The third night of snow settled over Aster like a silken shroud.
From the highest balcony of the Mortani estate, the city glimmered under torchlight—white rooftops, winding streets, and the distant towers of the royal quarter.
Inside, the great hall of the White Frost Pavilion was alive with preparation.
Torches burned steadily along the marble corridors; banners in deep crimson and silver hung from the high arches.
At the main gate, lines of guards in polished steel stood like statues, their breath misting in the cold air.
Kaizlan stepped out of the carriage beside his father.
The winter wind cut at his cheeks, but his attention was fixed on the crowd ahead—men and women draped in velvet and fur, walking with the practiced grace of those who had been watched their entire lives.
A herald's voice rose above the murmur:
"Kaizlan of House Falric, son of Lord Sevald Falric."
No one turned.
His name was just another in a long list of names.
They entered the hall.
It was vast, the walls painted with golden scenes of battles and coronations.
Tall candles burned along black pillars, casting slow shadows across the floor.
The tables were arranged in a precise order: the powerful and ancient houses in the center, the lesser names along the edges.
Kaizlan took his place at one of the outer tables.
A blond youth in a green cloak leaned toward him.
"Falric? I've only heard that name in tax records."
"Perhaps that's because we work quietly," Kaizlan replied.
The youth smirked.
"Good answer. Could have been worse."
The herald's voice sounded again.
"Lord Seraphiel Mortani, master of the house."
A tall man entered, wrapped in a gray fur mantle, a diagonal sash across his chest bearing the golden emblem of an open-winged raven—the seal of House Mortani, the so-called wisdom in darkness.
Behind him came other nobles.
And among them—
a figure who did not need an introduction to draw the eye.
He was young, perhaps in his twenties, dressed in black so precise it seemed effortless.
His features were refined but not soft; his gray eyes calm, unhurried, as if the noise of the hall existed far away from him.
Whispers moved along the tables:
"That's Elian Griffin… of the northern trade routes."
"His family holds most of the iron and stone passes in the north."
Kaizlan asked the blond youth beside him,
"Why does no one speak to him?"
"Because he rarely speaks first."
The boy didn't laugh.
Kaizlan kept watching Elian for a moment longer, sensing something—though he could not have said what.
The banquet continued: speeches, toasts, rehearsed smiles, and promises left unspoken.
In a quiet corner, Elian stood alone, a glass in his hand, watching the room without truly looking at it.
For a brief moment, his eyes met Kaizlan's.
No threat.
No warmth.
Just a stillness that seemed deliberate.
Then he turned away, disappearing into the side hall.
That night, Kaizlan returned to his chamber with more questions than answers.
The banquet had not been a feast—it had been a stage.
And he was certain that behind the velvet and the wine, there were conversations far sharper than any blade.