The ballroom glittered like a palace. Chandeliers spilled light across polished marble, and laughter echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling. A quartet played something delicate in the corner, almost enough to drown out the quiet trades of cash-filled envelopes slipping hand to hand.

No one wore weapons tonight. That was the rule. This hotel was a sanctuary, a temple of indulgence where rival factions pretended peace under silk curtains. Deals were signed in the open, and sins were hidden in champagne flutes.

Owen walked beside John through the crowd. He was dressed in a black suit that fit too perfectly for his age, the boy-king among wolves. Faces turned as he passed: some smiled, others whispered.

“Breathe,” John muttered.
“I am,” Owen replied, though his jaw was set like stone.

He scanned the room. Ministers laughed with smugglers, judges dined with casino barons, and generals raised glasses with men who owned entire streets. And at the heart of it — Thanos Royale.

His father moved from circle to circle, not as a king, but as an actor. He clutched hands, bowed his head, even let tears rim his eyes when speaking of Allen’s death. “My boy, taken too soon,” he told a minister, voice breaking. But when the man left, Thanos’s face reset — clean, controlled.

Owen saw it. The performance. And he hated how convincing it was.

At the high table, Kai Zeke leaned lazily back in his chair, sipping wine with the elegance of a cobra at rest. Beside him, Rod Ronald gestured wildly, his laughter booming over the string quartet. They looked at each other, nodded once. No hostility tonight — not here.

Then another figure slid into the light. Cloaked, masked, movements slow and deliberate. The music faltered for a moment, the air tightening. He did not drink, did not eat. He whispered to Zeke and Ronald, words carried on the soft hiss of the violin strings.

John leaned toward Owen. “That’s not their man.”
Owen didn’t blink. “It’s the Order’s.”

Midway through the evening, waiters glided with trays of crystal glasses. Champagne foamed golden, shimmering like sunlight trapped in liquid. To drink was to belong.

Thanos raised his glass. “To peace,” he declared. A wave of crystal lifted in reply.

Owen did not drink. He only watched, his hand tightening on the stem. John noticed, said nothing.

The night ended in a hush of cigars and perfumes. The masked man vanished into the elevators. Zeke and Ronald left together, their smiles too rehearsed. Ministers stumbled into limousines, pockets heavier.

Thanos lingered. Alone on the balcony, his face was caught between shadows and city light. Owen stood behind him, silent.

His father spoke without turning.
“You don’t win wars by swinging swords, Owen. You win them by holding the hands of those who believe you’d never cut them.”

Owen’s voice was low, cutting:
“And then you cut them anyway?”

For the first time, Thanos turned. His smile was almost gentle, almost paternal.
“Exactly.”