The Stillstorm had left a vacuum in its wake—not just in the sky, but in the crowd. The Lords and Ladies stood motionless, their finery dusted with the grit of the arena floor.

  Elma slumped in Thiyya's arms, her vision fraying at the edges. Across the mud, she saw the Teyrn guards hauling Damian’s limp form away.

  And then there was Valerius. He remained in his high-backed chair, his knuckles still white around the stem of his wine glass. He hadn't moved a muscle. He was the center of the silence.

  Then, Valerius rose.

  As he stood, the heavy gold guard on his right arm began to pulse. It did not hinge like metal. It flowed. Plates slid apart in impossible geometries, reshaping into a great sword that hummed low enough to make Elma’s teeth ache.

  The blade didn't just glow; it bled heat. The air around Valerius began to shimmer in a violent thermal haze.

  Elma reached out with her Aegis, trying to gauge the output. She expected a spike, a surge—something measurable. Instead, she found an abyss. The energy radiating from the sword wasn't just high; it was absolute.

  There was no ceiling. No end to the reservoir. Her mind, even in its dazed state, came to a terrifying conclusion: This was not made by the hands of men.

  Valerius ground his teeth, a sound like stone on stone. The sword grew hotter. He stepped off the dais, his boots crunching on the debris of the feast.

  He simply moved toward Lord Teyrn.

  Lord Teyrn finally broke. His composure shattered. He scrambled back, knocking his chair over, his face pale with a primal terror.

  "Valerius—" Teyrn's voice cracked. "In Verena's name, stand down! You cannot—"

  The nobility scrambled, as guards desperately formed a perimeter around Lord Teyrn.

  Valerius didn't stop.

  The path to Lord Teyrn was suddenly obstructed. Fenric stepped into the radius of Valerius’s thermal haze with the casual indifference of a man walking through a summer breeze.

  He drew no weapon. He flared no Aegis. He simply stood there.

  "Step aside, Fenric," Valerius growled, his voice vibrating with the hum of the blade.

  "That boy almost killed my daughter," Valerius continued, his eyes fixed on Teyrn’s cowering form. "If that shield had landed—if her reaction had been a millisecond slower—"

  The sword pulsed harder.

  Fenric gave no reply.

  In Thiyya's arms, Elma felt a surge of adrenaline that bypassed her physical exhaustion. Her instincts weren't screaming for safety; they were screaming for the clash.

  Do it, her fingers twitching against Thiyya's armor. Show me what a Strategoi looks like when the leash is broken.

  The air suddenly turned brittle. The intense heat from the great sword met a sudden, jagged front of absolute zero.

  A wall of ice erupted from the mud between Valerius and the Teyrns. It was shimmering with a deep, internal blue, and thick enough to stop a siege engine. The frost climbed the nearby marble pillars instantly, turning the humid night into a winter tomb.

  Varik appeared at Valerius’s right side.

  “Compose yourself," Varik said. His voice was flat, devoid of the fear that was currently paralyzing the rest of the nobility.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Valerius turned his burning gaze toward him. "You’re standing in my way, too?"

  "Valerius."

  The name was spoken from the high table, but it didn't need to be loud. Nina Kresnik was standing.

  “I am quite certain,” Nina said, her eyes narrowing as she turned her gaze briefly to Lord Teyrn, holding it just long enough to suggest restraint rather than agreement. “That Lord Valerius would not stoop so low as to attack his own guests under his own roof. Regardless of the provocation.”

  Shut up.

  Heat met cold. Fog rolled thick between them, blurring the silhouettes of the most powerful people in Veraxys.

  Valerius stood at the center of the thermal storm. The ice wall groaned as its surface layer turned directly into steam. Fenric remained a gray ghost in the mist, unblinking.

  Then, the tension snapped—not with a boom, but with the fluid, mechanical hiss of a machine resetting.

  The metal turned liquid, pouring backward from the tip toward his wrist in a series of geometric folds. In a heartbeat, the great sword had compressed itself back into the gold hand-guard on his arm.

  The ice wall vanished instantly as Varik released the weave. The blue shimmering out of existence left behind only a thick, humid mist and the smell of ozone.

  The silence that followed was heavy and wet. Then, it was shattered.

  "Ha ha ha ha!"

  The laugh was deep, hollow, and utterly sudden.

  Valerius turned, his posture relaxing into the casual elegance of a host. He walked toward Fenric, closing the distance that had just been a kill-zone. He reached out and patted Fenric on the shoulder.

  "I was just testing my nephew!" Valerius boomed, his voice radiating a false, terrifying cheer. "The boy has a great spirit, doesn't he? A bit of a hothead, but that’s the Teyrn blood for you!"

  Fenric still said nothing. He didn't lean into the touch, nor did he pull away.

  Valerius didn't wait for a response. He turned his back on the Teyrns and walked back to his seat.

  The rigid line of Fenric’s shoulders softened, almost imperceptibly.

  Valerius sat down with a heavy, satisfied sigh. His armor was still warm.

  He reached for his wine glass, his fingers steady as he swirled the dark liquid. He took a sip, leaning back as if the last five minutes had been nothing more than a lively toast.

  He then raised his glass, the dark wine catching the torchlight like a pool of fresh blood. He simply held it aloft, the gold guard on his arm still emitting a faint, rhythmic thrum of cooling energy.

  “If I uncover a hand behind what occurred at my estate…”

  He paused, the sound of a single torch popping cut through the silence.

  “I will remove it.”

  The cold weight of the threat sat on their chests for a heartbeat too long. Then, Valerius’s face transformed again.

  "Another round!" he barked, his laughter sudden and jarring. "Come on! We are celebrating a victory, not a funeral!"

  The servants scrambled into motion. Pitchers were tilted, glasses were refilled with trembling hands, and the "celebration" was forcibly restarted.

  The string orchestra began a frantic, upbeat tempo. People began to talk, their voices a fraction too high, their movements a fraction too fast. Wine flowed, desperate to drown the scent of ozone and scorched marble.

  Thiyya carried Elma toward the high table, the air didn't just feel warmer—it felt heavy with the weight of a hundred gazes.

  These were not indulgent gazes. They measured her.

  Valerius didn't look like a Strategoi who had just threatened a room with genocide. As Elma was lowered toward him, his face softened into the mask of a proud father. He reached out, his hand surprisingly gentle as he used a silk handkerchief to wipe the dust and a smudge of blood from her nose.

  He let out a boisterous, ringing laugh that echoed off the marble pillars. "Wonderful!" he cheered, his voice thick with triumph. "Simply wonderful. It seems the Altheris line grows sharper with every generation."

  Beside him, a sound erupted that caused the nearby Lords to jump. Lord Thorne, a man whose face usually looked as though it were carved from cold basalt, was laughing. It wasn't a loud laugh, but a dry, raspy chuckle that signaled a rare moment of genuine shock.

  "Unprecedented," Thorne admitted, shaking his head. "A four-year-old dismantling a Young Lord."

  With Thorne’s blessing, the "permitted" laughter of the crowd ruptured. It was a nervous, manic sound—the sound of nobility desperate to align themselves with the winning side.

  Elma didn't join the laughter. Her gaze drifted across the sea of silk to where the Teyrn entourage stood, their eyes filled with the cold promise of future retribution.

  Don't blame me for your weakness, her expression remaining a chillingly calm mask. I didn't break your son. His own arrogance did.

  Before Valerius could pull her into further theatrics, Elma caught a flicker of movement near the service entrance. Jorm was there, clutching a silver tray to her chest. Her eyes were watery, sparkling with a mixture of terror and fierce pride.

  The maid caught Elma’s eye and gave a small, frantic thumbs-up before ducking her head and disappearing back into the shadows of the domestic corridors. In a room full of monsters and politicians, it was the only honest gesture Elma had received all night.

  A faint tingling pricked at the corners of Elma’s eyes, an unfamiliar warmth spreading through her chest. She crushed it down before it could take shape.

  Stupid.

  As the night finally wound down, the rumors were already spilling beyond the manor gates. By dawn, every household in the capital would know: Valerius’s child had broken the Teyrn heir.