The great hall blazed with calculated opulence—silk tapestries masking water-stained walls, silver platters polished to hide their tarnished edges, wine that cost more than a peasant family's yearly income flowing like water. The kingdom's nobility had gathered in their finest clothing, each smile practiced, each gesture weighted with political intent.
Alex surveyed the feast from his assigned seat at the high table, cataloging threats with mechanical precision. Lord Garrett, resplendent in midnight blue velvet, commanded the military faction with subtle gestures and meaningful glances. Lady Morwyn held court among the merchant nobles, her fan fluttering in coded signals. The younger nobles clustered around Baron Aldwin's heir—a pale, sharp-eyed young man named Lysander who seemed more interested in his wine cup than the conversations swirling around him.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" King Aldric raised his goblet, voice projecting across the hall. "A celebration of unity in these trying times."
Unity. Alex nearly smiled at the word. This wasn't unity—it was a feeding frenzy disguised as civilization.
Beside him, Nyt picked delicately at her food, silver light occasionally flickering around her fingers when she thought no one was looking. The ambient magical energy from so many Soulstone trinkets and enchanted jewelry made her practically glow with absorbed power. Several nobles had noticed, their conversations growing quieter whenever her attention passed over them.
"Lady Nysara," Lady Morwyn's voice cut through the general chatter as she approached their section of the table. "How lovely you look this evening. That dress suits you perfectly."
The gown had been a gift—silk the color of deep water, cut to flatter and designed to make Nyt appear both beautiful and accessible. Alex recognized it for what it was: costume jewelry for a piece being moved into position.
"Thank you," Nyt replied, her smile warm and seemingly genuine. "Lady Morwyn, isn't it? I've heard so much about your work organizing relief for the eastern provinces."
"Oh, you flatter me." Lady Morwyn settled into the seat beside Nyt, having dismissed its previous occupant with a look. "But I do what I can. A woman must find ways to serve, mustn't she? Speaking of which, I understand you have remarkable... talents."
Alex felt the shift in conversational energy, the subtle predatory focus that meant the real negotiations were beginning. Around the table, other conversations continued, but he could sense the attention of every major player in the room.
"I suppose we all have our gifts," Nyt said carefully.
"Indeed. And gifts such as yours... well, they require proper guidance. Proper alliances." Lady Morwyn's fan clicked open, revealing an intricate pattern of roses and thorns. "I've been thinking that perhaps you might benefit from... partnership. My nephew, Lord Willem, is quite accomplished. Handsome, wealthy, and more importantly, he understands the delicate balance required in political matters."
A marriage alliance. Alex had expected this move—Nyt was too valuable to remain unattached in a feudal system. But the timing suggested desperation. Lady Morwyn's faction needed magical power to counter whatever Lord Garrett was planning.
"How thoughtful," Nyt replied, her voice carrying just the right note of polite interest. "And Lord Willem? Is he here tonight?"
"Right there." Lady Morwyn gestured toward a young man at the far end of the table—handsome in a conventional way, with the soft features of someone who'd never faced real hardship. "Quite the catch, if I may say so. Any woman would be fortunate to—"
"I'm sure he's wonderful," Nyt interrupted gently. "But I'm afraid I must decline."
The temperature around them seemed to drop several degrees. Lady Morwyn's fan snapped shut with a sound like breaking bone.
"Decline? My dear girl, I don't think you understand. This is a generous offer—"
"I understand perfectly." Nyt's smile never wavered, but the silver light around her fingers began to pulse. "You want to bind me to your family, use my abilities to advance your political position, and ensure I can't threaten your interests. It's quite clever, really."
Lady Morwyn's face had gone pale. Around them, other conversations were faltering as the subtle wrongness in the air became impossible to ignore.
"But you see," Nyt continued, her voice still pleasant, conversational, "I don't need protection. Or guidance. Or alliances with people who see me as a resource to be managed."
She reached for her wine goblet, and the silver light flowed from her fingers into the liquid. It swirled for a moment, then solidified into something that looked like liquid starlight.
"I take what I need," she said softly, raising the transformed wine to her lips. "From magic, from people, from situations. And I give back only what serves my purposes."
She drank, and for just a moment, her eyes reflected the light like a predator's in the darkness.
Lady Morwyn pushed back from the table so quickly her chair nearly toppled. "I... I see. Well. Perhaps we can discuss this another time."
"Of course," Nyt replied warmly, as if nothing had happened. "I do so enjoy our conversations."
Alex watched Lady Morwyn retreat with professional admiration. Nyt had delivered the message perfectly—powerful enough to be terrifying, subtle enough to avoid open confrontation. The marriage alliance was dead, but Lady Morwyn would think twice before making another move against them.
"Impressive," a voice said from behind him. Alex turned to find Lysander, Baron Aldwin's heir, settling into Lady Morwyn's abandoned seat. The young man looked amused rather than frightened. "I don't think I've ever seen someone turn down a Morwyn proposal quite so... definitively."
"You didn't seem particularly invested in the conversation," Alex observed.
"Because I wasn't. Political theater bores me." Lysander took a long drink from his goblet, studying Alex with sharp eyes. "But actual power? That's interesting."
Here it was—the opening Alex had been waiting for. Lysander was young, intelligent, and clearly disillusioned with the endless maneuvering of noble politics. More importantly, he was positioned to inherit significant resources but had little real influence of his own.
Perfect recruitment material.
"Power is relative," Alex said carefully. "A baron's heir has power over his lands and people. But what does that matter if the kingdom itself is failing?"
"Exactly my point." Lysander leaned forward, lowering his voice. "My father spends his time arguing about trade routes and marriage alliances while villages burn and the treasury empties. He thinks politics can solve everything."
"And you don't?"
"I think politics is what got us into this mess." Lysander's expression darkened. "Every lord fighting for their own advantage while the kingdom rots around them. It's going to collapse, and they're too busy playing games to notice."
Alex felt something cold and satisfied settle in his chest. The young baron was already halfway to the conclusions Alex needed him to reach—all he required was a gentle push in the right direction.
"So what would you do differently?" Alex asked.
"Find people with actual vision. Actual power." Lysander gestured subtly toward where Nyt sat, still radiating that subtle wrongness that made nearby nobles uncomfortable. "People who can cut through the political nonsense and address real problems."
"That's dangerous thinking for a future baron."
"Everything worth doing is dangerous." Lysander met his eyes directly. "The question is whether you're willing to work with people who think beyond the next feast or the next marriage alliance."
Alex smiled—not the warm expression he'd practiced for social situations, but something colder and more genuine. "I think we understand each other."
Before Lysander could respond, a commotion near the main entrance drew their attention. Ser Roderick was approaching through the crowd, his face grave with urgency. He moved with the purposeful stride of someone bearing important news.
"If you'll excuse me," Alex said to Lysander, "duty calls."
"Of course. But perhaps we could continue this conversation later? I suspect we have more to discuss."
"I'm certain we do."
Alex rose and made his way through the crowd, intercepting Roderick near one of the hall's shadowed alcoves. The spymaster's usual composure had cracked slightly, revealing genuine concern beneath his practiced calm.
"We need to talk," Roderick said quietly. "Now. Privately."
They slipped through a servant's door into one of the castle's many abandoned chambers. Once the door closed behind them, Roderick's mask fell away entirely.
"How much do you know about international politics?" he asked without preamble.
"Enough to know that summoning heroes probably wasn't kept secret," Alex replied.
"Exactly. Word has reached the neighboring kingdoms. King Aldric thought he was being clever, summoning champions to solve his problems quietly. Instead, he's announced to every rival that we possess strategic magical assets."
Alex felt pieces clicking into place in his mind. "They're going to move against us."
"Sooner than we hoped. My sources suggest Valenhall is already mobilizing. They can't risk letting us stabilize the kingdom with supernatural assistance." Roderick ran a hand through his hair. "The political situation has shifted. What was a slow-burning crisis is about to become an active war."
"How long do we have?"
"Weeks. Maybe a month if we're fortunate." Roderick's expression was grim. "King Aldric is finally beginning to understand the magnitude of what he's unleashed. He's going to push you and your companions into action soon—probably sooner than any of us are ready for."
Alex considered this, weighing possibilities and probabilities. An external threat would accelerate everything—the kingdom's internal politics, the development of their powers, the inevitable confrontation between competing visions of what they were meant to become.
"What do you need from me?" he asked.
"Information. Warning if the King plans to deploy you somewhere you're not prepared for. And..." Roderick hesitated. "I may need you to help destabilize Lady Morwyn's faction. If we're heading for war, we can't afford internal division."
"Destabilize how?"
"Nothing dramatic. Just... encourage certain revelations to come to light. Financial irregularities, compromising correspondences, that sort of thing." Roderick's smile was thin. "Politics is war by other means, and war is politics by other means. The tools are interchangeable."
Alex nodded slowly. It was exactly the kind of opportunity he'd been hoping for—a chance to actively shape the kingdom's power structure while serving his own interests.
"I'll consider it," he said. "But I'll need something in return."
"Of course. What do you want?"
"Access. Resources. And protection for my companions when things inevitably get complicated."
"Done." Roderick extended his hand. "Partners?"
Alex shook it, feeling the weight of another alliance formed, another piece moved into position on the increasingly complex board.
"Partners," he agreed.
When they returned to the feast, the atmosphere had subtly shifted. Conversations were more guarded, groupings more strategic. The political temperature had risen, and everyone could feel it.
Alex found Vlad near the weapons display, examining a ceremonial sword with the focused attention of someone evaluating a tool rather than admiring art. His brother's knuckles were healing from whatever he'd been doing to them earlier—probably testing the limits of his pain-to-strength conversion in private.
"Enjoying the party?" Alex asked.
"Hate it," Vlad replied without looking up. "All this pretense and performance. Would be simpler to just kill the ones who are planning betrayal."
"Simpler, maybe. But less useful." Alex lowered his voice. "How are you feeling? Physically, I mean."
Vlad finally looked at him, and Alex saw something unsettling in his younger brother's eyes. Not just the casual cruelty that had been growing stronger, but something hungrier. More desperate.
"Fine," Vlad said, but his hand moved unconsciously to his ribs, where fresh bruises were visible beneath his formal shirt.
"Vlad."
"I said I'm fine." Vlad's voice carried an edge of violence that made nearby nobles step away unconsciously. "Just... testing limits."
Alex felt a cold recognition settle in his chest. Vlad was self-harming now, feeding his own pain to unlock greater strength. It was logical, efficient, and deeply dangerous—not just physically, but psychologically.
"We should talk about—"
"Nothing to talk about." Vlad set down the ceremonial sword and turned to face him fully. "I'm getting stronger. That's what matters. Unless you have some moral objection?"
The challenge in his voice was clear. Alex could push the issue, try to intervene, play the role of concerned older brother. But that would require admitting that some things mattered more than effectiveness, and Alex wasn't sure he believed that anymore.
"Just be careful," he said finally. "We need you functional."
Vlad's smile was sharp as a blade. "I'm more functional than I've ever been."
As the feast continued around them, Alex found himself calculating probabilities and outcomes with mechanical precision. Lysander was positioned to become a valuable asset. Roderick's alliance opened new opportunities for political manipulation. Nyt had demonstrated her power effectively enough to forestall immediate marriage schemes.
Everything was proceeding according to plan.
So why did watching his brother walk away feel like losing something essential?
Sentiment, he told himself again. Another weakness to be discarded.
But across the hall, he caught sight of Nyt watching Vlad with something that might have been concern flickering across her features. For just a moment, she looked like the person she might have been in a different world, under different circumstances.
Then the moment passed, and she was smiling at Lord Willem with practiced charm, gathering information and building influence with ruthless efficiency.
They were all becoming exactly what this world required them to be.
The feast continued late into the night, a glittering celebration of unity and prosperity while the kingdom slowly collapsed around them. By morning, the real work would begin—the careful manipulation of allies and enemies, the gathering of power, the preparation for the wars that were coming.
But for now, they danced to music played by people who would be dead within the year, ate food that cost more than most citizens would see in a lifetime, and smiled at each other with perfectly concealed malice.
It was, Alex reflected, excellent practice for everything that would follow.
The game had begun in earnest.