The grand hall of Greystone Keep was a spectacle of excess and calculated artistry, designed to impress and intimidate in equal measure. Crystal chandeliers, crafted to resemble swirling tempests frozen in time, cast a shifting interplay of light and shadow across the long tables brimming with delicacies infused with rare mana-enhancing spices. Roasted pheasant glistened under silver domes, honeyed figs dripped with enchanted nectar, and goblets of dark crimson wine reflected flickering candlelight like pools of blood.

  Nobles from rival houses—Veyra, Kael, and Thornweave—were seated in strategic arrangements, each glancing warily at their counterparts. Tensions were an unspoken current beneath the hum of polite conversation, every smile tinged with concealed malice. The power struggles within the kingdom were woven into the very fabric of their interactions, subtle but no less deadly than a drawn blade.

  Lady Veyra, whose house had narrowly escaped complete annihilation in the last Inquisition purge, twirled the stem of her goblet between gloved fingers, her expression unreadable as she leaned toward Adrian. “The Inquisition’s gaze turns to those who hoard power,” she murmured, her voice carrying just enough weight for nearby ears to catch her veiled warning.

  Adrian did not flinch. He merely inclined his head, his mind already several steps ahead. The proposed betrothal to House Greystone was not about love or even unity—it was a strategic maneuver. The obsidian mines held by Greystone were critical to amplifying Amara’s Mark, an edge they desperately needed. His sharp eyes flicked to Lionel’s envoy, a man who should have exuded confidence but instead had an aura that flickered—too unstable, too unnatural. A telltale sign of something darker. Possession, perhaps?

  Mara, seated beside Adrian, tensed. Her hand beneath the table traced a rune in the air, casting a discreet truth-seeing spell. Her magic curled outward in invisible tendrils, touching the essence of the envoy’s soul. The feedback was immediate and unsettling—a distortion, a presence that did not belong. She withdrew quickly before the force could retaliate. “Something is wrong,” she whispered to Adrian under her breath.

  Meanwhile, Lilia excused herself from the table, weaving her way toward the servant corridors. She had noticed discrepancies in Greystone’s recent trade reports, and she intended to find answers. Slipping into the shadows, she intercepted a Greystone servant outside the pantry. Her voice was honeyed steel. “I need to see the latest trade documents.” The servant hesitated, eyes darting left and right, but Lilia’s piercing gaze left no room for defiance.

  The Moon Gardens sprawled beyond the banquet hall, an ethereal landscape where bioluminescent willows whispered in the night breeze, their luminous tendrils casting ghostly patterns upon the marble paths. The ponds here did not reflect stars but memories—fragments of the past captured in liquid silver. It was said that those who gazed too long might lose themselves in visions of what once was.

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  Elara stood at the garden’s edge, arms crossed, expression cool and unreadable as Liam approached. The tension between them was palpable, an intricate dance of duty and personal wariness.

  “Amara still suffers nightmares,” Liam remarked softly, breaking the silence. “You spoke of them before. They’re getting worse.”

  Elara’s icy demeanor thawed just a fraction. “She sees too much. That kind of sight can fracture the mind.”

  Before Liam could respond, the ground beneath them trembled. A low, guttural growl rumbled from the earth, and a jagged crack split the marble path. From within the depths of the garden, an earth elemental—massive and writhing, its rocky form unstable—emerged. Panic rippled through the nearby guests, who fled toward the safety of the hall.

  Liam reacted first, his Spire-fire flaring to life, casting molten light against the elemental’s shifting form. Elara hesitated only a moment before conjuring crystalline barriers, attempting to contain the creature’s rage. Their combined magic stabilized its thrashing, and gradually, its fury subsided, melting back into the ground with a deep, reluctant groan.

  Elara’s breath was uneven as she turned to Liam. “This wasn’t natural.”

  “It was a test,” Liam replied grimly. He glanced toward the shadowed balcony where Adrian stood with Evelina.

  Adrian smirked, murmuring, “The elemental was no accident. Let’s see how they endure the next test.”

  The attack came swiftly, as all assassinations did. Blades flashed in the dark, bodies collapsed with muffled cries, and the once-joyous feast turned to chaos. When the final assassin fell, the silence that followed was more deafening than the clash of steel.

  Adrian stood over the last surviving assassin, boot pressed against the man’s chest. “Who sent you?”

  The man’s breath came in ragged gasps. His eyes darted wildly before settling into a strange calm. Then, without warning, his mouth opened, and his tongue disintegrated into ash, burned away by runes branded into his flesh.

  “Clever,” Evelina muttered, kneeling to examine the markings. “The Inquisition’s doing.”

  Archduke Lionel stepped forward, his expression carefully neutral. “This was staged.” His accusing gaze locked onto Adrian. “A convenient attack that leaves you unscathed? You expect me to believe this wasn’t orchestrated?”

  Adrian’s temper did not flare, but there was steel in his voice. “Your assassins failed. That doesn’t make me the villain.”

  Evelina wiped her dagger clean and tossed a small orchid onto the assassin’s chest. “Thornweave poison,” she remarked. “I’d say the true orchestrator is elsewhere in this room.”

  Before anyone could respond, a strangled gasp drew their attention. Liam had collapsed, his hands clutching his chest as dark tendrils snaked along his veins, pulsing with Spire corruption. His breath came in shuddering gulps, and his vision blurred as something deep within him reached out—an echo of Amara’s Mark, entwined with the Spire’s influence.

  Mara rushed forward, pressing glowing hands against his skin. Magic hummed in the air as she worked to slow the corruption’s spread, but the glance she exchanged with Lilia was filled with unspoken dread.

  “The corruption spreads faster,” she whispered.

  From the balcony, Adrian’s fingers drummed against the railing, his gaze locked onto Liam’s crumpled form. “Then we’re running out of time.”

  In the depths of the Moon Gardens, a ripple spread across the reflection pools. For a brief moment, the water twisted—not with memories of the past, but with a vision of what was to come. A kingdom fractured. A throne drowned in shadow. And at the center of it all, a single Mark burning like an ember in the darkness.

  And then, the vision was gone.