The sun hovered at a gentle angle in the sky, casting golden light through the wide arched windows of the House Valan manor. In the heart of the estate, Henry Caius Valan's office stood in quiet majesty.
The room was spacious and immaculate, with polished marble floors that reflected the soft arcane glow of floating lights embedded into the ceiling's carved patterns. Shelves lined the walls, filled with aged tomes, scrolls, and magical artifacts meticulously organized. At the center stood a grand desk of dark wood, almost buried beneath opened documents and scrolls each marked with magical seals and sigils.
Behind the desk, Henry Caius Valan sat in a high-backed chair, posture composed, one leg crossed over the other. He wore a black, high-collared coat lined with subtle gold trim, his glasses resting neatly on the bridge of his nose. His jet-black hair was slicked back, save for a few loose strands that softened his stern features. Though his expression was sharp and unreadable to most, there was a quiet kindness that lingered behind his pale steel eyes especially when Iria entered the room.
The door opened with a soft creak.
"Did you call for me, Father?" Iria asked, stepping in with her usual calm.
Henry looked up from the scroll he had been reviewing, offering her a small nod.
"Yes. I wanted to hear how the party went with House Duskmere. Did Solus cause trouble again?"
Iria let out a deep, tired sigh as she approached his desk. "Unfortunately… yes."
Henry raised a brow. "What happened?"
"There was a sparring match," Iria began. "Solus got carried away. Again. He started using Solar Fang's arcane draw halfway through."
Henry's gaze sharpened behind his glasses. "Ethan Peirce... You're telling me he kept up with Solus in a sparring match?"
"I didn't catch every detail," Iria replied honestly. "But he managed to land a slice on Solus's chest. Both of them were already injured by the time I stepped in."
There was a thoughtful silence.
Then Iria asked, "So… when are we going to publicize our alliance with House Duskmere?"
Henry leaned back in his chair, removing his glasses and exhaling slowly. "You know it's not that easy."
"I'm open about supporting them," he continued, "but announcing an official alliance before the ball even happens? That could bring backlash not just to us, but to House Duskmere as well."
Iria folded her arms, a small sigh slipping past her lips. "You're way too careful, Father."
As Iria turned to leave, Henry's voice followed her.
"And Iria, make sure to leash Solus extra tight during the ball. If he causes trouble, it could come back to bite House Valan's reputation."
Iria stopped at the door, letting out a deep sigh. "I'll keep an extra eye on him," she said. "But… no promises."
Henry exhaled slowly and nodded. "That's all I ask."
The late afternoon sun poured golden light over House Duskmere, casting long shadows across the stone courtyards and bathing the manor's marble spires in a warm glow. A soft breeze stirred the crimson banners that hung proudly from the manor walls, whispering promises of the night to come.
Inside the manor, preparations were underway.
Tonight was the Grand Ball, an event for Kingmakers and Candidates alone. No family, no younger wards. Maelin, Kite, and Lynn would remain behind, entrusted to their own quiet evening.
In his room, Ethan stood before a leather briefcase set neatly on his bed. He hesitated for a moment before unfastening the brass clasps, the case letting out a soft creak as it opened.
Inside, nestled carefully within dark velvet, lay his formal attire.
A deep navy coat, stitched with silver thread that shimmered faintly when it caught the light. Beneath it, a crisply folded shirt of pale gray and matching tailored pants each cut to fit his frame perfectly. A Duskmere crest, subtle and understated, gleamed from a silver pin tucked near the coat's collar.
But what caught his eye first was the folded letter placed atop the clothing.
Ethan unfolded the parchment carefully, the scent of fresh ink still lingering.
"Dear Master Ethan,
Allow me to thank you once more for your patronage.
It is rare to craft for one standing at the edge of legend. I look forward to seeing the name you carve into our world.
Enclosed, you will find an additional gift, a lightweight leather armor, thin and flexible, designed to wear beneath your formal attire. Should anything... spicy occur tonight, know you are better protected than appearances suggest.
No charge, of course. Consider it an investment.
Regards, Varen Thorne"
Ethan let out a short laugh under his breath. "Spicy, huh?"
He lifted the fine leather armor from the case. It was light, almost unnervingly so, the material soft yet firm between his fingers. He could hardly feel the weight of it as he donned it beneath the formal shirt.
Piece by piece, he dressed.
The armor first, then the tailored shirt, then the navy coat with silver embroidery. The pants fit snugly but allowed movement, the boots polished to a mirror sheen.
As he fastened the last button, he caught his reflection in the mirror.
Not a student. Not a civilian.
Something, someone–else.
A knock came at his door.
"Ethan," Ceris's voice called softly. "You ready? We should meet up with Arthur soon."
He took a breath, adjusted the Duskmere crest pin, and squared his shoulders.
"Coming," he said, voice steady.
Once Ethan stepped out into the hallway, Ceris was waiting just outside. Her eyes swept over him and then she frowned slightly.
"Your collar," she said, stepping closer before he could react.
Before Ethan could protest, Ceris was already reaching up, her fingers deftly adjusting the misaligned fold of fabric near his neck.
Ethan stiffened, the sudden closeness making him acutely aware of her delicate touch. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. His cheeks grew warm despite himself.
"There," Ceris said, stepping back with a small smile, her hands falling to her sides. "Much better."
Ethan cleared his throat awkwardly, straightening even though she had already fixed the issue.
"Thanks," he muttered.
Together, they made their way downstairs to the entrance hall, where Arthur waited, already dressed in formal noblewear a deep, dignified black coat embroidered with muted gold.
Arthur gave them both an approving nod as they approached.
"You both clean up well," he said calmly. "Sylviane and Sayo have already departed with Edrick. They'll be handling their introductions separately from us."
His sharp gaze settled briefly on Ethan, and his tone grew firmer.
"Ethan, remember, this ball is more than pageantry. Eyes will be on House Duskmere tonight. Watch your back, and above all, do not embarrass us."
Ethan straightened unconsciously under the weight of Arthur's words.
Arthur continued, his voice lower but no less serious. "Stay by Ceris's side at all times. Protect her. Support her. No matter how the night unfolds."
Ethan gave a short, resolute nod. "Understood."
Arthur's expression softened just a touch. "Good. Now, let's go."
Tonight, the Grand Ball awaited.
By the time the carriages reached the stone courtyard before the Grand Hall, night had fully descended. The sky above was a canvas of deep indigo, flecked with distant stars. A soft breeze stirred the banners hanging from the manor's high walls, their sigils illuminated by enchanted lanterns casting a warm golden glow.
It was just past the seventh bell, the appointed hour for the gathering of Kingmakers and Candidates.
At the top of the marble steps, a butler clad in crisp, dark formalwear awaited them. Flanking either side of the towering doors were fully armored guards, standing rigid as statues, their halberds gleaming under the lantern light. Each carried a secondary blade at their waist, and though their visors hid their faces, their stillness and readiness spoke volumes.
Arthur led the way up the steps, Ceris following with steady grace, and Ethan trailing a half-step behind, doing his best not to fidget.
As they reached the landing, the butler bowed low, voice smooth and practiced.
"Welcome, House Duskmere. You are expected."
Without further delay, the great doors began to open inward, the creak of their ancient hinges swallowed swiftly by the hum of arcane enchantments woven into the threshold.
An announcer, standing just inside the entrance, struck the floor with a silver-tipped staff. The sound echoed sharply across the polished stone floors beyond, commanding immediate attention.
In a voice amplified by subtle magic, the herald proclaimed:
"Presenting: Lord Arthur Duskmere, head of House Duskmere. Candidate Ceris Valen Duskmere. And Kingmaker Ethan Peirce."
The words rippled through the Grand Hall like a stone dropped into still water.
As they stepped inside, Ethan felt it instantly.
The Grand Hall was vast, a sprawling space of marble and obsidian floors polished so finely that the chandeliers' soft lights danced across them in rippling reflections. Round tables with crisp white tablecloths circled the edges of the hall, each adorned with intricate centerpieces and trays of glistening appetizers. Goblets of wine and sparkling water floated lightly through the air, carried by small hovering enchantments or offered by silent-footed servants in black and silver livery.
Near the center of the room, the Candidates and Kingmakers mingled, dressed in silks, embroidered tunics, gowns woven with arcane threads, their crests displayed with quiet, deadly pride.
The stares pressed down like an invisible wall.
Ethan resisted the urge to tug at his collar again. Not all the eyes were on him in truth, most of the scrutiny landed on Arthur and Ceris but the sheer ambient pressure made his skin prickle, made each step feel heavier.
Arthur moved forward with absolute calm, his bearing like that of a mountain refusing to bow to the wind.
Ceris followed with the poise of a blade drawn but sheathed silent, elegant, controlled.
And Ethan, despite his every instinct screaming to flinch kept his chin level and his stride steady. Barely.
A few murmurs buzzed at the edges of his hearing. Polite nods masked sharp glances. Faint, amused smiles flickered among minor nobles. Whispers chased their footsteps.
Still, House Duskmere crossed the marble floor without hesitation, claiming a place near the center of the gathering.
The musicians at the far end of the hall played a soft, elegant refrain, the sound almost drowned beneath the low tide of conversation. Servants moved like shades between the tables, offering glasses of wine or delicate hors d'oeuvres atop trays.
Ethan inhaled slowly, focusing on Ceris's steady pace ahead of him.
He could endure this.
He would endure this.
Because tonight was not about comfort.
It was about standing tall in a world that had already begun measuring them by invisible scales.
And House Duskmere would not be found wanting.
The butler who had announced their arrival approached swiftly, bowing with crisp precision.
"House Duskmere, if you would follow me," he said smoothly, gesturing toward a reserved section along the right side of the Grand Hall.
Arthur gave a nod of acknowledgment, and they followed the butler across the glistening marble floor.
Ethan kept his head high, forcing himself to match Ceris's composed stride despite the heavy stares that prickled at his skin.
As they reached their spot, Ethan immediately recognized familiar faces.
Edrick stood a short distance away, deep in conversation with a cluster of minor noble heads. His tone was low, his stance relaxed, but the sharpness in his pale eyes made it clear that even here, every word was a blade to be measured and weighed.
Sayo remained close, her figure poised and still like a statue carved from shadow and silk. Even amid the grandeur and noise, her presence was silent, unreadable, almost unnervingly calm.
Sylviane was nearby, caught in conversation with a trio of noblemen. A smile curved her lips, elegant and polite, but Ethan could tell even from across the room that it didn't reach her eyes. Her posture was rigid, her laughter too rehearsed. She was forcing herself to endure, to play her role as expected.
Arthur turned to Ceris and Ethan once they reached their section.
"Stay here," he instructed, his voice low but firm. "Mingle later, when the time is right. I will handle the initial greetings with the heads of other houses."
Without waiting for a response, Arthur adjusted his coat with a practiced flick and moved gracefully into the crowd, quickly swallowed by the tide of nobles.
Left standing by the edge of their assigned space, Ethan resisted the urge to fidget. He scanned the grand hall cautiously, trying not to look as overwhelmed as he felt.
The first thing that caught his eye was a familiar figure.
Across the hall, a tall, broad-shouldered man waved enthusiastically the moment their gazes met. Solus.
Before Ethan could even decide whether to wave back, Solus made to stride toward him with the kind of reckless energy that could topple a banquet table.
But a slender hand shot out and seized his wrist mid-step.
Iria Valan.
She stood beside him in a deep navy gown, composed and unfazed as she tightened her grip with the casual ruthlessness of someone very used to managing chaos. Solus pouted, mouthing exaggerated complaints while trying to free his hand, but Iria held firm, barely sparing him a glance.
Eventually, with a dramatic slump of his shoulders, Solus relented, though he didn't stop pointing at Ethan and miming some grand conversation they were apparently supposed to have later.
Ethan looked away quickly, pretending not to notice the few nobles glancing at the spectacle with amused smirks.
He kept scanning the ballroom, trying to anchor himself in something anything other than the weight of being watched.
Near one of the pillars stood a serene-looking woman with sharp sea-gray eyes, her navy and silver gown flowing like waves. House Roum, Ethan guessed.
Beside her loomed a Kingmaker unlike any Ethan had seen yet an athletic woman with storm-blue hair, resting one hand casually on a massive anchor that shimmered faintly with arcane sigils. She looked completely at ease, as if the political games unfolding around her were little more than shifting tides.
Not far beyond them, leaning against a far pillar with a goblet of wine dangling loosely from his fingers, was a boy about Ethan's age tan-skinned, muscled, with a lazy confidence in his posture.
His Kingmaker stood nearby, spinning a revolver idly around one finger, the weapon glinting under the chandelier light. His long brown hair and full beard made him look more like a retired gunslinger than a courtly guardian, but there was something unmistakably sharp beneath the relaxed exterior.
Ethan swallowed thickly.
There were too many faces. Too many unknowns.
And the night had barely begun.
A sharp crack rang through the air as the herald struck the marble floor with his silver-tipped staff.
The hall fell instantly silent, as if the very walls themselves were holding their breath.
"By the decree of history and the blood of kings past, Presenting to the gathered houses and Kingmakers: His Majesty, the Twelfth King, King Eryndor Valeheart, Accompanied by his sworn Kingmaker, Aurelion of the Eternal Mandate."
The massive double doors creaked open once more, slower this time, with a gravity that seemed to tug at the very atmosphere of the Grand Hall.
Through the widening gap stepped a figure draped in a robe of deep red, royal blue, and brilliant gold, the fabric embroidered with ancient symbols of victory and sacrifice. Upon his brow rested a crown simple, unyielding, adorned only with a few deep blue gems.
King Eryndor Valeheart.
Though age had painted his hair a stark white and carved deep lines across his face, his frame remained broad and strong, his posture unbowed. His steps were measured, dignified, and every inch the King he once was.
At his right side walked a presence no less imposing.
Aurelion.
Cloaked in a flowing mantle of tattered gold and black, with shimmering ghost-like embroidery, Aurelion moved like a living omen. His eyes were like dying suns gold, dimming, but still burning fiercely at the core, each glance heavy with a silent judgment. His mere presence caused thin cracks to splinter along the polished marble beneath his feet, invisible pressure radiating from him like an unspoken command to kneel. Crown fragments, remnants of a binding oath once sworn to his original King, were embedded into his skin, gleaming faintly beneath the folds of his mantle. Even beside a King, Aurelion did not stand as a servant, but as a force that history itself had been forced to acknowledge.
Behind them, a formation of Royal Knights followed their armor pure white, adorned with intricate gold engravings that caught the chandelier light. Etched into every plate were ancient rune markings, softly pulsing with faint arcane light, as if the very armor breathed with restrained power.
The rhythmic clatter of armored boots striking marble echoed in solemn cadence as they descended into the hall.
And not a single soul dared to speak.
The hall held its breath as King Eryndor Valeheart stepped forward, the ancient weight of his presence filling every corner.
When he spoke, his voice was not loud but it carried to every soul present, as if the stones themselves listened.
"Thousands of years ago, our forebears carved order from the chaos of ambition and blood.
They forged the Candidacy a crucible not of birthright, but of trial.
Twelve Regions. Twelve Thrones. Twelve Kings. Each ruler, chosen not by inheritance, but by the strength to rise above all others."
His gaze swept across the assembled nobles, Kingmakers, and Candidates heavy, unyielding.
"You who stand here you are not heirs. You are not kings. You are but sparks... yet to ignite.
The Candidacy you enter is not mercy. It is not honor. It is a crucible. It will burn away the false, the weak, the unworthy, until only one flame remains in each region.
You have been given no guarantees. No promises. No crowns. Only a chance."
Another pause. Silence so deep even the chandeliers seemed to tremble.
"Honor it. Seize it. Or be forgotten, as countless before you have."
He turned slightly, signaling to the herald and the Royal Knights who now stood rigidly at attention.
"Tonight, we begin with the ancient rite. The Trial of Oaths.
Show us your strength. Show us your unity. Not with words... but with steel, with spirit, with the fire that dares to challenge fate itself."
King Eryndor's final words echoed like a living decree:
"Step forward, Candidates. Show the world who you are."