The Marquis Elden's estate was a fortress of grandeur and power. Towering marble pillars lined the entrance, golden chandeliers bathed the halls in a warm glow, and servants in immaculate uniforms weaved between the nobles, carrying silver trays of the finest wine.
Ryle Astoria stood at the entrance, taking in the scene with a practiced eye. This was not just a party. This was a display of power.
He had expected a private meeting. Instead, he had walked into a noble's engagement celebration.
At the center of the lavish hall stood Marquis Elden, a tall, sharp-eyed man dressed in a regal black coat, his presence commanding respect. Beside him, his fiancée, Lady Seraphina, looked painfully out of place.
She was only sixteen. Too young to be standing beside a man twice her age, her delicate hands clasped together, eyes dull with silent resignation.
The crowd whispered about the match—a political alliance between two powerful noble families. A tool, not a bride.
Ryle exhaled, masking his distaste with a casual sip of wine. This was the world he had sworn to expose.
As he moved through the ballroom, the weight of unseen hostility pressed against him. Someone was watching him.
Turning slightly, he caught sight of a nobleman in deep crimson robes.
The man's gaze burned with hatred. His jaw was tight, his grip on his glass white-knuckled. Who was he? Ryle had never seen him before, yet the loathing in his eyes was unmistakable.
Before Ryle could approach, the ceremony began.
A procession of robed figures entered the hall, carrying a sacred relic draped in silk. As they unveiled it, gasps of reverence filled the room.
Ryle's breath caught.
It was a dragon sigil, carved from pure white stone, its wings outstretched in a divine pose.
The symbol of the sacred dragons.
The room admired it as a revered emblem, a symbol of Velbrath's divine protection.
To Ryle, it was a mockery.
His heartbeat pounded. Did they truly understand the weight of this icon?
Marquis Elden, the man celebrated for slaying a dragon, stood before this sacred sigil as if he were its rightful protector.
Fury roared through Ryle's veins.
Ignilth's last moments flashed before his eyes—blood on the snow, golden scales fading, a noble's blade dripping with murder.
His hands clenched into fists.
He wanted to speak. He wanted to shatter this illusion.
But before he could move—
A trumpet sounded.
The room fell into hushed anticipation as the doors swung open.
Draped in royal regalia, King Velbrath II entered the hall. His presence commanded absolute silence, his piercing gaze sweeping over the gathering before resting on Elden.
"Marquis Elden," the king's voice rang through the hall, "I offer my formal blessings for your union."
A murmur of approval rippled through the nobles.
Ryle forced himself to breathe, the rage still simmering beneath his skin.
This night was far from over.