CHAPTER 439: THE GOLDEN JUBILEE: CHAOS

As the music swelled, the hall became alive with sound—fiddles and lutes weaving their melodies into the clang of silver cutlery, the clink of crystal goblets, and the laughter and conversation. Minute by minute, the air thickened, the feast growing louder, rowdier.

Reuben’s dark velvet robe with gold trimmings caught the orange gleam of the chandelier as he moved around to mingle with the guests.. It was fine enough, and princely enough, yet not ostentatious. He had chosen it deliberately; he knew too much finery would draw whispers of vanity, while too little would feed doubts of weakness. Balance—that was the game he played, though never as effortlessly as his mother.

As he crossed the hall, Reuben’s eyes flicked over the assembled lords and ladies. He tried to read the room as his father once instructed—watch the mouths, yes, but more the eyes.

Behind him sat his parents, his father among the dukes and ministers. Heimdal looked stronger than before, and though the sight lifted the crushing guilt gnawing inside Reuben, it did not ease his shame. He had defied his father’s counsel. He dared not meet that gaze. His wandering across the hall was escape as much as duty.

He saw Lord Duval, his uncle, raise a goblet in greeting. The smile was warm, practiced, but Reuben thought he saw the faintest curl of satisfaction in it—like a man who knew more than he revealed. At Duval’s side, Malik leaned close, whispering something that made Duval’s brow twitch before both returned to their masks of ease.

Knives, already unsheathed, in the court. His father’s warning struck like a lash. Paranoia, he told himself. Bitter words from a king grown old and mistrustful. Yet suspicion once spoken had a way of rooting itself.

Reuben drifted past a cluster of young lords and foreign envoys. Their laughter rang too loudly, their goblets rose too often. Yet beneath the revelry their eyes betrayed calculation, glancing repeatedly toward Queen Helga. Admiration, yes—but ambition, too. Would they rally behind her if Heimdal fell? Or had their loyalties already been purchased elsewhere?

The hall itself pressed in on him—its grandeur almost oppressive. The scent of food clung thick in the air, a mixture both festive and faintly suffocating.

A servant poured wine into his goblet. Reuben swirled the crimson liquid but did not drink. Across the hall, Duval’s gaze found his again, steady and unreadable. Malik leaned back in his chair, expression neutral, yet his fingers tapped lightly against the table in an irregular rhythm. It was nothing. Or perhaps it was a signal.

Reuben’s chest tightened. Was he seeing threats where none existed? Or had his father been right all along—that the greatest danger to Northem was not Estalis or Zura, but betrayal within these very walls?

His mother, the queen, once again stood and delivered another message. Her voice rose above the hall, commanding, assured. She lifted her goblet again, her words strong and unwavering. The nobles answered her with cheers, but Reuben heard it differently this time—not a chorus of loyalty, but a discordant choir of competing ambitions.

He forced a smile as lords toasted him, yet his wine remained untouched. Who among you waits for me to stumble? And who already sharpens the blade? Straightening his back, he strode toward the royal table with deliberate confidence.

...

In a shadowed corner, Jethru and Lara dined while Alaric barely touched his food, his sharp gaze sweeping the crowd. Jethru, too, scanned the hall between mouthfuls.

"Master, who are you searching for?" Lara murmured, wine at her lips.

"Julian Cardill," Jethru replied. "But it seems shame kept him away."

Lara rolled her eyes. Who in their right mind would attend a celebration, attend a feast honoring their own humiliation?

The three watched silently from the corner. They scrutinized every guest, marking those who looked suspicious.

Indeed, security was suffocatingly strict. Only those with invitations were allowed. Beyond the gilded doors, knights and hidden guards had tripled their numbers.

And the soldiers of the Phoenix Legion had mixed among the knights of the dukedom of Silverstone, the Arches, and Greenshire.

...

While people indulged in food and wine inside the banquet hall, far from the clamor of the feast, at the edge of the palace grounds, shadows stirred. Black-hooded figures pressed themselves against the stone wall, slipping one by one into a dog hole dug in secret.

"Aren’t there hounds in this part of the palace grounds?" Shaya whispered as she crawled right behind Bener.

"If there are," he muttered back, "Gray and Snow will silence them."

They were the group that traversed the Alta-Sierra together with Prince Alaric and Lara. They entered the palace from the east through a dog hole that Gray and Snow dug.

Behind them, soldier after soldier slipped into the palace’s underbelly—five hundred men of the Phoenix Legion, with the two wolves at the vanguard. They crouched in the darkness, waiting for the signal.

...

Back in the banquet hall, nobles from across Northem debated over border strife and the looming threat of Estalis at Fereya, Voices rising with each emptied goblet until their words slurred into rowdiness.

Heimdal was displeased. He glared at Helga, who pretended not to notice. "So, how do you think they would come up with a strategy in their current state?"

Helga chose not to respond but continued to enjoy her food.

A countess from Centuria was walking toward the exit, but when she turned around, she crashed into a server carrying a tray of goblets.

Craaassssh!

Rock crystal goblets shattered across marble. Gasps rose from the startled guests, but when no danger followed, laughter resumed.

Jethru, Lara, and Alaric exchanged sharp glances. They knew the collision was no simple accident. Their hands had already gone to blades, but nothing. No movement. They sat again, but became even more attentive, watching every little movement.

At the wall nearest the royal table, five knights stood in rigid formation, the crest of Arches glinting on their tabards. Their stillness was unnatural, their spacing precise—each man assigned to watch a specific target.

Craaaash!

Another collision, another tray spilled. The guests scarcely reacted this time.

But in that instant, there was a blur of movements and the five knights were gone.

King Heimdal and Prince Dakota vanished with them. Prince Alderan dragged his mother and followed to where the five knights disappeared.

A scream split the air. Steel hissed free.

"Protect the Royal Family!" A knight shouted.

Chaos erupted. Knights and hidden guards swarmed forth, forming a shield around Helga, Reuben, and his wives. They pushed them toward the antechamber as blades clashed and nobles shrieked.

Helga’s gaze swept the storm of bodies. She did not see Heimdal. Her chest clenched with dread.

"Where is the king?" she cried. "Save the king!"