Daniel

The bell rang again. Not a chime this time—a surge of sound that was deep and harmonic. It rolled through the ballroom like a heartbeat magnified by ritual.

The chandeliers dimmed. The illusion canopy stilled, then flared with a bright white-gold.

A fanfare began—eight horns, expertly tuned, followed by a percussive echo struck against crystal drums. The floor beneath the dais shimmered with layered glyphwork as the Imperial crest unfolded across the platform: a dragon coiled through a ring of stars, each tooth a spell in its own right.

A voice rang out, sharp, trained, and perfectly amplified. “By decree of the Ascendant Throne, by witness of the gathered Tiered Households, the Council of Elders and territorial Governors, the court presents the Empress Ariadne Virelyn.”

Every head bowed. Even the ones that didn’t want to.

Daniel followed suit—though not before catching the flicker of Path Icons, each one subtly activating their record sigils. Dozens of enchanted eyes locked onto the dais. The moment was already history.

And then—

She entered.

The Empress.

She descended from the upper floors in a view of soft mana-infused light, like something conjured from myth and modeled in divinity. Her robes were silver-white over storm-gray, etched with pearlfire threads that traced the symbols of celestial governance—twelve moons, one crown. Her diadem was minimal but unmistakable—celestial alloy that shimmered with the glow of starlight and power. She didn’t need grandeur. She was grandeur. But what struck Daniel first was her face.

Sharp cheekbones. Ice-blonde hair twisted in a perfect knot. Skin like cold marble kissed with silver. Her eyes? A shade of blue that probably had a name in a lost angelic dialect. Oh, and she looked like she walked out of a European modeling agency. So there’s that.

Daniel could not look away. The Empress was basically a Czech supermodel who had been given absolute authority over the cosmos—and never once misused it.

Or maybe she did, but no one cared.

She was, in a word, stupid-hot. But the kind of beauty that didn’t invite warmth. Only reverence. Worship, maybe… terror, possibly.

That’s not what a ruler should look like, Daniel thought. That’s what the world builds altars to.

He paused for a moment. It was a recurring thing. Did he only notice the pretty ones, or was the average woman here just more attractive? He needed a girlfriend; he was starting to lose it.

Daniel, do not stare at the Empress of the Empire. That would be a bad idea.

Did that thought come from him or Ethan? He wasn’t sure anymore.

He made a vow to stay well out of the Empress’ orbit. Beautiful women were already dangerous; one with absolute authority was even worse. He had no reason to believe he would come to the Empress’ attention, and he planned to keep it that way.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Distraction came in the form of a man who stepped out from behind the Empress. It was someone who walked close to her, so Daniel could only assume it was her son: Crown Prince Alaric.

And whatever attention she commanded through cold reverence and icy beauty, he seized through sheer fiery presence.

He was no less composed. No less curated. But entirely different. His ceremonial robes were pitch black, lined with red-gold phoenix embroidery that shimmered with heat-rune undertones. The sleeves split near the wrist—just enough to show glimpses of a subtle vambrace etched with micro-sigil seals. A mirrored clasp held his collar closed, and his stride carried all the practiced ease of someone who’d spent a lifetime being watched.

If the Empress was made of ice and authority, Alaric seemed to burn like oil on fire—uncontrolled and always one flick away from total chaos. He moved like someone who enjoyed the weight of expectation. Like someone who had never once considered that he might fail.

His face reflected that, too—sharp features balanced between two bloodlines. High cheekbones and cool-blue eyes from his mother, the Empress; darker undertones in his jawline and the slight tilt of his gaze that hinted at his father’s legacy—Korean, maybe, or this world’s equivalent.

The blend worked.

Too well.

There was no version of Alaric that wasn’t seen. He was too tall, too smooth, too perfectly placed in every setting—like a mosaic designed to reflect ambition itself. Even the air seemed to shift when he smiled.

Which he did.

A lot.

But it was a strange sort of smile. It was not kind, nor cruel. This surprised Daniel. In most stories, the Prince would be an instant problem, a rival or a bad guy. Obviously, Daniel didn’t have a basis for this thought—just the general trends that had served him well up to this point. Something about Prince Alaric seemed deliberate. Like he knew a secret about everyone in the room and was just waiting for them to figure it out.

Daniel studied him now that he was finally seeing the Prince in the flesh, having studied him prior to attending. He watched as the crowd rippled with restrained awe.

This wasn’t a swordsman’s composure. Or a courtier’s measure of expectation. This was someone born knowing that everyone was watching—and raised to enjoy it.

It was a strong contrast between his brothers-in-law—like Lucas, or even Gavin—and the Prince.

If Lucas was the calm behind the Lis—calculating, quiet, inevitable—Alaric was the lightning bolt everyone hoped would strike their enemies and not their allies… but knowing there was an equal chance of both.

Daniel liked the guy immediately. Alaric paused halfway down the dais, flicked his gaze lazily across the crowd, and gave the shallowest of bows.

Not enough to look subservient. Just enough to remind them they weren’t him.

Nathan muttered under his breath but couldn’t help grinning. “Cocky bastard.”

Daniel nodded once. “He is the man. He knows it.”

Lucas, a few paces behind, remained silent.

But his jaw had tensed.

The Empress resumed her stride without pause, crossing the platform beneath the floating Imperial crest. Alaric followed—half a step behind, and half a beat too slow to look respectful.

Exactly calculated.

Exactly dangerous.

Daniel didn’t know whether the Prince should be admired or punched. Probably both.

But he was sure of one thing:

That man wasn’t just next in line. He was coming for the line itself.

Daniel shook his head. What a stupid thought; what does that even mean?

The room settled with weight and expectation. The Empress didn’t speak right away. Instead, she moved to the front of the dais, eyes sweeping the ballroom—looking, though Daniel was unsure as to what. Her scan was the most natural, nonchalant thing he had ever seen anyone do.

She’s the Empire, Daniel thought. The actual throne just hasn’t caught up yet.

When she lifted her hand, the applause began—soft, cheerful, and synchronized.

It was ritual.

Crown Prince Alaric took his place at her right. He bowed, but not deeply. Just enough to be respectful, not so much as to appear lesser.

It was a performance. One the entire room understood.

The light above the canopy shimmered, refracting starlight across the mirrored floor.

And the moment held.

Right before it broke, Lucas leaned slightly toward Daniel and whispered—voice low, eyes never leaving the dais:

“Now the knives come out.”

Then, louder—directed at Nathan, still visibly grinning:

“Little brother, behave—or so help me, I’ll get Master Zen to beat you within an inch of your life.”

Nathan gave his brother an innocent, completely unconvincing look.