Chapter 15: When Power Walked Through the Gates
At the mansion ...One by one, the guests began to arrive.
Carriages rolled to a halt before the iron gates of Saint John Manor, their crests gleaming beneath floating mage-lights. Gatekeepers announced names with practiced precision, while housemaids guided nobles along the marble paths as if the estate itself were breathing, alive, and welcoming.
Every guest slowed.
Every guest stared.
The Baron's preparations were beyond extravagant.
As the nobles passed through the gardens, they found themselves walking through a living masterpiece. Lady Octavia's personal touch was everywhere—rare night-blooming flowers arranged in perfect symmetry, their scents layered delicately so none overwhelmed the other. Above the estate, light magic painted the sky itself: slow-moving constellations, drifting ribbons of gold and azure, illusions that shimmered like half-remembered dreams.
Then came the statues.
Baron Dean's earth magic had shaped colossal figures from living stone. A dragon reared skyward, jaws open as illusionary fire spilled from its throat. Opposite it, a phoenix rose from sculpted flames, wings spread wide in eternal rebirth. The effect was breathtaking.
By the time the guests reached the main gates of the mansion, awe had already softened into reverence.
There, Baron Dean Saint John and Baroness Octavia stood together, dressed in perfectly matched colors—deep sapphire and pearl white. They looked every inch a ruling couple, pride evident but restrained, smiles practiced yet sincere.
Each guest was greeted personally.
Once inside, the mansion transformed again.
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The west wing hummed—not with excitement, but with discipline.
Leslie Heartlock, Head House Maid, stood at the junction of the Grand Foyer and the Hall of Ancestors. Her posture was rigid, her face unreadable. She did not speak.
She raised one finger.
That was all.
Two dozen maids in starched black dresses and white aprons moved as one. An equal number of butlers followed, their dark tailcoats absorbing light. The mansion shifted seamlessly into motion—wine poured, doors opened, trays floated through the crowd with flawless timing.
The grand hall filled rapidly.
And then—
The foundations of Valoria arrived.
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First came a name that sent ripples through the crowd.
Viscount Sebastian Arclay.
He entered with his three sons—Felix, the eldest, sharp-eyed and calculating; Gideon, the middle, quiet and observant; and Lucian, the youngest, whose innocent expression fooled no one.
The surprise was immediate.
Whispers spread like wildfire.
After the mining incident, no one had expected his presence.
Yet Sebastian Arclay showed no discomfort. He wore a measured smile, his steps unhurried. He was here for one reason only—the king.
To be absent tonight would be an insult he could not afford.
Baron Dean and Baroness Octavia welcomed him openly, as though no rivalry had ever existed.
The game continued.
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Next came the man who fed the kingdom.
Earl Leoric Graves, Lord of the Golden Fields, Steward of the Harvest.
He entered like a weathered monolith, spine straight, expression carved from stone. His son Benedict mirrored him perfectly, while his other children—Sylvia, Xander, Jorah, and Amarah—followed with varying expressions of boredom, curiosity, and quiet calculation.
Behind them came his four wives—Genevieve, Cameron, Cressida, and Arabella—each elegant, each dangerous in her own way.
The applause was respectful.
Measured.
This was a man no one dared offend.
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Then came the throat of the kingdom itself.
Marquess Alistair Stormcrest of the Obsidian Pass, Guardian of the Stone.
A hush fell.
Geographic power was different from political power—and more terrifying.
Beside him walked his wife, Vivienne Stormcrest, radiant and poised, followed by their daughters Rosalind and Brienne, who moved like reflections of one another.
This was a family everyone watched.
And envied.
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The candles burned brighter.
The herald's voice swelled.
"His Grace, Magnus Blackwood, Duke of Evergreen Reach, Warden of the West, Defender of the Verdant Covenant."
The Duke did not rush.
He allowed the hall to receive him.
His emerald velvet doublet shimmered with threads of gold, but it was his consorts who told the true story of his power.
Juliana—the political wife—stood proudly at his right.
Calista—the beloved—walked slightly behind, her beauty quiet and devastating.
Thora—the warrior—scanned the room, hand near a dagger that was no ornament.
Behind them followed their children: the heir Theron, the mesmerizing Cordelia, the twin princesses Marah and Sarah, and Astrid—the prodigy of war.
Applause thundered.
Fear, admiration, envy—all braided together.
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Then—
Silence.
The herald knelt.
Guards struck their chests in perfect unison.
The sound echoed like stone breaking.
From the antechamber shadows, they emerged.
First—the Queen.
Althea of the Sunstone Throne.
White and gold draped her like sunlight made flesh. Her crown shimmered softly, a radiant sunburst. Her gaze swept the hall, acknowledging key faces without a word.
Behind her came the second wife, Isolde, and the third, Rhea.
Hierarchy was unmistakable.
Then—
Time itself seemed to slow.
King Orean Evercrest, the Wise.
He moved like inevitability.
His dark samite robes were embroidered with constellations that glimmered faintly in candlelight. His crown was simple—a band of mithril set with a single sapphire, star-blue and unyielding.
He did not look at the crowd.
He looked through them.
Nobles bowed.
Lords knelt.
Ladies curtsied so deeply their gowns pooled across marble floors.
He reached the center of the hall with his queen, consorts, and heirs—the First Prince Cedric; Princess Elara; Princess Lyra; the twins Corin and Finn; and the youngest, Princess Elizabeth.
The King offered a single nod.
Not greeting.
Acknowledgment.
The herald's voice trembled.
"Behold—your Sovereigns. The Crown and the Heart of the Realm."
As the royal family ascended the dais, the spell shattered into thunderous applause. Trumpets blared. Cheers erupted.
The celebration had been sanctified.
The party could now truly begin.
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In the shadow of a marble pillar, Leslie Heartlock finally noticed it.
The horror.
The story she had buried—now standing in flesh and crown.
Her face drained of color.
If anyone looked at her now, they would see a woman whose soul had just been shaken to its core.
Because the King had arrived.
And with him—
The past she had prayed would never find her.
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