Rowan Highgarden exited the gala with a fury that sharpened his stride into something dangerous, the echo of music and applause dying behind him as if the palace itself recoiled from his mood. He moved through the corridor not with the measured pace of a knight on duty, but with the restless momentum of a man whose heart had been struck and refused to bleed quietly. His jaw clenched until it ached, every step punctuated by thoughts he had buried beneath armor and oaths for far too long.
Unrequited love was a poison he had learned to swallow with discipline, yet tonight it burned hotter than usual. The image of the princess standing beside Lord Caelum replayed itself with cruel clarity, and the word engagement rang in his skull like a bell that would not stop tolling. A snot-nosed brat, he thought bitterly, someone whose arrogance outweighed his experience, someone who had not yet lived enough to deserve the weight of what he was being handed. Rowan told himself that his anger was for the kingdom, for the insult of such a decision, but in the quiet of the corridor he admitted the truth he would never speak aloud.
He was furious because he had lost something he never had the right to claim.
The corridor stretched ahead, lined with tall windows and gilded sconces, their light softened by a faint haze that grew thicker with each step. Rowan barely noticed at first, too consumed by his thoughts to register the change in the air, until the scent hit him with unmistakable familiarity. Smoke. Not the acrid bite of fire or the sterile tang of alchemical fumes, but something earthier, heavier, curling into his lungs with deceptive gentleness.
He charged forward anyway, scoffing at the idea that it could affect him. Other guards might be weak, he told himself, prone to indulgence and distraction, but he was not them. His anger felt like armor, and he pushed into the haze without slowing, convinced it would part for him out of respect or fear.
It did neither.
The smoke thickened into a wall of cloud, pale and swirling, catching the light in strange ways that made the corridor seem to bend. Rowan pressed on, his boots striking stone with purpose, until shapes emerged ahead of him, figures slumped and swaying in the middle of their patrol route.
A group of guards stood clustered together, their posture loose, laughter bubbling out in uneven bursts. One leaned against the wall, another spun slowly in place as if the world itself were a dance floor, and a third had abandoned his spear entirely in favor of clapping along to music that existed only in his head.
Rowan stopped short, disbelief cutting through his anger.
"What in the Seven Hells is going on here?" he demanded, his voice sharp enough to slice through their laughter. "How did this happen, and why are you not at your posts?"
The guards turned toward him with unfocused smiles, eyes glassy and red-rimmed, expressions too relaxed for men entrusted with palace security. One of them laughed outright, pointing vaguely down the corridor as if the answer were obvious and hilarious.
"Smoke happened," another said, giggling as though it were the cleverest thing he had ever spoken. "Did you see it dance, sir? It's like the walls are breathing."
Rowan's temper flared. "Did any of you see who caused this?" he pressed, stepping closer. "Did you notice anyone suspicious, any movement out of place, anything at all?"
The guards exchanged looks, then burst into renewed laughter, one of them swaying forward and grabbing Rowan by the arm with careless familiarity. "Come on, sir," the guard said, tugging at him. "Lighten up. You look like you could use a dance."
Rowan wrenched his arm free, disgust and alarm finally cutting through his denial. "Focus," he snapped. "We need to deal with this smoke before it reaches the gala."
One guard blinked slowly, the idea seeming to take a long, winding path through his thoughts. "We could open the windows," he offered, nodding sagely as if he had solved a grand puzzle.
Rowan shook his head sharply. "You can't. They're sealed by rune technology. To open them you'd need access through the security room, and at the speed this smoke is moving, it will reach the gala before that even becomes an option."
Another guard, eyes bright with misguided inspiration, chimed in. "Then we break the windows."
Rowan stared at him as though he had suggested burning the palace down. "No, you idiot," he said, every ounce of patience gone. "That would trigger a full lockdown. Alarms, wards, panic. We are supposed to handle this discreetly, not announce to every noble in attendance that something has gone wrong."
Before the guard could respond, a low growling sound cut through the haze, deep and unmistakable, silencing laughter and conversation alike. The guards froze, glancing at one another with wide eyes, hands drifting instinctively toward weapons they no longer seemed capable of using.
The sound came again.
Rowan's face flushed as realization dawned, the growl having come not from some lurking beast but from his own stomach. The guards stared at him for a heartbeat, then erupted into laughter, some of them doubling over, others pointing as though he had performed a trick.
"Someone's got the munchies," one of them sang.
Rowan opened his mouth to retort, to bark an order or deliver a reprimand, but the words tangled with a sudden, inexplicable urge to laugh. The tension in his chest loosened against his will, his shoulders shaking as a chuckle escaped him, then another. His eyes burned, vision blurring at the edges, and when he dragged a hand across his face his fingers came away damp.
"What is going on?" he asked between coughs, the seriousness of the question undercut by the absurdity of his tone. "I am starving."
Around him, other stomachs growled in sympathetic chorus, the sound echoing down the corridor like an anthem of surrender. The guards laughed harder, leaning on one another for support, duty dissolving into shared sensation.
Elsewhere in the palace, Oscar moved with quiet satisfaction.
He walked the corridors like a shadow given intent, watching as the smoke spread exactly as planned, seeping into patrol routes and guard stations, turning vigilance into vulnerability. Each corner revealed another lapse, another uniformed figure slumped or swaying, another path cleared without the need for confrontation. He inhaled cautiously, keeping his exposure minimal, and smiled to himself.
"Perfect," he murmured, observing how the smoke flowed upward now, drawn inexorably toward the heart of the palace. "Just a little more, and it reaches the gala."
Outside, the courtyard lay bathed in moonlight, the clatter of hooves and wheels long since faded as carriages stood idle in neat rows. Among them rested the Empyrion Luxmotor, its sleek form unmistakable even at a distance. The vehicle resembled a predatory beast at rest, its lines aggressive yet refined, a machine that promised speed and dominance in equal measure. Its color gleamed deep and rich beneath the stars, runes etched along its frame catching the light like veins of molten silver.
Leaning casually against its flank was the driver assigned to Lord Caelum, a man whose presence drew eyes whether he sought them or not. His black hair was styled with effortless precision, his features striking enough to belong to a noble rather than a servant, and his tailored suit bore the subtle insignia of House Arcanveil. He looked too good for his station, and he knew it.
Three female adventurers stood close, their earlier boredom forgotten as they listened to him speak. He gestured toward the Luxmotor with easy confidence, boasting about its power, about the fact that this was only one among many he had access to. The men assigned to guard the carriages watched from a distance, expressions twisted with envy and irritation as they were left to shoulder responsibility alone.
The driver laughed softly and suggested a walk, a chance to chat somewhere quieter, and the women agreed without hesitation, drifting away with him toward the edge of the courtyard. As they went, one of the male adventurers muttered something about dereliction of duty, but the driver glanced back only once, offering a sly smile that said he knew exactly what he was doing.
Inside the palace, the smoke reached a critical point.
Thin wisps slipped through the ventilation grates above the gala hall, barely visible at first, curling lazily into the air like curious fingers. No one noticed immediately, too caught up in celebration and conversation to register the change. Music played on, laughter continued, and glasses clinked as though nothing at all were amiss.
But not everyone was fooled.
Lord Silvain's brow furrowed as he sniffed the air, his sharp instincts prickling with unease. He glanced around, eyes narrowing, searching for the source of a sensation that did not belong in such a pristine space.
Stephanie felt it too, though she did not need her senses to tell her what was happening. A strange calm settled over her, threaded with anticipation, and her heart skipped in a way it had not all night. She knew who was responsible, knew that this was not an accident or oversight, and the realization sent a thrill through her chest that she quickly masked behind a practiced smile.
It was almost time.
As the smoke continued its quiet advance, curling closer to the center of the gala, Stephanie held herself steady, every nerve alight with the knowledge that the night was about to change forever.