The meeting chamber sat high in the Emerald Spire, a towering structure of white-veined marble and deep green stone that rose like a spear from the heart of the Vale.

  From this height, Pelegeion looked like a vision in a dream. Verdant gardens unfurled from rooftops and terraces in every direction—nature tamed into elegance, as if to prove to the rest of the galaxy that House Verlone held both beauty and dominion. Gold-spired buildings gleamed amidst the foliage, and aqueducts carved from marble whispered with flowing water. It was paradise from above.

  The circular hall was quiet but alive, as power whispered in soft tones. Sunlight pierced through tall slats in the ceiling, scattering pale beams across polished marble floors and pillars of green-white stone. The air smelled faintly of crushed pine and sanctity.

  The nobles of House Verlone sat in a semicircular amphitheater, robes sweeping around them in an array of deep green, white, and glinting gold thread. At the center of the half-moon laid the sigil of House Verlone, a white deer crowned in leaves, etched in inlaid marble beneath their feet.

  The Duke and Duchess, Caelan and Vaelya of House Verlone sat elevated on twin thrones of pale marble, carved with intricate patterns that seemed to pulse with the deep green veins coursing through the stone, as though they themselves were of the earth’s fabric. Their forms radiated perfection—gene-altered, yet unblemished—every inch of their bodies sculpted into an ideal that could only exist within the halls of power. Their emerald eyes gleamed with a sharp, piercing clarity, as though they saw the world in its truest form, while their platinum blonde hair flowed in immaculate waves, a gilded halo framing their striking features. Their pale skin, both flawless and luminous, seemed to capture the very essence of beauty. The Duke, tall and broad-shouldered, carried an aura of quiet dominance, while the Duchess exuded an ethereal grace, her presence as commanding as it was serene.

  Their robes of deep forest green were layered, each fold draped with precision, the rich fabric embroidered with delicate gold stitching, almost as if the green and gold were woven from the very essence of House Verlone itself. It was the visual harmony of a family forged from perfection, yet there was no arrogance in their composure—only a quiet, undeniable righteousness.

  They were rulers, politicians, warriors, and their venom ran as deeply as their blood, but in their eyes—always a spark of something higher. Something purer. While others within their house saw the people of Pelegeion as pawns, the Duke and Duchess saw them as a reflection of their own ideals, though they would never admit to it. They were a vision of what House Verlone could be if it were to embrace its full potential: a legacy of ruthless perfection, but with a quiet sense of moral clarity.

  Around them stood their seven Stewards, wearing robes in various shades of dark emerald, embroidered with the sigil of House Verlone.

  Seasoned, and analytical, they were the silent architects of House Verlone’s power, each entrusted with the management of vast and complicated sectors of the House’s domain. They were never rash, always measured, and their decisions—like the gears of a clock—kept the wheels of House Verlone turning smoothly, albeit at the cost of countless lives below.

  Each Steward wore their emerald robes with a quiet distinction.

  The First Steward, a tall woman with eyes sharp as knives, handled the economic interests of House Verlone. Her mind was a maze of figures, resources, and opportunities, always calculating the most advantageous course for their coffers, and manipulating the markets with the same precision that the Duke and Duchess applied to their rule. She was often silent, but when she spoke, her words carried the weight of gold.

  The Second Steward, a broad-shouldered man whose hands had once gripped the hilt of a blade, now orchestrated the military forces of House Verlone. Though not a Blademaster himself, his presence commanded respect. His eyes held the weight of battlefields, and his voice could rally entire regiments with mere words. His loyalty was forged in the fires of warfare, and his cold demeanor betrayed none of the warmth that might exist among the other Stewards.

  Then there was Malik Atan, the Third Steward, a man whose tanned skin and deep-set eyes marked him as someone who had lived among the shadows of the galaxy, far from the gleaming halls of the Inner Ring. Malik's specialty was intelligence and espionage, and he had built a network so vast and intricate that it even stretched to the further reaches of the other Ducal Domains of the Outer Ring. Though not an imposing figure in terms of stature, Malik carried a quiet power—one that seeped through his every gesture and glance. He knew where every secret lay hidden, who could be bought, who could be manipulated, and who might betray their own kin for the right price. He rarely made his presence known in meetings, preferring to observe in silence, but his eyes never missed a detail. For those that did, they would find themselves unwittingly caught in his web.

  The Fourth Steward was a woman whose beauty could rival that of the Duke and Duchess, but hers was a beauty forged from years of silent diplomacy. Her expertise lay in foreign relations—maneuvering the House's position in a galaxy where loyalty was fickle, and alliances often twisted into something far less stable. She was a master of words, always knowing the exact phrase to say to keep a delicate peace or stir a needed conflict.

  The Fifth Steward, lean and sharp-eyed, oversaw criminal enterprises and the black-market dealings that House Verlone often conducted in the shadows. While others in House Verlone took the more public face of trade and diplomacy, the Fifth Steward’s world was one of shadowed alleyways, illegal arms deals, and untraceable financial transactions. He had eyes and ears in every corner of Pelegeion and beyond.

  The Sixth Steward was once a scholar, an expert in technology and innovation. With House Verlone's resources at his disposal, he steered the House toward breakthroughs in genetic engineering, cybernetics, and everything that could elevate their power. His mind was constantly engaged in research, analysis, and technological advancement, ensuring that Verlone’s hold over Pelegeion and its domain, remained ever more secure.

  And finally, the Seventh Steward, the youngest of them all, held the portfolio of domestic politics. Though not yet fully trusted by the older Stewards, her sharp mind and ability to read the intricacies of interpersonal power dynamics made her a force to be reckoned with. She maneuvered through the intricate and treacherous court of House Verlone, ensuring that rivalries stayed in check and the blood of the family remained pure.

  Together, these seven Stewards formed the backbone of House Verlone’s rule.

  Malik, the Third Steward, stood with a stillness that made him seem carved from the same green-veined marble beneath their feet. His robes bore the white stag like the others’, embroidered into a panel of deep evergreen silk, but unlike the pristine elegance of his peers, there was something worn about his appearance—subtle creases in the fabric, sun-darkened skin that bore the memory of the harsher suns of the Harvest Worlds. Where the others adorned themselves with the gleam of gold rings and polished brooches, Malik wore only a single obsidian clasp at his collar, its matte surface absorbing rather than reflecting light. His eyes, amber-dark, held no self-importance—only watchfulness. The kind of gaze that had learned to listen before speaking, to wait before acting.

  Despite being out of place amid the other Stewards with his darker and modest appearance, no one dared to question his presence. The Third Steward was known to have climbed the ranks through quiet cunning and relentless patience. And here he stood, one of the key advisors of the Duke and Duchess of House Verlone.

  Facing the Ducal couple and the seven Stewards, the ladies and lords of the Side Branches of House Verlone sat in a crescent, draped in opulence. Their attire was exquisite—layers of brocade, shimmering silks, and intricate jewelry that caught the filtered light of the Spire’s sun-laced dome. But beneath all the beauty was something subtly unsettling. Their skin too smooth, their smiles too rehearsed. Many of them bore the delicate signs of alteration—cheekbones too sharp, eyes too symmetrical. They had sculpted themselves to perfection. Aesthetics before blood. Appearances above all.

  Beside them, nestled like carved idols, sat the Elders of Verlone. Ancient in theory, but anything but frail. Their appearances were masterworks of wealth and preservation—polished skin, unnaturally clear eyes, and bodies clad in robes of such fine material they shifted like liquid. These were not doddering relics; they were institutions in flesh, minds honed by decades of power. Their voices did not rise often—but when they did, rooms fell silent.

  And finally, the three Blademasters of House Verlone sat to the right of the Duke and Duchess, each a vision of gilded danger. Clad in ceremonial armor of gold and silver steel, with emerald cloaks flowing behind them like forest shadows, they were both beautiful and terrible to behold—peacocks adorned for courtly grace, yet exuding a stillness that stilled the breath.

  Malik Atan, standing among the Stewards, never let his gaze linger too long on the three Blademasters. There was a weight to their presence, one that tales, myths, history and experience had taught him to respect. Blademasters were instruments of both legend and terror. Whispers told of duels that rewrote the fate of noble lines, of solitary warriors who turned back invasions, of monsters who carved through entire regiments like wind through grass, of executioners who ended wars before they began.

  Blademasters were not chosen, nor made in any conventional way. They were born from something rarer—a convergence of exceptional physicality and the almost-mystical state of being known as the Pinnacle of Combat. Soldiers could be sculpted, engineered, augmented in various ways, even honed—but a Blademaster crossed into a different realm entirely. To Malik, Blademasters were to always be respected. To always be feared.

  Of the three present, one cast the longest shadow: Virelia de Verlone, the oldest and the most lethal of the three Blademasters. Her armor was older, darker, etched with delicate patterns of slain beasts and forgotten banners. Her face, untouched by age yet weathered by the gravity of deeds done, wore a quiet, permanent stillness. She moved little, but her every breath seemed sheathed in a quiet readiness, like a sword halfway drawn.

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  It was recorded that she had once fought an Imperial Blademaster and won, had killed three Blademasters from rival Houses, and buried a dozen more mercenary Blademasters beneath her boots. Her dueling record was whispered in awe. It was said she had stood on the battlements of the Outer Ring when it nearly fell to foreign incursion—and held it alone.

  And in recent times, with the death of Eryndor Vaelan, in the Succession War, Virelia de Verlone was considered by some, the greatest Blademaster alive.

  Even among the carefully calculated cruelty of House Verlone, their Blademasters were kept close. They were not guards. They were weapons—living threats. And even now, seated in stillness and ceremony, Malik knew: if one of them moved with purpose, without another Blademaster to stop him, half the amphitheater would be dead before a scream could rise. They were the pride of the House. And its final answer. Even the most flamboyant among them held an aura of absolute readiness. Theirs was not vanity—it was theatre, performed with steel instead of words.

  The discussion meandered as it always did—from crop levies on the outer moons to the successes of the latest trade fleets. The Verlone Domain was blooming once more, as after the bitter, brutal years of the Succession War, the Inner Ring had finally reopened. The new Emperor had asserted his rule over the Inner Ring, and now commerce flowed. Tribute was steady. The balance held. The nobles sipped their crystalline wines with self-satisfaction. Whatever festering poverty brewed in the slums far below was no concern of theirs. For they engineered it, and profited off of it.

  And then came the name that soured the air.

  "Now… the matter of the Emperor’s envoy," the Duke finally said, his voice melodious and calm.

  Malik lifted his chin slightly, eyes narrowing. He’d been waiting for this.

  The name echoed like a stone tossed in still water.

  “Dante Saint.”

  The room held its collective breath—not in fear, but in curiosity. The name was new to most, whispered in passing through court gossip and intercepted messages.

  A Side Branch noble spoke first. “He was the Emperor’s bodyguard, wasn’t he? Before the Succession?”

  “A Blademaster,” murmured another. “They say he led the vanguard for the Emperor.”

  One of the Verlone Blademasters chuckled dryly from their post. “We’ve seen the Emperor’s Blademasters before. Let him come.”

  But the Duke’s gaze cut across the room, pausing at Malik. “Steward Atan, what have your sources uncovered?”

  Malik stepped forward smoothly, the folds of his robe whispering against the polished floor. His voice was even, as always.

  “Saint’s record is rather impressive. He once served as one of the Emperor’s personal swords—bodyguard, tactician, field commander. Instrumental during the war, with a few triumphs over Blademasters of minor Houses, and especially central to the victories in the Siege of Carthis and the fall of the Eighth Moon. But...” he paused, letting tension stretch, “...he failed to retake Virelle, a key Harvest World of the Inner Ring, towards the end of the war. The loss cost the Emperor dearly. Saint was withdrawn. Quietly.”

  The silence thickened.

  “And demoted?” the Duchess asked, an elegant brow raised.

  Malik inclined his head. “It seems so. He has been relieved of his command of the Third Legion by the Emperor. And sent here as the Emperor’s Envoy. His role of Envoy should be to observe, advise us on the Emperor’s will. So ceremonial. Decorative. It looks to be exile or even retirement, under the veil of honor.”

  “Then let him decorate our court and nothing more,” the Duke muttered.

  One of the Blademasters clicked their tongue. “We’ll watch him. If he postures, we posture harder.”

  Murmurs of agreement flitted about.

  But Malik remained still. Thoughtful. Inside, the memory of blood and shattered bodies—those rare tales of Blademasters ripping through units alone—lingered behind his composed mask. He feared them all, even disgraced ones like Dante Saint, because he understood what they truly were: weapons honed so finely they forgot how to be anything else.

  And yet, he saw an opportunity.

  If Saint truly is fallen—cut from the Empire’s core—perhaps he too is looking for a new purpose. New allies. The right whisper in the right moment… could bring him to our side.

  Malik let none of it show on his face.

  Instead, he folded his hands and bowed slightly. “The Envoy will arrive within the day. I suggest we prepare an appropriately gilded welcome. Let him see what we want him to see.”

  The Duke smiled faintly. “Yes. Let us discuss the event.”

  After all, the ball was only hours away.

  The Council had been meeting for the past hour, but the conversation had become more of a game of passivity. A game of appearances. And now that the venue was set, the guest of honor still on his way, and the decorations in full preparation, the air was thick with the excitement of their own magnificence. The Duke and Duchess sat high on their thrones, watching the discussion flow from one Steward to another, and at times, from one Elder or Lord to the next. It was a great event for the House, after all. An event meant to impress upon the Domain House Verlone’s position, both in power and in taste. There would be art, there would be fine food, there would be performances. But underneath it all, there was something else. A tension, a hunger, a darkness that had long resided beneath the polished surfaces of their societal dominance.

  The party would be an opulent affair—a ball that would host hundreds of the galaxy’s most influential, with several performances scheduled throughout the evening. The stage had been set for something extravagant, and the Stewards were ready to execute. Music, dancers, food, wine, and all manner of distractions. A series of performances that would range from delicate violins to Stardust indulgence, each designed to appeal to every taste. And, of course, the inevitable spectacle.

  “I think it will be the best performance we’ve had in years,” Lady Castia said, her voice lilting with satisfaction as she reviewed the music schedule. “With the right artists, of course. A delicate balance of classical elegance and the more exciting performances. We need something truly captivating to leave a lasting impression.”She looked across the room at the Branch Lords and Ladies who shifted in their seats with anticipation. Her words hovered in the air, and an unspoken understanding passed among the Branch Lords and Ladies, each silently weighing the evening’s potential. The artists would be the soul of the celebration, elevating it to the level of pure spectacle. But some were more interested in what else might be introduced.

  The conversation carried on, each voice in the room weighing in on the forthcoming celebrations and arrangements. The importance of the evening—where they would host an envoy from the Emperor, no less—was not lost on anyone. The air was thick with ambition, the desire for perfection palpable.

  As the topic of performers came up again, Lord Haldren, the male Elder, cleared his throat and leaned forward, his voice smooth as silk. "There’s one performer I’ve had the honor of hearing in public performances—Eliza Deme." He paused just long enough to let the name linger, carefully watching the room’s reactions. "Her voice is quite extraordinary, though there’s something... raw about it. A kind of unrefined power, wouldn’t you say? Some might even say it’s the purity of her art that sets her apart."

  Malik stiffened ever so slightly, his gaze flicking toward the Elder, but he kept his expression neutral.

  There was something in Lord Haldren’s tone that was not just about the music. There was an edge to it—something possessive hidden beneath the veneer of appreciation.

  "She performs only on stage, of course," Lord Haldren continued smoothly, though Malik could detect the briefest, almost imperceptible flicker of frustration in his eyes. "I’ve heard she doesn’t do private performances. Quite... protective, I suppose, of her gift. But there is a unique mystery about her, don't you think? Perhaps that’s part of her allure."

  The room shifted uneasily at the mention of her exclusivity. There was a slight undercurrent of discomfort whenever Eliza’s name was brought up. She was one of a few oddball artists, who had received no modifications. Her unmodified beauty—so unlike the perfect, genetically altered form of a Verlone— struck some as unsettling, as much as people admired her talent. She was too pure. Too real. And in many ways, a symbol of everything that House Verlone had sought to transcend. Yet, her purity from alterations only made her more desirable to those who fancied themselves above the average, and Lord Haldren was one of them. Malik could feel it. It was clear in his eyes—an undertone of desire disguised as admiration.

  To cover his tracks, Haldren quickly added, "But, of course, there are other performers we can consider as well. Talented, refined. Perhaps some who would suit the more intimate gatherings better. There are a few famous virtuosos from the Inner Ring, such as Talia Briss—she’s known for her violin performances, exquisite for a more formal crowd." He glanced around the room, hoping to shift the focus.

  The Duchess, who had been silent for a moment, gave a slight but meaningful tilt of her head as she listened. "Talia Briss is a fine choice for the quieter parts of the evening," she said, her voice delicate but firm. "We need balance, certainly, but I believe Eliza Deme’s presence would be... too bold. Too untamed for what we have planned for our esteemed guests."

  Haldren smiled softly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Of course, Your Grace," he replied smoothly. "I simply thought, perhaps, her... unique qualities might add a certain... spark to the evening. But, as always, your judgment is unparalleled."

  Malik watched the exchange closely, noting the careful dance of politeness and veiled intention. Lord Haldren was too transparent in his motives—he didn’t just want Eliza for her music, that much was clear. But he had somewhat cleverly deflected suspicion by mentioning another performer. He even spoke of them with a reverence that seemed exaggerated, as if to bury his true desires beneath layers of cultured sophistication.

  Inside, Malik’s disgust began to churn. These people—these so-called "noble" Verlones—wore their corruption like a fine cloak, wrapping their desires in the fabric of art and culture. Haldren, in his self-proclaimed appreciation of Eliza Deme’s voice, was no different. There was no reverence here, no real admiration. It was all about possession. Haldren spoke of her "mystery" like a predator circling its prey, and Malik could see through it all. He saw the true face of House Verlone—their twisted hunger masked by high society’s polished manners. His thoughts darkened. He had long known that the Verlones were no better than parasites, feeding off of the art, the bodies, and the lives of others. It sickened him. They had no soul, no depth. Everything, even their most refined tastes, was about control. To them, Eliza Deme was just another thing to be consumed, stripped of her mystery and beauty, until there was nothing left but a hollow shell. It made his stomach twist.

  Lord Haldren, sensing the momentary silence, pressed on with more performers, to further cover his tracks. "Perhaps a few more renowned acts. We could invite the Ke’thar troupe. Their aerial acrobatics are breathtaking, even if a little... wild. Certainly a spectacle to marvel at. Or, perhaps the O’ralyn dancers—exquisite artistry, though their style is... more earthy."

  Malik’s expression remained unchanged, but his thoughts boiled beneath the surface. Wild. Earthy. A subtle yet calculated way of describing the kind of entertainment the Branch Families craved. It sickened him even more. The Branch Families, he knew, would push for such base indulgences, while the Main Family would decry them—though all the while, the Main Family, too, would indulge their own vices, just with more discretion. Malik hated this house. He hated the endless games of manipulation, the way everyone moved like pieces on a chessboard, where even the most delicate of performances served to hide the rot beneath.

  The Duke’s voice cut through the tension, calm and decisive. "Let us be certain that our choices reflect the dignity of this House. We will not succumb to indulgences that stray too far from propriety." His words were directed at no one in particular, but everyone understood the message. House Verlone was many things, but above all, they were about control. Manipulation, when wielded by them, had to be done with the utmost finesse.

  Lord Haldren inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Of course, Duke. I merely suggested a few options for your consideration. But as always, I defer to your superior taste."

  Malik leaned back in his chair, his hands folding neatly before him. The true nature of the Council’s power—their perverse priorities, their desire for excess and control—was laid bare once again. The performances, the drugs, the sex—these were the currency they traded in. And all the while, they cloaked it in beauty and refinement, hiding the rot underneath.

  The Duchess, her voice now sharp, concluded, "We will make the final decisions in due time. For now, let us focus on other matters."

  Malik’s gaze lingered on Haldren as the conversation moved on, but his thoughts were cold. The Elder’s hunger for Eliza Deme was as clear as day, and while he had veiled it in the language of art and performance, Malik knew better. He had seen this game before.

  His stomach churned with disgust at the thought of what House Verlone truly was. Not a house of nobles, but a house of depravity dressed in the finest silks. They manipulated, they controlled, and they consumed everything that crossed their path—especially the pure, the unaltered, the unmodified. Eliza Deme was not the first to be targeted. And, he knew she would not the last.