diamond Hall loomed before him like a crown carved into the earth. Arches soared heavenward. Stained glass gleamed like frozen rainbows. Columns coiled upward with impossible precision.

He approached the great door and handed over the letter.

The guard froze. Just for a moment. His gaze shifted, sharp and assessing , then he nodded and stepped aside.

Caelum entered.

It felt like stepping into a theatre mid-performance.

Two stories of perfection. Marble staircases, balconies overlooking the floor below. A stage of polished oak. Silks rustled like whispers. Jewels flickered like candlelight. Conversations danced across the air , careful, weighty, laced with ritual.

Eyes turned to him. Not all, but enough.

Who is he? Not one of us… but that presence…

Caelum moved forward, slower now. Watching. Listening.

Then,a bell.

A single, clear chime.

Like a drop of silver into glass.

Voices hushed.

A call to gather.

People descended from above. From balconies. From shadows.

Seven banners rose along the marble walls, unfurling with the grace of a storyteller's hand.

And from that hush, they emerged , not with pomp, but inevitability.

Five kings. Five queens.

No names were given. None were needed.

Caelum stood in stillness, not knowing their empires or crowns, only that they ruled this world.

A tall man with a voice of hammered brass stepped forward:

"The rulers of Wrath are absent. So too is the Queen of Lust."

He stepped back.

The formalities began. Toasts. Words wrapped in silk, sounding like sincerity but tasting of nothing. Kings and queens slipped into the crowd, shaking hands, exchanging glances.

But the feeling remained , a wrongness. Why was he here?

Then,another bell.

Not brass. Silver.

And this time, the air stilled.

"They're coming," someone near him whispered. "The princesses."

Caelum's breath caught. He didn't know why. Only that something ancient stirred in him, some unnamed anticipation.

Then , the banners descended.

Seven. One for each sin. One for each crown.

Green and gold vine – Greed.

Deep indigo with a silver crest – Pride.

Burning red, black blade – Wrath.

Softest pink – Sloth.

Emerald shimmer– Envy.

Cream-white with sugar and roses – Gluttony.

Rose-gold bloom – Lust.

And through the golden gates… they came.

The first to enter was Elira von Arveria.

The hall, though vast, seemed to contract , as if space itself bent slightly around her. Her hair, a cascade of dark gold touched with platinum, shimmered under the crystalline chandeliers, each curl catching the light like a secret. Her amber eyes, liquid and bright as molten metal, swept the room not with curiosity but with calculation , she had walked this path a hundred times in her mind, and now, she was simply claiming it.

Her gown was a masterpiece in green and gold, the fabric rippling like coin-spun silk with every step. Emeralds shimmered at her ears, rings glittered at her fingers. But it was not the jewels that held the room captive. It was her smile , delicate, sly, almost sweet , and the poised arrogance with which she wore it. Men bowed. Women straightened their spines. And she walked on, as though she already knew the price of every soul watching her.

Caelum's eyes followed her, breath shallow.

The second was Selene d'Astaria.

No music heralded her arrival. She was the silence between notes.

Silver hair fell like moonlight down her back, smooth and cold as river ice. Her gown , a study in twilight: deep blue fading into violet , bore not a single ornament, yet no garment had ever seemed so complete. It did not need embellishment. She was the crown.

Her eyes , pale, sharp, and still , swept across the hall not to acknowledge, but to measure. She saw everything. And nothing saw her. Her step was measured, her posture perfect. She moved like a blade sheathed in nobility, and Caelum felt, absurdly, that if he stepped into her gaze, he might be cleaved in two.

Third – Maribelle Ignis.

If Elira was velvet and Selene was steel, Maribelle was fire.

Short hair, the color of flame at dusk, framed a face too honest for court games. Her eyes , ember-dark , didn't flinch from contact. Her dress was crimson, fitted like armor, with black stitching that hinted at weaponry more than embroidery. She walked with strength, not softness. The crowd parted for her not out of awe, but instinct. Her presence was a force.

Caelum saw no flirtation in her. No games. Only resolve.

Fourth came Vianna Lumière.

She drifted into the hall like a dream late to wake.

Her gown, a pale rose with glimmering threads, floated around her like morning mist. Her hair , a curtain of rose-cream silk , framed a face lost in thought, as if she still walked some garden in her mind, far from marble and gold. Her eyes, sky-blue and wide, seemed to search for something not present , or perhaps something forgotten.

There was a gentleness in her steps, a kindness that felt almost too fragile for a place such as this. And yet… the silence that followed her was not pity, but reverence.

Then came Seraphina Verdante.

Where Vianna brought hush, Seraphina brought stillness , the kind that settles before a storm.

Black hair with a sheen of emerald slid over her shoulders like ink. Her dress , dark green, cut sharp , bore silver filigree in the shape of twisting thorns. Her eyes, a piercing green, missed nothing. She did not walk , she moved like something ancient, like the wind through a locked room.

Caelum shivered. Her gaze was not cruel, but it was cold. Cold in a way that made one wonder what she had seen , or what she had once been denied.

Sixth – Lira Aurélien.

She came with laughter. Not a loud one , but a ripple of golden mirth that seemed to follow her.

Her hair, the soft color of honey, bounced in curls with each step. Her gown was cream and sugar, embroidered with sunbursts, catching light like sugar spun to crystal. Her eyes sparkled. Everyone she passed , even the most stony , found themselves smiling without meaning to.

She waved at someone in the crowd. Giggled at a whispered remark. And yet… her joy felt sharp, like a perfectly balanced dagger disguised as a charm bracelet.

Last came -Ysolde Sorelle.

No footsteps. Only movement, like perfume trailing behind moonlight.

Rose-gold locks framed her face like a veil. Her dress , flowing, semi-translucent, layered in soft fabric kissed with pink and gold , moved like mist. Her eyes were warm honey, slow and heavy-lidded. She did not glance , she lingered. Every gaze she caught became a conversation. Every step she took , a verse.

The hall held its breath.

Even Caelum , who had seen many women, many masks , felt his heart skip, just slightly.

And yet… behind her glow, he glimpsed something else. A distance. A caution. As if her seduction was a reflex, not a desire. As if she walked on stage not to be seen , but to survive.

Seven princesses now stood before the thrones.

Each a portrait in a different frame.

Each a mirror of a kingdom's sin and splendor.

And in Caelum's chest, something twisted. Not just awe. Not just fascination.

A feeling he could not name. A beginning.

The bell tolled one final time.

And the stage was set.