One week later, the night unfolded in gold.
The royal palace of the Goldenleaf Crown rose like a living monument against the darkening sky, its white stone walls veined with veins of gilded leaf that caught torchlight and moonlight alike. Every archway bore carvings of wheat, ivy, and branching trees—symbols of prosperity passed down through generations of monarchs who had ruled not by conquest alone, but by alliance, marriage, and quiet leverage.
Tonight, the Gala Hall glimmered at the heart of it all.
The hall was vast, its domed ceiling painted with scenes of mythic harvests and ancient treaties, all rendered in gold, emerald, and lapis. Chandeliers of enchanted crystal hovered in the air without chains, glowing softly as if breathing.
Beneath them, the marble floor shone like still water, reflecting silk gowns, polished boots, and the measured steps of nobles who knew they were being watched.
Music drifted through the room—strings and flutes, elegant and restrained. Not meant to inspire passion, only compliance.
Carriages had arrived since dusk, each bearing the sigil of a house that mattered. Nobles clustered in conversational knots, glasses of wine in hand, murmuring about grain tariffs, border patrols, trade routes, and—always—marriages.
"Power is inherited," one lord said softly, adjusting his cuffs.
"No," another replied with a thin smile. "Power is married into."
Laughter followed, light and hollow.
Among the assembled guests stood a man who listened more than he spoke.
Lord Varrick Silvain was easy to overlook, which was exactly how he preferred it.
He was short, thick through the chest, with a broad nose and heavy-lidded gray eyes that gave him a perpetually tired look. His hair, dark and thinning, was cut close to his scalp, and his neatly trimmed beard showed the first real signs of age. He wore a tailored coat of deep forest green, embroidered subtly with gold thread along the seams—expensive, but not ostentatious. His rings were plain. His boots immaculate.
And he smelled… clean.
Too clean.
A sharp citrus note layered over something colder—pine resin and metal. The scent clung to him, strong enough to drown out anything else. Strong enough to mask the faintest trace of weed, should it ever dare to follow him into polite society.
To the court, Lord Silvain was a successful landholder and shipping magnate. His company dealt in lumber, grain transport, and caravan insurance.
His books were pristine. His donations to the crown generous. His reputation spotless.
No one asked how a man of modest birth had risen so quickly. No one asked why caravans insured by his company were almost never robbed.
Beyond the palace walls, far from candlelight and crystal, Lord Silvain ruled a hidden empire of smoke and coin. He controlled multiple underground syndicates, coordinated across the border, feeding markets that kings publicly condemned and privately indulged in.
Yet Silvain did not consider himself a criminal. Mafia boss was a temporary title.
A stepping stone.
His true ambition lay higher—toward becoming a RICO Lord, one of the shadow sovereigns who ruled without crowns. RICO Lords controlled entire regions through layered syndicates, wielding influence across independent kingdoms. They did not sit on thrones—but wars stalled, laws bent, and rulers vanished when they were displeased.
Silvain sipped his wine, listening to a baron complain about tax reforms.
He smiled politely.He had no idea that, at that very moment, the foundation of his ambition was about to burn.
****
Princess Stephanie Goldenleaf had not yet descended to the Gala.She lingered in her chambers, delaying the inevitable with quiet defiance.
Her room overlooked the inner gardens, where moonlight spilled across sculpted hedges and silver fountains shaped like blooming lilies. She stood barefoot on the cool stone floor, dressed in an ivory gown threaded with gold filigree. The fabric clung lightly to her tall frame, flowing like water when she moved.
Her hair—golden, impossibly long—had been braided by servants earlier in the evening, pinned into an elegant cascade meant to inspire awe. She had undone half of it already. Loose strands spilled down her back like rebellion.
From below, music floated upward through open windows. Laughter. Applause. The sound of a world she was expected to belong to.
Stephanie pressed her palm against the glass.She felt like an exhibit waiting to be unveiled.
Her father would want her present soon. Smiling. Obedient.
She exhaled slowly and stayed where she was.
Just a little longer.
****
At the far edge of the palace grounds, where stone gave way to earth, Oscar worked by lanternlight in the stables.
The air was warm and honest here, thick with hay, leather, and horse crap. The sounds were familiar—soft snorts, the creak of wood, the occasional stamp of a hoof.
Lanterns cast amber halos across the stone floor, shadows dancing along wooden beams scarred by age.
Oscar moved easily among the stalls, brushing coats, checking harnesses, murmuring under his breath. His dark skin glowed softly in the light, dreadlocks tied back to keep them out of his face. At six feet tall, lean and broad-shouldered, he carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone used to moving unseen.
He stopped at one stall in particular.
"Butterscotch," he said warmly.
The mare lifted her head and nudged him, ears flicking forward. Oscar smiled and scratched behind her ear.
"Last night," he murmured. "Last night I do this the honest way."
He leaned against the stall door, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret.
"I'm gonna burn their fields," he said casually. "Not all of 'em. Just enough to make 'em panic."Butterscotch snorted softly.
"They'll think it's rivals. Or bad luck. Or gods being cruel." He shrugged. "Doesn't matter."
He reached into his ,Bag of Holding, and pulled out a worn leather-bound book. Its cover was cracked, softened by years of handling. No title marked it. The edges were darkened with oil and ash.
Oscar opened it carefully.
Inside were pressed leaves, sketches of fantastical plants, dense notes written in different inks and scripts. Some pages showed mountains capped in ice, others swamps, deserts, floating islands. It was a map of dreams disguised as a journal.
"Skyglass Haze," he read softly. "Grows on high plateaus where storms never stop. Effects makes your body feel light, like a leaf drifting winds."
He turned the page.
"Gravebloom. Found near old battlefields. Grows in blood-rich soil. Heavy smoke. Makes vivid hallucination."
Another.
"Sunroot Emberleaf. Desert cactus like strain. Thrives where nothing else does. Keeps travelers warm during the desert night, but beware of sharp needle thorns."
Oscar smiled to himself.
"I'm gonna see all of it," he whispered. "Every place this book talks about." He closed the journal and rested it against his chest."Princess and I are gonna have so much fun."
The thought filled him with a warmth no lantern could match.
He finished his work slowly, deliberately, committing every sound and smell to memory. He brushed Butterscotch one last time, resting his forehead briefly against hers.
"I'll miss you," he said quietly.
The mare huffed.
Oscar chuckled, then stepped back.
The bells rang in the distance—low, slow.
Night had fully arrived.
Beyond the city, under a cloud-veiled sky, the fields lay hidden.
They stretched across rolling land masked by arrays—complex magical constructs woven into the soil and air, bending light and sound. Rows of enchanted plants grew thick and tall, leaves glossy with resin, faintly luminous even in darkness. The scent was heavy, sweet, intoxicating.
Guards patrolled lazily, confident in protections that had never failed them.
Oscar crouched atop a low ridge, cloak drawn tight, eyes scanning the land. He studied patrol routes, counted steps, memorized rhythms.
When he moved, it was with purpose.
He struck flint.
A spark flared.
Then another.
Dry leaves caught first, then stems. Fire spread faster than expected, racing along resin-rich plants with hungry speed. Within moments, orange light tore through the darkness as entire rows ignited.
The arrays flickered once.
Then shattered.
Shouts erupted. Guards ran. Orders overlapped, collided, dissolved into chaos.
Oscar remained still, watching the inferno bloom.
"Good," he murmured.
The smoke rose thick and heavy, rolling across the fields, stinging eyes, burning throats. Men coughed, stumbled, cursed. Some panicked, trying to salvage what they could.
Others froze, unsure of what to protect first.
Beyond the burning fields stood the warehouses—low, reinforced structures partially concealed by trees and shadow.
Oscar slipped from cover, moving low through brush and ditch, using the chaos as his cloak. He did not rush. Tonight was not about speed.
It was about timing.
He reached the tree line and paused, eyes fixed on the warehouse doors, counting guards, noting lantern patterns.
The fire raged behind him, painting the sky orange.
Above him, in the Gala Hall, crystal chandeliers glittered and nobles laughed.
Oscar took a breath.
Then, silently, he began to move toward the warehouse.
The night was far from over.