Chapter 21: Art of Rebels
The banquet hall filled steadily as nobles and commoners alike streamed through the ornate doors. In celebration, Duke Vasant had declared, there should be no human difference—all were welcome to feast in honor of the Empire's mercy and Zyrick's restored place within it.
The massive chamber swelled with voices. Gossip flowed like wine between tables. Laughter echoed off marble columns. Everyone waited with mounting anticipation for the Princess herself to arrive.
"Oi, do you know Princess Thalira will actually eat here with us?" A young nobleman—barely past twenty, dressed in clothes that suggested new wealth—leaned toward his companion with barely contained excitement.
"Yeah, I heard." His friend adjusted his hair with exaggerated care, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from his vest. "I think I might have a chance with her."
"What?" The first young man bristled immediately. "Oi oi, look at yourself! You think a princess would—"
His protest died as the main entrance opened with ceremonial flourish.
General Baschain and General Masoo entered first, eight Imperial Guards flanking them in perfect formation. Between them walked Princess Thalira Aurevane—blonde hair catching the chandelier light, green eyes sharp as cut emeralds, moving with the practiced grace of someone who'd been taught that every step was a performance.
Senior Maid Zeta and two additional maids followed a respectful distance behind.
Both young men fell silent, stunned.
"Look at her eyes," one finally managed to whisper. "Like green emeralds..."
The other couldn't form words at all. Just stared, completely transfixed.
In the far back corner of the hall, a figure in a white cloak sat so still he might have been sleeping. His covered bundle—impossibly long, wrapped in white cloth—rested against a pillar beside him. Most people's eyes slid past him without registering his presence, drawn instead to the spectacle at the front.
Minister Graham materialized beside Princess Thalira as she ascended to the high table, leaning close to whisper: "You should eat when I suggest, Your Highness. It's what the Emperor wants."
He moved away immediately, heading toward Duke Vasant.
'What does he think he is?' Thalira's jaw clenched. 'Ordering me around like I'm a child.' Her gaze swept the hall and caught those young nobles still staring at her with obvious hunger. 'And these monkeys? Look at them gawking like I'm some prize to be won.'
She settled into her chair on the elevated platform, forcing a pleasant expression while two maids positioned themselves to attend her. She greeted nearby nobles with rehearsed courtesy, then pulled out a small mirror to check her makeup—anything to avoid meeting those stares.
"The banquet begins now!" Duke Vasant's voice carried across the hall with genuine warmth. He took his seat beside Thalira while Minister Graham, both Generals, and General Onnes arranged themselves on either side.
'How will this differentiate between loyal and corrupt nobles?' Vasant thought, studying the assembled crowd. 'What mechanism did the Serpent Prince design?'
Servants moved with choreographed precision, distributing cocktails first—a blend of fruit juices that sparkled in crystal glasses. The hall buzzed with conversation, music from a string quartet providing pleasant background.
Then, as the first course of food arrived, a nobleman near the center of the hall leaned toward his companion and whispered—just loud enough for those nearby to overhear:
"Oi... don't eat. The food will be poisoned. The Emperor is scheming to kill us all."
The words spread like wildfire through dry grass.
Table to table. Whisper to whisper. Fear breeding fear.
The nobleman who'd started it—a well-dressed man with the bearing of minor aristocracy—stood abruptly and headed for the exit. No one stopped him. No guards moved to block his path. He simply... left.
Those who remained exchanged nervous glances. Plates of beautifully prepared food sat untouched as people looked at each other, at the high table, at the guards positioned around the hall.
Fearing. Doubting. Calculating.
'Why aren't they eating?' Duke Vasant kept his expression carefully neutral while his mind raced. 'Is this part of it? The rumor?'
In the back corner, the figure in the white cloak reached for his plate and began to eat.
Minister Graham's attention snapped to him immediately. 'This one eats first. Either most loyal, most naive, or... something else.'
A nobleman seated near the white-cloaked figure watched him for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision.
"If the Emperor wanted us dead, we'd obviously die anyway," he said to the table at large, his voice carrying conviction. "What's the point of fear?" He picked up his fork and began eating.
Like a dam breaking, most of the hall followed suit. Roughly eighty percent of those assembled began their meals—some with genuine trust in imperial authority, others with the fatalistic acceptance that resistance was meaningless, still others too naive or hungry to care about political intrigue.
But not everyone.
A group of five to ten nobles near the center remained frozen, food untouched.
"Oi, what should we do?" A man named Dei Gein whispered to his companion, hands trembling slightly. "If they really poisoned the food to kill us and we came here, we're trapped. But if we don't eat, doesn't that prove guilt?"
"It's your mistake for panicking," another replied, making exaggerated movements with his fork while not actually bringing food to his mouth. "Even if the Emperor wants us dead, his loyal servants will die too. I'm not eating until the Princess does. These fools are eating for the promise of one gold coin—we've taken thousands from Aurelith's treasury and Kazzara's bribes."
They sat. Pretended to eat. Grew more nervous with each passing minute as others around them finished their meals and rose to leave.
The white-cloaked figure in the corner stood after finishing his portion, preparing to depart.
"Oi, white cloth—wait." Minister Graham's voice stopped him. He gestured, and a servant brought forward a single gold coin. "For your trust in the Empire."
The figure accepted it with a small bow, face still hidden beneath his hood, and walked toward the exit. Others who'd eaten followed in steady procession—loyal nobles, naive commoners, those who'd chosen trust over suspicion.
Each received their gold coin.
Each was allowed to leave without question.
Two hours passed.
Music continued. Servants cleared plates from those who'd eaten. The hall, once packed, now felt cavernous. Perhaps twenty people remained—including the group around Dei Gein, still pretending to dine, still waiting.
Finally, Minister Graham approached Princess Thalira.
She looked at the plate before her, then at him, understanding clicking into place. 'This is why he told me when to eat. This is the test.'
She picked up her fork and began her meal with deliberate grace.
The remaining nobles watched. Relief flooded several faces. They immediately began eating in earnest now—real bites, real consumption, trying to blend in with those who'd trusted from the start.
Too late.
Duke Vasant's expression hardened as understanding crystallized. 'So these are the rats of Aurelith.'
Minister Graham made a subtle gesture. Imperial Guards moved to position themselves at every exit—not blocking them, but guarding them. Making it clear that leaving was no longer an option.
Duke Vasant rose from his seat, voice carrying the weight of betrayal and fury.
"Your highness—the Emperor—knew about it all. That you are the corrupt ones."
The bluff landed like a hammer.
Dei Gein's face went white. Others in his group looked between the exits, the guards, each other. The trap had closed so smoothly they hadn't even noticed the jaws tightening until it was too late.
---
Beyond the palace walls, on the rooftop of a nobleman's house that offered clear view of the Royal Palace entrance, Urus Deacon sat in shadow.
His brown eyes tracked movement below with predatory focus. Guards changing shifts. Servants carrying supplies. The usual rhythm of palace life.
"When will my princess come outside?" he murmured to himself, fingers drumming against his thigh with barely contained impatience.
He knew the banquet could last hours. Knew patience was the hunter's greatest weapon. But anticipation made him restless. Made him eager.
Movement caught his eye—a figure in white leaving through a side entrance, something long and covered in cloth slung across his back like it weighed nothing.
Urus's eyes narrowed.
'That walk. That posture. The way he carries that weight...'
Interest flickered through him. Not concern. Not caution.
Arrogance.
'A resilient prey. Someone who might make the hunt interesting before I reach the princess.'
He smiled in the darkness, already imagining how it would feel to bring down whatever warrior thought himself strong enough to walk through Zyrick carrying weapons so openly.
First the warm-up.
Then the main event.
The night was young, and Urus Deacon had always enjoyed playing with his food before the kill.