The clink of glasses fell to silence.
All eyes turned to the raised platform as Iris, daughter of the Emperor and storm of the court, rose to her feet. The long sleeves of her black gown swept against the table as she moved, elegance made from shadow and light.
Her gaze swept the room.
Measured. Sharp.
Then she spoke.
"You all know why you're here."
The words rang clear across the hall, quieting even the low hum of mana from enchanted torches. She did not shout. The authority in her tone was enough.
"Not for fine wine or formal greetings," Iris continued. "You are here because a struggle for the crown might be distant, but inevitable."
A beat passed. No one dared shift.
"You aren't here for diplomacy, but evaluation. You stand here because I believe each of you may possess something worthy of my time—strength. I don't mean just brute power, but the kind that moves nations, bends fate, carves names into stone."
Her gaze drifted over them, pausing on faces as though weighing their worth.
"However," she said, voice colder now, "belief is not certainty. You will prove yourselves. Here. Tonight."
She extended a hand to the crescent-shaped high table behind her.
"You will each stand before this table. You will recount your greatest achievements. Deeds of worth. Victories of note. And when you finish, we shall question you. One by one, each of us here will cast our vote. A majority vote will grant you a position in my House. A place beside me."
Murmurs rose among the guests now. Sharp, whispered judgments, nervous flickers of pride.
"But," Iris added, cutting through them, "failure to secure majority approval means you will not be welcomed among us. You will not be dismissed, however. You may challenge someone who was accepted. If you defeat them in a sanctioned duel, their place becomes yours."
Now the murmurs surged—more bold, more curious. Some guests smiled at the prospect. Others tensed, calculating outcomes.
And then, a voice cut through the hum of excitement.
"With all due respect, Your Highness," a young man said, rising from one of the inner tables. His hair was silver-gold, braided down his back in the eastern fashion, and his chest bore the heraldic flame of House Veilspire. "That is all well and good. But it seems strange…"
He turned slightly, his gaze falling on the end of the high table.
"…that we are to be judged by a man like the Solaris prince."
A subtle shift passed through the room.
Iris remained motionless.
Lan, sitting in his dark formal attire, leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers lightly drumming the armrest.
"And why is that?" Iris asked evenly.
The young man hesitated a moment, then raised his chin.
"I mean no disrespect, but we've all heard the stories. A prince with no mana core. Years of failure. Public humiliation. Forgive me—but how can someone with such a record judge any of us, who have bled and battled to be here?"
A few guests murmured in quiet agreement. Others watched in silence, sensing danger.
Lan tilted his head. A slow smile curled across his lips.
Then spoke.
"You're quite foolish, aren't you?"
The words landed with audible weight.
The young man stiffened. "Excuse me?"
Lan's voice was calm. Almost friendly. But his eyes held no warmth.
"You heard me quite clearly, I'm certain. Unless, of course, your ears are as dull as your wit."
A quiet tension wrapped the air, tighter and tighter. Somewhere, a wine goblet clinked against a plate, louder than it should've been.
Lan's tone remained casual, his posture relaxed, but his words carried edge and intent.
"Because if Her Highness," he said, nodding faintly toward Iris, "allows me a seat at this table, then it would take half a brain to know she had a reason. Or could it be that you believe her Imperial Highness lacks the good sense to make considered decisions? That she's prone to poor judgment? That she invites incompetents to sit beside her on a whim?"
The room felt like it had stopped breathing.
The insult was now redirected—not at Lan, but at Iris.
And every person there knew better than to step into that fire.
The young man paled slightly, face caught between offense and horror. He opened his mouth, then shut it again.
Lan's smile never wavered. "Do choose your next words carefully."
The man clenched his fists, jaw tight. Then he turned to Iris and bowed deeply.
"My deepest apologies, Your Highness. I was careless to question your judgment. It will not happen again."
Lan leaned back slightly, his point made. No need to gloat. His expression was blank.
But he knew he had cut the first wolf.
More importantly, he had changed the conversation.
He no longer needed to defend his seat.
He had framed his presence not as a matter of personal merit—but of the princess's will. To challenge him now would be to challenge her.
And that, none of them were brave—or stupid—enough to do.
Iris's expression did not change, but Lan could feel the cold weight of her gaze settle on him.
He felt her fury, held by royal restraint.
He had put her in a corner.
He had forced her to legitimize him without ever asking her to speak. She stared at the bowing young man for a long moment.
Then, with a voice like polished glass, she said, "A repetition of this will be punished."
She turned back to the gathered guests.
"Let's begin."
And just like that, the banquet surged into motion.
One by one, the contenders stepped forward, pride flickering behind careful eyes. They spoke of beast hunts, duels fought atop floating cliffs, elemental awakenings, missions completed in the far reaches of empire and wild.
Some embellished, some delivered their tales with practiced humility. And the high table listened. They asked questions—Verene testing magical logic, Calux probing combat discipline, Izal with sharp political hypotheticals, Lessie with her silent, unsettling stares.
Votes were cast. Some succeeded. Some failed.
A few smirked confidently as they returned to their seats with a majority's approval. Others, tight-lipped, made note of those to challenge later.
Lan said little. He sat quietly, watching each performance, reading each face. His vote, when cast, was bold. And none dared question it again.
Beside him, Iris remained still, her eyes occasionally flicking toward him.
She knew what he had done.
He had carved out a place at her table—and made sure the whole room saw it as her choice, not his right.
He had spoken once. Just once.
And cut the first wolf down without ever unsheathing a blade.
Lan sat back, fingers steepled before him. The banquet was just beginning, But the game had already started.
And he had made his first move.