25. The Banquet
The Banquet
The palace from the Proving loomed above us, its alabaster spires cutting into the night sky like teeth.
Lanterns floated overhead, seemingly untethered to anything physical, their golden light casting strange shadows across the gathering crowd.
Servants moved gracefully, their forms blurring at the edges.
"Remember," Xül murmured, his hand resting lightly on my lower back, "everything is a performance. How you present yourself tonight affects not just the trials, but your potential place in the pantheon should you ascend. The divine have long memories."
I nodded, my mouth suddenly dry. I hated being back in the place where so many contestants had died screaming, where I'd first glimpsed the true cruelty of the Trials.
Ahead of us, Legends and their contestants formed a loose line, awaiting entrance into the grand hall. I scanned the crowd, searching for Thatcher but couldn't spot him among the sea of finely dressed strangers.
"He'll be here," Xül said, reading my thoughts. "Chavore never misses an opportunity to peacock."
I started to respond, but the words died in my throat as I noticed the viewing portals—dozens of them, shimmering like heat distortions in the air around the entrance. Invisible eyes watched from across Voldaris.
"A larger audience than I expected," I said quietly.
"The domains are hungry for entertainment." Xül guided me forward as the line began to move. "They want to see who thrives, who might pose a threat, who shows promise."
"And who stumbles over themselves tonight?"
His lips curved. "Precisely."
We reached the entrance, where a herald stood beside a massive ledger. With meticulous care, he inscribed something in the book.
"Xül, Warden of the Damned, Prince of Draknavor," the herald announced, his voice carrying unnaturally far. "And his chosen, Thais Morvaren of Saltcrest."
We stepped into the grand hall. Crystal chandeliers hung from impossibly high ceilings, their light fracturing through prisms that sent rainbows dancing across marble floors. Long tables arranged in a crescent occupied one half of the space, while the other remained open.
"Where do we—" I began, but Xül's sudden tension cut me off.
Following his gaze, I saw the source of his discomfort. A woman approached—tall and lithe, with wild beauty that seemed barely contained by her formal attire. Her eyes locked on Xül.
Nyvora.
"Prince Xül," she purred, reaching us in a few graceful strides. "What a pleasant surprise. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten how to leave your little island."
"Nyvora." He inclined his head. "I see you've managed to escape your mother's watchful eye for the evening."
Her laughter was like venom, beautiful but with a sharp edge. "Mother understands the importance of social connections." Her gaze shifted to me, assessing and dismissive in the span of a heartbeat. "And your little star-wielder, how adorable. "
Before Xül could answer, I met her gaze directly and smiled, saying nothing.
Surprise flickered in Nyvora's eyes—I hadn't taken her bait. She turned back to Xül. "She's well-trained, at least."
"Thais," Xül said, deliberate emphasis on my name, "may I present Nyvora, daughter of Davina and Aesymar of Fauna."
I inclined my head. "A pleasure to meet you, Lady Nyvora."
Her eyes narrowed fractionally, assessing my response for any hint of mockery. Finding none she could openly object to, she smiled. It wasn’t a warm thing. "How delightful to meet a contestant with manners. So many of them forget themselves."
A clear warning, wrapped in pleasantry.
"I'm fortunate to have an excellent mentor," I replied, the words balanced carefully between genuine and ambiguous.
"Yes, well." She placed her hand on Xül's arm. "I'm sure we'll have time to become better acquainted throughout the evening."
Before either of us could respond, a new arrival was announced—Chavore and his chosen, Thatcher Morvaren.
My heart leaped at the sound of my brother's name. I turned to see him enter the hall, looking almost unrecognizable in formal attire of the deepest blue, silver embroidery at his collar. Beside him, Chavore cut an imposing figure—tall and broad-shouldered, golden eyes taking in the surroundings.
Thatcher's eyes found mine across the crowded hall, and the bond between us surged with relief and concern.
You're okay, he sent, the thought tinged with worry.
I'm fine, I assured him. You?
Surviving.
Nyvora's voice pulled me back to the immediate moment. "...dinner soon, I expect. Come, Xül, I’ve arranged for you to sit with us." She tugged his arm.
"Actually," Xül said smoothly, disengaging himself from her grip, "I've already requested a table for my contestant and I. Training never ends, as I’m sure you’re aware. Perhaps another time, Nyvora. "
Her smile froze, a crack appearing in her perfect composure. "Of course. But I will find you later. Don’t think I’ll allow this evening to end without a proper conversation."
With a final glance at me—one that seemed restrained—she glided away, rejoining a group of Legends near one of the viewing portals.
"That," Xül murmured once she was out of earshot, "was well handled."
"She’s not exactly subtle," I observed.
"Few are." His hand returned to the small of my back, guiding me toward the tables. "Come. We need to establish our position before the real games begin."
As we crossed the hall, I noticed the careful arrangement of the tables. Near the center, where the arc of the crescent reached its apex, sat a table with Morthus's emblem—a black key crossed with a silver scythe.
Xül pulled out a chair for me, the gesture oddly formal. I sat, expecting him to take a seat across from me, but instead, he settled into the chair at my side. The table was set for four, two places still empty across from us.
"I thought the Legends would sit together," I said, arranging the folds of my dress. "Away from their... charges."
"Some will," he replied, signaling a servant who immediately appeared with glasses of wine that glowed faintly blue. "But tonight is about perception as much as celebration. Who sits with whom sends messages to everyone watching."
"And what message are we sending?"
He handed me one of the glasses, his fingers brushing mine. "That you are worth my personal attention."
Before I could process the implications of that statement, a familiar voice cut through the ambient noise.
"Well, well. I thought you might wait for us."
I looked up to see Aelix approaching, Marx at his side. She looked stunning in a dress of deep scarlet, her expression one of studied boredom, though I caught the gleam of interest in her eyes as she took in the gathering.
"Aelix," Xül greeted him. "I was beginning to think you'd found a more interesting engagement."
"And miss this spectacle of divine excess?" Aelix grinned, pulling out a chair for Marx before taking his own. "Never."
"Miss Morvaren," Aelix said, turning his attention to me. "You’re looking remarkably intact."
"I'm difficult to kill," I replied, taking a sip of the luminous drink that tasted like summer berries and sparkling wine.
"So I've heard."
Marx rolled her eyes. "Can we skip the cryptic posturing? I'm starving, and whatever that is—" she nodded toward a servant carrying a platter, "—smells incredible."
As if her words had been a signal, servants appeared around the hall, bearing plates of food that defied description. One was placed at the center of our table. It resembled fish but with colors no natural creature should possess, arranged in a spiral pattern.
As I ate, I let my gaze wander across the hall. Thatcher sat at a table with Chavore, Kavik, and several Legends I recognized from the Choosing. He seemed engaged in conversation.
"Have you noticed our audience has grown?” Aelix asked. “More viewing portals now than at the beginning of the evening."
I looked around and saw he was right. The shimmering distortions had multiplied, positioned strategically throughout the hall. One hung directly above our table, I realized with a jolt.
"The others may not attend in person," Xül said quietly, "but they're watching. Everyone is watching."
"Delightful," Marx muttered. "Nothing like having your meal observed by immortal voyeurs."
As dinner progressed, I became increasingly aware of the complex web of interactions around us.
Every movement seemed choreographed, every conversation layered with hidden meanings.
Across the hall, I noticed a contestant speaking animatedly to a Legend.
The Legend smiled, but predation lurked in the corners of his eyes.
Nearby, a viewing portal shifted position, angling to better capture the exchange.
"Darian from the Teranta Mountains," Aelix murmured, following my gaze. "Kavik's chosen. He's been trying to curry favor with other Legends. Dangerous game."
"Why?" I asked, keeping my voice low. "Isn't rapport part of this... spectacle?"
"Rapport, yes. Appearing desperate and disloyal, no." Xül's fingers brushed my wrist beneath the table. "Watch."
The Legend leaned closer to Darian, asking something that made the young man's face light up with enthusiasm. With each word, the Legend's smile grew.
"He's quite the talker," I murmured.
"And everyone is listening," Xül agreed.
Sure enough, across the hall, Kavik had noticed the exchange. His expression remained pleasant, but a cold fury radiated from him. When Darian returned to his table, Kavik leaned close, whispering something that made all color drain from the young man's face.
"What will happen to him?" I asked.
"Best case? Kavik merely withdraws support, leaving him to navigate the next trial alone." Aelix shrugged. "Worst case... well, accidents happen during training."
The cruelty of it twisted my stomach. Music began to filter through the hall—a strange, haunting melody played on elaborate harps. The first couple moved to the center of the floor—Chavore and Elysia.