Lioren slipped back into the roaring ballroom with all the subtle grace of a cat that had just stolen the butcher’s finest sausage.
He didn’t return to the dark shadows near the curtain wall. Instead, he strolled right out into the bright center of the hall, hands tucked loosely behind his lower back, a serene, unhinged little smirk playing at the corners of his lips.
Caldrin, who was currently on his fourth plate of roasted glazed chestnuts, stopped chewing mid-bite. He narrowed his dark eyes, watching his commander approach with deep, lingering suspicion.
Therin, having finally escaped the elderly ministers and their terrifying queries about winter boots, materialized at Lioren’s shoulder like an anxious ghost. He took one look at the Grand Duke’s face and immediately braced himself against a nearby banquet table.
"Your Grace," Therin began, his voice dipping into a dangerous pitch, "you were gone for almost half an hour. I counted. Where were you? And more importantly... why do you look like you’ve just inherited a gold mine?"
"Can’t a man simply appreciate the aesthetic architecture of the palace?" Lioren asked smoothly, snagging a crystal flute of sparkling white wine from a passing servant’s tray. He took a slow, leisurely sip. "I merely took a quick stroll to clear my head."
"You hate architecture," Caldrin pointed out, wiping his fingers on a linen napkin as he joined them. "The last time you commented on a building, you said the pillars looked like bloated parsnips. What actually happened out there, Lioren?"
Lioren tilted his glass, watching the bubbles rise to the rim with an infuriatingly innocent expression. "Nothing major. I just happened to run into a very handsome man who was completely, hopelessly lost in the corridor. Charming fellow. Terribly misdirected."
Therin stared at him. "...A lost man."
"A lost man," Lioren confirmed happily.
"Your Grace, we are currently at a royal banquet packed with international dignitaries," Therin squeezed the bridge of his nose, his voice trembling slightly. "Please tell me you didn’t just accost a random foreign diplomat in a dark hallway."
Before Lioren could offer a delightfully unhelpful response, the grand brass trumpets stationed along the high gallery suddenly blared a sharp, staccato fanfare.
The heavy chatter filling the massive ballroom died down almost instantly. The high-society giggles vanished. Orchestra string players froze mid-bow, and hundreds of glittering heads turned in unison toward the tall, iron-reinforced main doors at the far end of the hall.
A loud, booming voice echoed over the quieted crowd:
"Announcing the diplomatic delegation of the Empire of Ostharia! Led by Chief Envoy Count Elorius!"
Werestian nobles who had been laughing seconds ago straightened their backs, their faces hardening into cold, triumphant glares. They were celebrating a bloody war that had finally tilted in their favor, and watching the representatives of the defeated enemy kingdom walk into their royal court was the ultimate trophy.
Caldrin’s relaxed posture vanished, his hand dropping out of pure muscle memory toward his sword hilt. Therin swallowed hard, his eyes fixing on the doorway.
Lioren, however, simply turned his body toward the center aisle, his eyes turning dead sharp. The carefree, reckless grin melted off his face, replaced by an intense, laser-focused stillness.
Finally, he thought, his pulse giving a steady, rhythmic thud against his ribs. Here comes the main event.
The Ostharian delegation marched down the long red carpet. Count Elorius came first, a tall, hawkish man with a pinched face and a silver velvet cloak that looked a little too tight around his narrow shoulders. Behind him walked four high-ranking ministers and a ceremonial guard carrying the gilded diplomatic scrolls containing the terms of surrender.
The crowd whispered. Cold, spiteful murmurs rippled through the gallery like wind through dead autumn leaves.
"Look at them... strutting in like they didn’t just lose three border garrisons..."
"I hear the King had to melt down his personal silverware to pay the war reparations..."
Lioren ignored the diplomatic posturing entirely. His eyes tracked past the Count, past the ministers, past the heavy velvet banners...
And there he was.
Xavion walked three paces behind the main envoy, flanked by two armed Werestian royal guards.
The contrast between the lost, quiet man on the moonlit terrace and the prince standing here now was stark enough to take a man’s breath away. He no longer wore the plain, oversized tunic from earlier. The Ostharan delegation had dressed him in a dark, navy-blue court tunic tailored with faint silver embroidery along the lapels, a stiff, formal outfit that clearly belonged to imperial nobility.
Even with a white leather eyepatch covering his left eye, even with his pale, fragile frame carrying the faint, lingering stiffness of past poison and dormant magic, Xavion walked with a quiet, undeniable dignity. His chin was held level. His long, blue hair fell over his shoulders like liquid silk, catching the light of a hundred chandeliers. He didn’t look up at the glaring nobles. He didn’t cringe away from the whispers. He simply walked forward, a lone figure moving through a hall full of wolves.
The whispers intensified, sharp and vicious.
"Is that... is that really Prince Xavion?"
"The War Hero? He looks so thin... where is all that terrifying aura people used to talk about?"
"Haven’t you heard? His own family poisoned him years ago! They say he can barely channel a spark of mana now."
"Serves him right. A bastard maid’s son shouldn’t have had that much power to begin with."
"Why did Ostharia even bring him here? Are they handing over their trash?"
Lioren stood near the center aisle, listening to every single poisonous word dropped by the comfortably dressed, soft-handed Werestian nobles around him. Something hot and unpleasant twisted in Lioren’s chest. His fingers twitched at his sides.
Trash? Lioren thought, his jaw tightening. That man fought for his country and nearly gave his life doing it, while you lot did what? Sat under a nice roof, ate spiced candied nuts, and complained about taxes? Hell, some of you probably didn’t even pay them.
Tch. Hypocritical little parasites.
The delegation halted at the base of the royal dais. Count Elorius dropped to one knee, performing a crisp, practiced bow before the King of Werestia. Xavion followed suit a second later, his movements smooth, careful, and deeply controlled.
"Your Imperial Majesty," Count Elorius announced, his voice carrying clearly across the silent hall. "I present to you the final accords of the treaty. Ostharia acknowledges Werestia’s territorial claims over the east river valleys and agrees to all terms of reparations."
The King leaned forward on his gold throne, his hand resting on the carved armrest. "And the guarantees of lasting peace, Count? Words on parchment have a nasty habit of tearing when the season changes."
"Ostharia offers the ultimate guarantee, Your Majesty," Count Elorius declared, standing up and gesturing grandly back toward the pale prince. "His Highness, Prince Xavion Astervan, shall remain within the borders of Werestia as a royal representative of the imperial throne, a permanent living pledge of our kingdom’s absolute commitment to non-aggression."
A royal representative, Lioren sneered internally, his eyes locked onto the back of Xavion’s neck. Wrap it up in as many silver ribbons and diplomatic lies as you want. He’s a hostage. A human bargaining chip handed over to take the fall if things go sideways.
The King nodded slowly, his eyes lingering on Xavion as though he were another piece on the political board.
"Prince Xavion’s military record is well known to this court," the King spoke, his voice echoing off the stone pillars. "As is the unfortunate... decline of his physical condition following his internal family troubles. While his presence guarantees Ostharia’s compliance, a royal hostage of his standing cannot simply reside in a guest wing indefinitely. A clear, permanent structure must be established to bind him to Werestia."
The nobles leaned forward, sensing the shift in the conversation.
Lioren’s attention sharpened to a razor’s edge. His pulse picked up speed.
In the web novel The Shattered Dawn, this exact moment was described in vague, bitter flashbacks. The novel had never bothered to name the original fiancé, it only mentioned that Xavion had been handed over through a formal betrothal agreement to a Werestian noble house, where he was subjected to brutal domestic abuse, isolated from the public, and eventually passed into the sadistic hands of one of the princesses.
That betrothal was the trap door. It was the precise mechanism that allowed Xavion to break his mind until the black magic awakened.
"To ensure His Highness is properly integrated and monitored," the King continued, gesturing toward his ministers, "the Crown has determined that a formal betrothal alliance shall be arranged between Prince Xavion and a high-ranking noble house of Werestia. The formal match shall be announced..."
"Your Majesty."
The voice didn’t scream. It wasn’t loud. But it carried a quiet, terrifying weight that sliced through the King’s speech like a broadsword through parchment.
The entire hall froze.
Count Elorius blinked, startled. The ministers turned their heads in confusion. Even Xavion shifted slightly, his single, striking violet eye turning slowly toward the side aisle to see who had dared to interrupt the monarch.
By the time everyone turned toward the voice, Lioren was already standing there, his right hand raised high above his head, a calm smile playing on his lips.
And somehow, that smile made the entire ballroom nervous.