The walk from his quarters to the main banquet hall was a test of Tristan’s acting skills.
He followed closely behind the senior maid, trying his absolute best to look natural, as if he walked these opulent corridors every day. It was difficult. The Verneuil estate was a masterclass in aggressive, intimidating wealth. Towering ceilings were lined with massive crystal chandeliers that cast a warm, golden glow over the crimson carpets. Banners of the clan’s crest hung between towering stained-glass windows, and every few paces stood a suit of immaculately polished, enchanted armor.
But what really caught Tristan’s eye were the display cases.
He couldn’t help himself. He stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the hallway, pressing his hands against a reinforced glass pedestal to stare at a pristine, glowing gauntlet resting on a velvet cushion. He knew that item. It was the Titan’s Grip, a mid-game artifact that boosted Conjuration spells by twenty percent.
"Young Master," the maid hissed, her scowl deepening. She grabbed him by the sleeve of his tailored jacket and yanked him forward. "Keep moving. You were instructed not to cause any disturbances."
Tristan sighed and allowed himself to be led the rest of the way.
While Tristan was walking he couldn’t help but be a little scared. After all... he is still a prisoner on the run. Kind of.
Why wasn’t he back in prison or worse?
Tristan thought about it and the only thing that could come to his mind was reputation. Since Jasmine of the Suna clan already saw Tristan perhaps the Verneuil didn’t want to look bad by locking up their own? Or maybe this is just a grand prelude to his execution.
"Gulp"
"Stop gulping and tidy yourself. We have arrived." said the maid.
The heavy oak doors of the grand dining room were already open. Inside, a massive, brilliantly polished table stretched nearly the entire length of the room, groaning under the weight of an absolute feast. There were heavily spiced, roasted meats and iced wines from the Northern Bastion, paired perfectly with the vibrant, exotic fruits and delicate pastries of the Southern territories.
’Oh, and even the infamous Sandrose whiskey is there!’ Tristan thought, a wry smile tugging at his lips. ’Perhaps I’ll have a glass for old time’s sake.’
At the absolute head of the table sat his father, Liam Verneuil.
Devil’s Bane didn’t wear armor tonight, but the simple, dark tunic he wore did nothing to hide the suffocating, heavy aura of an Ascendant. The seat directly to Liam’s right was left conspicuously empty, a permanent, heavy emphasis on the absence of both his late wife and his eldest son, the clan’s heir, who was currently fighting in the frozen north.
At the exact opposite end of the long table sat the head of the Suna clan, an older, sharply dressed man with a calculated, predatory smile.
The seating arrangement along the sides of the table was a strict physical representation of status. The closer you sat to the family head, the more power you wielded. The maid bypassed the lower seats entirely, leading Tristan past a dozen stunned cousins and branch family elders, straight toward the top of the table.
She pulled out a chair right next to a young woman with sharp golden eyes and an elegant, silver-threaded gown.
"Evening," Tristan whispered cheerfully, sliding into the seat.
His older sister, Diana, blinked, her wine glass freezing halfway to her lips. She looked from him, to the empty seats at the far end of the table, and back to him.
"Why in the world are you sitting up here with me?" Diana whispered back, her voice laced with genuine bewilderment. "Did you get lost on the way to the fucking prison??"
Tristan shrugged, reaching for a cluster of southern grapes. "What can I say? I must’ve gotten a promotion."
Word of his violent, impossible escape from the rift, and his brutal dispatching of Caelan, must have already reached his father. Liam was seemingly rewarding the display of strength with a seat of honor. I hope.
’Man I’ve been really hoping for a lot lately, maybe I need to practice a religion or something’ Tristan thought, popping a grape into his mouth.
His lax actions and his overall presence seemed to have gotten some not so nice glares from the clan elders. But Tristan shrugged it off and looked elsewhere.
Tristan glanced across the table. Seated directly opposite him and his sister were the children of the Suna family.
Jasmine was among them, her piercing amber eyes momentarily locking onto his before casually darting away. She looked completely undisturbed by the earlier violence in the hallway.
Tristan chewed a grape thoughtfully, his mind pulling up the deep lore of the Suna clan. The children sitting across from him didn’t share a single facial feature. That was because the Suna head, Omar, vehemently refused to sire any biological children of his own. Instead, his "children" were all adopted.
Whenever a smaller southern house ’agreed’ to become a branch family of the Suna clan, the Suna head would formally adopt their eldest child as a seal of the agreement. It was a glorified hostage situation disguised as an honor. This created a brutally toxic power struggle among the heirs; their individual performance at the estate directly reflected onto their biological family’s status back home. Stronger branch families were rewarded and favored, while the weaker ones were violently punished.
’Some brutal stuff that’
"Is it true they keep actual Fallen-class monsters in the Verneuil rifts?" a younger Suna boy sitting to Jasmine’s left asked. He was maybe around 11 years old? His tone wasn’t mocking or passive-aggressive; his gaze held polite curiosity. The poor guy was genuinely innocent.
Tristan chuckled, adopting a relaxed, easygoing posture. "Depends, I went for a short stroll down there myself and fought two fallen monsters myself!" Tristan then leaned a little forward and whispered "I heard there are even calamities down at the bottom."
The little kid’s eyes went wide with a mix of awe and a hint of fear.
"Woahhhh"
A few of the Suna siblings shared quiet, amused smiles. Even Jasmine broke a small smirk while taking a sip of wine.
Everyone continued to have some polite small talk, but Tristan knew better.
This entire banquet was just a prelude to the real negotiations that were gonna happen later.
As the cheerful, tense atmosphere carried on, Omar suddenly raised his glass, his booming voice cutting through the chatter.
"A toast to the future of our great houses!" he declared, smiling warmly at Liam. "In fact, I was hoping to share some excellent news. I will be officially submitting a recommendation for my daughter, Jasmine, to attend Flamecrest Academy this upcoming semester. She has shown... exceptional potential."
Tristan paused, his grip tightening slightly on his fork.
Omar turned his predatory gaze down the table, landing directly on Tristan. "I believe she is the exact same age as your youngest, Lord Verneuil. Tell me, will you be writing a recommendation for young Tristan to attend as well? It would be a shame for him to miss out on such an education."
The entire banquet hall instantly went dead quiet. All eyes shifted to the head of the table.
Tristan cursed violently in his head. Damn it.
He desperately needed that Academy recommendation to secure his leveling route, but he had wanted time to convince his father himself. Now, the final decision was already being made in front of a rival clan head.
Liam Verneuil slowly set his wine glass down. He looked at Omar, then shifted his heavy, terrifying gaze to Tristan.
For a few agonizing seconds, Liam carefully deliberated.
Finally, Devil’s Bane came to a decision.
"No."