[ The Grand Banquet Hall – House Velmira, Capital Sector V ]

The chandeliers blazed with whitefire. Gold-encrusted tables stretched beneath vaulted glass ceilings. Nobles wore masks—not for fashion, but tradition. Every House sent its elite, veiled behind charm and silence.

The Banquet of Accord was not peace.

It was politics in its most savage form.

And House Varnel had been invited.

[ Arrival ]

Elysia stood at the threshold, straight-backed in crimson court armor stitched with phoenix thread.

Beside her, Lucien Caelum was cloaked in black formalwear, tailored sharply, a silver chain draping from his collar to a single gemstone at his chest. He carried no visible weapon.

“This is a trap,” Elysia whispered.

Lucien smiled faintly. “Every banquet is.”

“You shouldn’t be here. If they realize what you are—”

“Then they’ll remember who they’re not.”

They entered.

[ Inside the Banquet ]

Music drifted softly. Laughter echoed like glass on marble. Every gaze shifted as the Varnel pair passed—some amused, others sharpening behind jeweled eyes.

Lucien walked with his hands folded behind his back. Calculating. Observing. Beneath his polished shoes, a slight ripple followed him in shadow.

The Court Beneath watches, even here.

They were approached almost immediately.

Lord Ravien Soltair, heir of House Soltair, in deep navy formalwear and falcon sigil brooch, extended a hand.

“Lady Varnel. A pleasure. And this must be your… servant.”

Lucien bowed with graceful precision. “Lucien Caelum, at your disposal.”

Ravien’s smile tightened. “So you’re the one upsetting the registry flames.”

Lucien’s eyes met his. “Merely adjusting the temperature.”

Ravien’s laugh was charming. Calculated.

“Let’s hope you don’t overcook the game, then.”

[ The Game Begins ]

Seated across from powerbrokers and pretenders, Lucien listened.

He let them whisper.

He let them guess.

And then, with each toast, each veiled jab, each subtle insult—he replied with exact precision:

• He corrected Lord Vellian’s historical misquote—one that erased his own forgotten reign.
• He returned Lady Ulane’s subtle jab with a folded note: “Your second son prefers spellwhiskey to steel—he shouldn’t train alone on west balconies.”
• He offered Lord Ravien a single card from a memory deck—a blank one. A message: You have no hand here.

And all the while, he sipped quietly.

Waiting.

Until the final toast.

[ Assassins in Velvet ]

The music fell into a lull.

Four servers moved forward with silver trays—too synchronized. Too practiced.

Lucien saw it instantly.

Poison. Twin blades. One mental caster.

He let them reach Elysia.

Then he moved.

Flash.

With a single step, he interrupted the illusion spell mid-cast. Silverware clattered as one server choked, eyes wide.

“Disarming,” Lucien said, twisting the blade from another’s sleeve, “isn’t only physical.”

The first assassin collapsed, nose bleeding from psychic backlash.

The others followed.

Lucien didn’t draw a weapon.

He simply moved.

Each step guided the attackers’ momentum into walls, cutlery, and their own panic.

By the time guards noticed, it was over.

[ Aftermath ]

Blood stained the white linen.

Ravien Soltair stood. “How did you—”

Lucien turned to him.

“Because I’ve dined with devils before. And these? These were amateurs.”

The hall was silent.

Then applause—scattered, polite, terrified.

Elysia stared at Lucien as if seeing him again for the first time.

“You knew they’d try.”

“I counted on it.”

“Why?”

Lucien looked at the spilled wine, the torn masks.

“Because now… none of them know if they were the target.”

[ Epilogue – Beneath the Banquet Hall ]

Later that night, a single masked figure crept through the service corridors beneath the banquet chamber.

She reached the broken bodies of the assassins—

Only to find them gone.

In their place stood a card.

Blank.

On the back, only one line:

“The Court accepts your resignation.”