Chapter 22: The Wolves Drink First.
Evening came.
Like a curtain over the imperial city, it washed the towering spires in gold and shadow.
The streets below flickered with lanterns, but the brightest light of all seemed to burn in the Imperial Palace, where the Grand Hall had opened its huge doors to an audience of elites.
The banquet had begun.
One by one, the guests arrived—each more resplendent and self-assured than the last, draped in fine clothing, accompanied by whispers of legacy and might.
The Grand Hall—a marvel of marble and magic had crystal chandeliers floating on invisible currents that threw soft light onto a dark floor so polished it mirrored the stars above.
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At its heart was a long, crescent-shaped table raised a few steps above the rest of the gathering, where the high seats were.
The guests fell into three distinct groups.
First were those with no noble blood, but whose strength and legend had carved them a place in the empire’s memory.
Wanderers, duelists, merc prodigies—individuals whose swords and souls had written stories too loud to ignore. Their skin bore the scuffs of training grounds and the pride of self-earned status.
Then came the nobility—young lords and ladies from esteemed houses who had yet to pledge themselves to any faction. They walked like they already owned parts of the world, which, to be fair, they probably did.
Their gazes were careful, their words weighed like coin, and their alliances lay waiting behind smiles.