Circular tables ringed the perimeter, draped in royal violet. Our group claimed one near the edge of the dancefloor. The plates gleamed—bone-white china rimmed in gold, the lion stamped clean at the edge. The cutlery gold to match.
My gaze rose to the platform at the far end of the ballroom. The king sat upon a throne so tall it strayed into farce. He lounged with an elbow resting on the armrest, wearing a full-facegolden mask. As I regarded him, I could have sworn his eyes collided with mine. Even from here, I felt the weight of his attention. The blood seemed to slow in my veins despite the incessant thundering of my heart. Breathing required concentration. Mav’s fingers pressed more firmly to mine. Gratitude swept over me for the gesture, a quiet anchor in a maelstrom of excess.
A man wearing great finery stood to the right of the king. With several taps of his jeweled staff, the room fell into expectant silence.
“Loyal citizens of Avandria,” he began, his voice magnified by his own Hum magic. “I am Paschar Anen, Grand Vizier to the king. On this blessed eve of the Spring Jubilee, we gather to honor the prosperity our kingdom has long enjoyed beneath His Majesty’s reign.” He opened his arms wide, the gems on his sleeves catching the light. “Tonight, we celebrate not merely the turning of the season, but the endurance of our great realm and the divine wisdom of the Council of Five.”
At his cue, a troupe of performers gathered in the center of the ballroom. A trio of Tremors pressed their palms to the floor, and the marble obeyed. With a deep groan, the stone rippled and reshaped itself—mountains rising in miniature relief, the coastlines of Avandria taking form before our eyes. Murmurs swept through the crowd. A Tempest followed, commanding storm clouds, thunder cracked, and flashes of tiny lightning drew startled gasps. Rain filled the etched riverbeds, the Merise Sea, and the Lithen Strait, held in place by invisible walls.
The vizier’s voice swelled, rich and rehearsed: “In the age before Avandria, the world was divided. But the Five Brothers—Edric, Eryndor, Egran, Eamon, and Errin—each gifted with sacred magic, tamed chaos and forged harmony from ruin.”
Four glowing figures appeared, illusions woven from mist, each brother rendered in heroic grandeur.
“Edric, the lionheart, blessed by Time, who foresaw the shape of destiny.”
“Eryndor, master of Tempests, who commanded the skies.”
“Egran, shaper of Tremors, who raised the mountains and steadied the earth.”
“Eamon, the Tether, who bound our oaths and our hearts to the Crown.”
A beat of silence followed before the fifth figure appeared—smaller, cloaked in shadow.
“And Errin, whose gifts were…of another kind. A dangerous and destructive Twilight. His path strayed, his choices led him from his brothers’ light. Yet even he, in his folly, taught us the cost of disobedience.”
Uneasy murmurs rippled through the audience. The illusion of Errin the Twilight dissolved first. My stomach twisted. History had been rewritten for the sake of spectacle.
The vizier smiled as the miniature kingdom expanded across the ballroom floor. “Together, the brothers conquered the scattered provinces. Even the goblin clans and troll tribes bent the knee in exchange for the mercy of Avandrian order. From that day forward, our lands have known peace, prosperity, and divine purpose beneath the Crown.”
Beside me, Mav leaned close. “That’s quite a trick.”
“Leave it to the Crown to rewrite conquest as triumph,” Thistle muttered.
“This is what history becomes,” Branrir began, disgust wrinkling his face, “when we refuse to name the horrors that built it. When we glaze over what we are ashamed of, we offend the sacrifice—and the memory—of the original inhabitants of these lands.”
Vesper flicked his tail, uncharacteristically somber. “There are no true victors in war.”
Strings swelled in triumphant crescendo. At the vizier’s nod, aHearth conjured a glowing orb, bathing the scene in golden light. The Tempest ceased the rain and cleared the clouds. Hedges coaxed forests and fields to bloom in miniature, vines threading over peaks and through the delicate cities of conjured stone.
The vizier’s voice lifted to its finale. “Today, we continue their legacy of benevolence and wisdom, and honor Edric Aerithar Renaudin the First—lionheart and founder of Avandria.”
He lowered his arms with ceremonial gravity, and the scene collapsed. The marble reformed to its original pattern, as if it had never been disturbed. A tide of applause rolled through the space.
“Glory to the Crown,” the Grand Vizier proclaimed, bowing low.
“Glory to the Crown,” the crowd echoed, hundreds of voices merging into one obedient chord.
The grand vizier clapped his hands in summons. “Let the feast begin!”
Dozens of servers swept into the ballroom, arms laden with golden trays. Courses arrived in a decadent procession: tiny roast birds with lacquered skins, pomegranate sauce, cloud-like baked custard that sighed beneath a spoon. Wine poured into crystal goblets.
As they passed, I noticed each server bore the same mark. I now recognized the shape of its cruelty, having seen it first on the clerk at the dress shop. A darkened U branded into their cheeks.
The mark of the ungifted.
Their movements were silent, graceful even, but the sight hollowed me. To know such suffering had become a uniform, that judgment had been pressed into flesh—it curdled the beauty of the evening into something unbearable.
The chandeliers glittered too brightly, the laughter of nobles too shrill. My throat tightened. It was difficult to taste the wine’s sweetness when all I could see was pain masked in ceremony.And harder still to quiet the dread coiling low in my stomach. Soon, I would have to speak with the king—the architect of this suffering—and plead for my freedom.
