CHAPTER 90: BANQUET OF SNAKES

The grand banquet hall glittered beneath chandeliers strung with crystal, polished to gleam like stars captured in glass. Noblemen and women filled the floor, their silks and velvets whispering of wealth, secrets, and ambition sharpened like blades.

The scent of rare wines and spices hung in the air, mingling with laughter a shade too sharp and smiles stretched a touch too wide. Tonight, the court of Valeria had gathered to welcome home the forgotten prince.

Aric stepped inside. His figure, dark against the lavish light, cut through the decadence with a presence that silenced the room in a heartbeat.

His expression was blank, eyes cold as tempered steel. At his side walked Serina—a shadow of loyalty, gaze sharp and wary, matching his every step.

This was a hall of lions dressed as lambs, predators veiled in embroidery and jewels. But here was Aric: a man who had known war and death, resurrected by resilience.

To him, this court was no more than spectacle. He had no intention of being a piece in their games.

Yet to them, he was a curiosity—the prince they had dismissed as too frail to leave his sickbed, now standing before them as if death had been to afraid to claim him.

Whispers coiled around the room like vipers, passed behind raised goblets and beneath half-hidden glances.

They reassessed him, recalculated, and for the first time, feared.

Across the hall, the factions clustered—separate, yet entwined in a poisonous web of allegiance and ambition.

At the far end stood Duke Garamond Rothval of the Iron Circle, pride and arrogance gleaming in his eyes as he leaned close to his son-in-law, Prince Valen Valerian.

House Rothval, with its iron grip on the empire’s military, waited like a caged beast, loyal to Valen with brutality forged in battle and blood.

Near them, Lady Elyra Brienne of the Shadow League sipped her wine, her gaze sly and venomous. Her faction ruled through whispers and sabotage, weaving their influence through the empire’s food supply.

They worked to secure Sylas’s claim not with strength, but with shadows.

At the opposite side stood Count Lysander Drakov of the Silver Dawn, his voice carrying the fervor of a reformist.

The Silver Dawn promised progress and change—but most knew better than to trust their honeyed words.

Among them lingered Gerald Vane, indulgent yet ambitious, his refinement a mask for hunger. House Vane styled itself pioneers, merchants clothed as courtiers, whispering for reform only when it lined their coffers.

And in the shadows waited the Ashen Covenant. Few dared speak of them, yet their presence was undeniable.

Viscount Kael Draylen, head of the once-great Draylen line, gave Aric the faintest nod—a silent salute from one betrayed by the empire, still burning with vengeance.

As Aric moved deeper into the hall, the Iron Circle’s nobles watched with disdain, as if his mere presence defied their prince’s ordained right to rule. But Aric met each gaze with indifference so sharp it cut deeper than scorn.

Sneers faltered beneath the weight of his quiet wrath.

Here stood not a boy, but a prince returned. A ruthless king cloaked in lamb’s guise. His silence was more terrifying than any threat.

A figure glided toward him—Gerald Vane, expression schooled into grace, smile sharp but harmless. With a practiced bow, he spoke, voice slick with charm barely hiding ambition.

"Prince Aric," The young lord purred. "A pleasure to see you well. I feared the... perils of the battlefield may have left you unscathed in body but broken in spirit."

Aric raised a brow, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

"I assure you, Lord Vane, I am quite whole."

"Indeed. A miraculous recovery." Gerald’s tone thinned, laced with probing curiosity. "Rumors do tend to spin wild tales. Yours... whisper of feats almost mythic."

Aric’s gaze narrowed, ice flickering beneath the surface.

"Rumors are the veins of court," he replied smoothly. "Though I find they reveal more about those who whisper them... than those they concern."

A flicker of irritation cracked Gerald’s mask before it vanished. He had sought to draw Aric into idle talk, to pry truth from whispers. But Aric’s gaze told him plainly: his intentions were already laid bare—and dismissed.

The nobles nearby leaned closer, sensing the sharpened edge of their exchange.

Gerald pressed on, his smile rebuilt, his voice silk-wrapped steel.

"Surely, a man of such determination must harbor ambitions of his own. I wonder—do those ambitions serve the empire... or something more personal?"

The jab was subtle, a lure cloaked as intrigue.

Aric tilted his head, eyes dark as stormclouds. He leaned in, voice a whisper cold enough to frost the air between them.

"Fools with ambition, Lord Vane, are like shadows. They cling to whatever light profits them. But in darkness, they are revealed for what they are... absolutely nothing."

The crack in Gerald’s mask widened. Fury and humiliation warred across his face.

"Are you implying something, Your Highness?" His tone shed velvet, turning to steel.

Aric’s reply was soft, almost gentle, but weighted like a blade at Gerald’s throat.

"Merely that you should tread carefully. There are shadows in this empire far darker than ambition. And not all of them are commanded by fools."

A silence fell, thick and crushing. Gerald’s pride twisted, forcing him to raise his voice, sharp enough to cut the hush.

"You overstep, Fourth Prince. You think your rank entitles you to—"

Aric did not flinch. His calm, more terrifying than fury, sliced through Gerald’s bluster.

"Is today truly the day you wish to die, Lord Vane?"

The words struck like a blade. The hall froze. A thousand breaths caught in throats. Gerald paled. Behind Aric’s calm, he glimpsed the promise of death.

"You... you cannot simply..." Gerald stammered, his voice hollow. "You wouldn’t dare—"

"Try me."

It was barely more than a whisper, but it rolled through the hall like thunder.

Gerald faltered. His fury crumbled under the weight of that terrible calm. The eyes of the court bored into him, their murmurs sharp with mockery. Pride turned to poison.

Slowly, he bowed. His voice dripped humiliation.

"My... apologies, Your Highness."

Aric did not release him.

"And where, exactly, do you think you’re going?"

Gerald froze. The mistake dawned on him. Slowly, he turned back. Aric’s smile was faint, merciless.

"If you hunger for death so eagerly, Lord Vane, you need only ask. But perhaps your pride would prefer you grovel first."

Gerald clenched his fists. His bow deepened, words choking past clenched teeth.

"Forgive me... Your Highness."

Aric let the silence stretch, his gaze unrelenting, before dismissing him with a flick of his hand.

The dismissal echoed like a bell through the hall.

And every noble present—from the Iron Circle to the Ashen Covenant—saw the truth laid bare:

The fourth prince was not to be mocked. He was a threat. Perhaps he always had been.