Meanwhile, in the banquet hall, steel still clashed, but the rhythm had shifted. The tide was turning.
At first, despair had ruled. The knights of Northem stood frozen, their loyalties cloaked in shadow, watching as the Zurans carved through nobles and servants alike. Screams rang against marble walls, and the hall reeked of blood and spilled wine. Then—like a spark catching dry tinder—a voice rose, raw and defiant:
"For Northem!"
A single blade swung. Then another. Those who had lingered in doubt hurled themselves into the fray, their hesitation burned away by the stench of betrayal. Steel met steel, and the balance of battle cracked.
"Stop!" a Zuran commander bellowed, his voice desperate. "Raise your swords, and the women and children of the Silverstones, the Donaltons, and your nobles will die this night. Their blood will be on your hands!"
