Chapter 101: The Party Has Arrived

  The ride through Nireen’s gleaming streets was quiet, but the silence was anything but comfortable.

  The city's pristine marble pathways and enchanted lamplights glowed softly, illuminating the towering structures that stretched toward the sky—floating bridges of silver and glass, perfectly sculpted gardens that bloomed with unnaturally vivid colors, and the ever-present hum of mana-infused architecture. It was a land of meticulous beauty, a realm untouched by anything as crude as disorder.

  Yet, within the carriage, tension sat thick in the air.

  Thalron sat unusually stiff, his fingers clenched in his lap, his gaze distant as they neared the noble district. The grandeur outside meant nothing to him—it was a past that had rejected him, a world that had cast him aside like a broken chess piece. Now, he was forcing himself back onto the board.

  Arixa, playing her part as his poised companion, glanced at him and rolled her eyes. “Breathe, Thalron. You’re acting like you’re marching to your own execution.”

  Thalron exhaled, shaking his head. “I might as well be.”

  Marcus, on the other hand, was having the time of his life. He lounged against the plush seat, adjusting his gold-trimmed navy attire, a smirk tugging at his lips. The luxury of the ride, the anticipation of the grand entrance—it reminded him of something… something from before.

  "This feels like a limo ride," he mused absentmindedly.

  Thalron and Arixa turned to him, puzzled. "What's a limo?"

  Marcus blinked. Damn it.

  “Nothing,” he said quickly, clearing his throat. “Just an old expression.”

  Before they could question him further, the carriage slowed to a stop.

  A hush fell over the gathered nobility as the arrival of House Kelcrest’s carriage was announced.

  Elven heads turned.

  Marcus’s smirk widened.

  So this is what a red carpet must feel like.

  The murmurs began immediately. Low, curious, scandalized.

  From inside the carriage, Thalron’s name rippled through the crowd like a whispered curse.

  The name Kelcrest was one that had long been stripped from noble circles, and now it had returned, paraded in full view.

  A hand on his shoulder snapped Marcus out of his inner monologue. “Marcus.”

  Thalron gestured toward the door.

  Marcus straightened, schooling his features into something regal as he swiftly exited the carriage and turned to hold the door open for Thalron.

  As Thalron stepped out, the murmurs grew louder.

  A half-elf. A dwarf’s son. And yet, he carried himself like nobility, his posture unshaken, his expression unreadable. The seal of the defunct House Kelcrest was pinned boldly to his lapel, a silent declaration that he was not hiding.

  The whispers hissed like venomous serpents.

  “Half-blood.” “Kelcrest has no claim here.” “This is an insult.”

  Thalron ignored them all, turning gracefully to open the carriage door once more.

  The moment Arixa stepped out, the air shifted.

  Gasps rippled through the crowd.

  Dressed in crimson and gold, her braided hair catching the firelight, Arixa was nothing like the fragile beauties that adorned noble courts. She was something untamed, something dangerous, a warrior sculpted into elegance.

  And she played her role flawlessly.

  With a grace that shocked even Marcus, she bowed before the gathered nobility, her movements precise, controlled.

  The spectacle left the crowd stunned, caught between outrage and fascination.

  Marcus grinned. Perfect.

  Stepping forward, he led them through the sea of murmuring nobles, weaving through the ever-growing whispers and glances like a man who had been born for this stage.

  As they approached the entrance of the grand ballroom, Marcus’s keen eyes caught movement in the crowd.

  A familiar glint of golden eyes.

  Vira.

  Dressed in shadowy silks, she blended seamlessly into the nobility, but her mischievous smirk and quick wink told Marcus everything he needed to know.

  She was already at work.

  Then, just as suddenly, she was gone—disappearing into the throngs of spectators.

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  Before Marcus could process further, two armored figures blocked their path.

  The ornate guards, dressed in gleaming ceremonial armor, crossed their spears, their polished silver etched with arcane runes. Their expressions radiated disapproval, their postures stiff with indignation.

  "Nobles only."

  Their voices were practiced, slow, and oozing with elitism.

  "House Kelcrest no longer exists." "Commoners are not invited to a noble's affair."

  Marcus felt Stem stir within his mind.

  "Be direct. Be firm. They only respect authority."

  Marcus stepped forward, his voice dripping with righteous indignation.

  "You would dare deny entry to the Breaker of the Thane, the Mana Storm of Battle, the warriors who defeated Xenor’s army and forged a city from nothing?”

  The crowd’s murmurs grew louder.

  The guards hesitated.

  Before they could reply, a smooth, amused voice from inside the ballroom cut through the tension.

  "Let them in."

  A mysterious figure, lounging against a marble pillar, waved the guards aside with a lazy flick of the wrist.

  The guards grimaced but obeyed, stepping aside.

  Marcus gave a satisfied smirk, straightened his cuffs, and strode through the entrance with Thalron and Arixa in tow.

  The grand ballroom was breathtaking.

  Enchanted chandeliers cast a soft golden glow, their light refracting off crystal pillars that lined the immense hall. The floor was a mosaic of silver and obsidian, patterned in intricate elven runes that shimmered faintly. Noble elves drifted like ghosts, their silken robes flowing as they danced, conversed, and maneuvered through the web of political intrigue.

  And at the center of it all—dozens of eyes turned toward them.

  They had captured the attention of Nireen’s nobility.

  Stem’s voice whispered once more in Marcus’s mind.

  "Now… make an entrance."

  Marcus stepped forward, his poise carrying the perfect blend of authority and intrigue. Marcus cleared his throat and, with flawless elven precision, delivered an introduction for Thalron, his words laced with eloquence and reverence, the kind that left no room for dismissal.

  The nobles watched, some intrigued, some disgusted, but none looking away. The murmurs in the ballroom quieted as he spoke, his words cutting through the tension like a blade.

  “Lords and Ladies of Nireen, we thank you for your gracious hospitality… however unexpected our presence may be.

  "I stand before you not as a noble, nor as one bound by tradition, but as the voice of a man who has earned his place through steel, strategy, and resilience. A man whose name may have been erased, but whose legacy refuses to be forgotten. You may call him a half-blood, an exile, a defunct—

  “But soon, you will call him something else.”

  Marcus let the silence settle, allowing the weight of his words to sink in before finishing with a knowing smirk.

  “Relevant.”

  A quiet applaud crescendoed through the grand ball room, as Marcus finished his speech.

  "Good one" Thalron said with a smirk.

  As they moved toward a quieter section of the ballroom, Marcus exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he surveyed the sea of noble elves around them. Their arrival had already sent ripples through the evening’s carefully curated social waters, but now, they needed to decide how to turn those ripples into waves.

  "Alright, what's the plan?" Marcus asked, keeping his voice casual despite the weight of the question.

  Thalron’s gaze was already scanning the grand chamber, taking in the clusters of nobles engaged in hushed conversations, the subtle shifts of alliances forming in real-time. He observed the gilded sigils embroidered onto flowing robes, the house crests carved into wine goblets, and the deliberate way nobles positioned themselves—who was at the center of attention, and who was lurking in the shadows.

  "House Maevren, House Ulthar, and a few of the other major families are all here," he murmured, nodding subtly toward their gathering points. "Ulthar, as expected, is posturing near the High Lords’ table. Maevren has drawn several interested parties, likely strategizing their next move."

  His brows furrowed slightly as his eyes continued scanning the room.

  "But House Veylan—the one making the biggest bid for power—isn't here."

  Arixa arched a brow. "The house trying to force its way into the noble hierarchy? Shouldn't they be the first ones to make a show of presence?"

  "They should," Thalron said, frowning. "Which means either they were denied an invitation—"

  Or they planned something bigger.

  As if on cue, the grand set of double doors swung open.

  The music didn’t stop, the elegant dancers didn’t stumble, and yet… the air shifted.

  A ripple of genuine shock passed through the gathered nobles. Gasps, murmurs, and a few hushed curses spread as House Veylan entered.

  And they did not enter subtly.

  Draped in bold scarlet and obsidian attire, their retinue strode forward with unapologetic confidence, as though the weight of tradition meant nothing to them. Their head of house, a striking elven lord with golden-brown skin and sharp emerald eyes, led the way, his cloak trimmed with the same black-and-red insignia that marked his noble lineage.

  By all accounts, they should not have been here.

  And yet, here they were, standing at the center of the storm they had chosen to walk into.

  "The audacity," a nearby noble whispered, her voice a mix of awe and outrage.

  "Brazen," another scoffed, swirling his goblet with irritation. "To arrive unannounced and expect to be treated as equals."

  Arixa snorted. "I already like them."

  Marcus couldn't help but grin. "Gotta respect the nerve."

  Thalron, however, was quiet, watching the reactions with a strategist's eye.

  "They just turned the entire gathering into their stage," he murmured. "House Veylan is forcing the nobility to acknowledge them. If they had been invited, they would have been treated as lesser—outsiders grasping at legitimacy. But by inviting themselves, they're forcing the nobility to make a move. Either the other houses openly reject them, making themselves look hostile and afraid of change, or they tolerate their presence and set a precedent that they can no longer be ignored."

  A calculated risk. And a brilliant one.

  Marcus leaned slightly toward Thalron. "Sounds like you’ve just found your kind of people."

  Thalron nodded slowly. "We need to gain an audience with either one of the Houses, Which means we now have a decision to make."

  "We have two paths" Thalron said, mind already calculating the best course of action.

  "House Veylan", he continued "is a rising power, unafraid to challenge tradition. They're ambitious, adaptable, and willing to push boundaries. If they gain a foothold in the noble hierarchy, they could be molded into allies, a force that could shift the tides in our favor—

  The risk, They're still fighting an uphill battle. If they lose their bid for power, then any alliance with them would crumble—and we would go down with them."

  Thalron paused...then continued his assessment.

  "House Ulthar. The old guard, entrenched in wealth and influence. Their resources are unmatched, their grip on noble society is ironclad. A partnership with them could grant us instant legitimacy, and access to power that few could dream of.

  The risk? They are staunch Elven supremacists, they are deeply opposed to anything that disrupts their worldview. Me: being a half-blood, would never be seen as an equal—only as a tool to be used and discarded when convenient."

  Arixa crossed her arms, her sharp gaze flicking between the two factions. "I don’t see the point. All elves are supremacists. If we help one or the other, why would they ever help you restore House Kelcrest?"

  Thalron’s eyes darkened, but his voice was steady. "The noble houses operate on debts and leverage, not friendships. If we offer them something invaluable, they will owe us—whether they like it or not. And a noble who refuses to repay a debt? That’s a weakness they cannot afford. An elf always repays their depts."

  Marcus exhaled. "That sounds less like reassurance and more like a gamble."

  Thalron smirked. "It’s both."

  The room was still watching, the dance of power shifting every second.

  Their move was next.

  And they were about to make a scene.