Arthur stood beside the buffet table, a small plate already piled high, chewing contentedly with the sort of focus one might reserve for a formal duel. He didn't drink, he never liked the taste, and it made him feel slow, so he stuck to the food, which, to his delight, was varied and excessive.

Still, even while he ate, his eyes scanned the room with subtle wariness, particularly watching out for the elderly woman who had tried striking up a conversation with him earlier. The moment he spotted her again, he planned to vanish from the hall as quickly and discreetly as possible.

When the dancing began, Arthur found himself quietly relieved. He didn't know anyone here, and nobody knew him, which suited him fine. He took a seat at the edge of the hall and simply watched the dancers swirl across the polished floor, his gaze occasionally drifting toward the Eight Pillars, not because they were particularly captivating at the moment, but because they were the sort of people one kept an eye on.

Audrey was smiling brightly as she spoke with the king and queen, holding a delicate flute of champagne like it belonged there. Lazarus was deep in conversation with Desmond and Rudius, their gestures sharp, their expressions serious, likely a discussion about magic, or war, or both. Jeremiah was seated nearby, talking with Alex, Isaac, Isa, and Henry, the group huddled close, heads bowed as though trading secrets. Tricia and Olivia chatted while eating, the calm between them strangely comforting in a room filled with noise and undercurrents.

Jacob sat alone at a far table, downing drink after drink like it was a race he intended to win. Arthur frowned at the sight. Something about it struck him as… wrong, though he couldn't explain why. Nearby, Jessica was speaking with Princess Leah, and that, too, was unexpected.

That was when it happened, a small group of people rushed into the hall, their expressions tight, their words urgent. They made their way to the Eight Pillars quickly, and though Arthur couldn't hear the details, he could tell by the sudden shift in atmosphere that something had gone wrong. Within minutes, the Pillars and a significant portion of the combat-ready guests began to file out, leaving only Olivia and a small contingent behind.

Now Arthur was certain: something had happened. Something serious.

He remained still, but his gaze wandered across the room. It was subtle at first, easy to miss but more and more of the guests were beginning to act strangely. Some were swaying on their feet, eyes glassy. Others had collapsed entirely, while a few stumbled about in confusion or fear. Panic took hold in strange, sudden bursts, as if reason itself was thinning.

It didn't make sense. There had been no explosion, no magic he could see, nothing obvious to explain the sudden unravelling of sanity around him.

Then he saw Jacob again, only now, Jacob was no longer seated. He was on the ground, crawling forward with slow, uneven movements, mumbling incoherently to himself, his eyes unfocused and wild. Arthur reacted instinctively. He began moving toward him, concern rising quickly, whatever was going on, Jacob clearly wasn't well. He seemed to be heading towards Olivia. Maybe he needed help.

But before Arthur could reach him, someone else did.

Princess Leah, composed and steady moved in from the side and lifted Jacob off the floor with surprising ease. She draped his arm over her shoulder and helped him toward Olivia, who was already looking towards them with interest.

Arthur paused, watching them go.

"Didn't know they were close," he muttered to himself, genuinely surprised. In truth, Jacob had always seemed like the kind of person who kept others at a distance, distant, cold, unwilling to let anyone close enough to know him properly. Seeing Leah, take charge like that was unexpected.

What followed was even more remarkable.

Olivia didn't draw a rune. She didn't chant or gesture or conjure any elaborate spell work. She simply placed her palm against Jacob's abdomen, her eyes narrowing slightly in focus, and within seconds he stilled, his breathing slowed, the colour began returning to his face, and the wild look in his eyes faded away.

It was quiet, almost effortless. A reminder of why she was known across continents as one of the greatest healers alive.

Arthur exhaled slowly and returned to his seat, glancing one more time at the slowly unravelling chaos in the hall. He didn't know what was happening, not yet but whatever it was, it had already begun.

Well, things had already been going poorly for a prince's birthday, confusion spreading across the hall, people panicking, magic rippling through the air without explanation and somehow, impossibly, they got worse the moment the front doors were blasted open with a crack of splintering wood that echoed through the chamber like thunder.

A group of armed intruders stormed inside, mages and knights moving in coordinated formation, grim-faced and unhesitating. The chaos that had been simmering instantly boiled over.

Olivia barely had time to react before a concussive blast struck her full-force, sending her flying backwards through one of the hall's tall windows, glass shattering around her as her body vanished from view. And then, without warning, the entire ballroom descended into mayhem.

Steel clashed against steel, arcane symbols flashed across the air, spells collided in bursts of sound and colour, runes igniting mid-air only to be torn apart by counter spells or absorbed into hastily raised barriers. Screams mixed with the whine of enchantments and the heavy thud of bodies hitting marble. It was a battlefield born in seconds.

Arthur didn't hesitate. He didn't duck or retreat. He stepped forward, slipping between fleeing guests, eyes locked on the incoming attackers, and began forming a rune in his palm with smooth, practiced movements.

To be honest, when he'd first awakened his mana, he hadn't thought much of himself as a mage. He'd always seen himself more as a knight, someone meant to wield a sword, not draw symbols. But that changed when he was tested and given a grade-one aspect, the highest tier of magical potential. Suddenly, he was more than average, gifted, even. Within two days, he'd taught himself two basic runes and could've learned more if he'd been willing to spend less time sparring and more time studying.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted a mage preparing a spell, a shard of ice already halfway through its casting, aimed straight at a noblewoman who was crawling across the floor, her dress torn, eyes wide and filled with tears.

Arthur finished his rune just as the ice shard shot forward.

With a stomp of his foot, he activated the spell. A solid column of stone erupted from the ground in front of the woman, intercepting the ice with a dull crack, shattering it into harmless fragments. The mage turned at the sound, just in time to see Arthur stepping in.

Arthur's fist connected with the side of the man's jaw, sending him stumbling backward. Before the mage could recover his balance or reconstruct another spell, Arthur traced the second rune he knew, fingers moving quickly through the motions. A crack of lightning split the air, lancing forward and piercing through the mage's chest, dropping him instantly.

Arthur glanced back at the noblewoman, she was shaking, but alive, and then a sudden force slammed into his back with enough strength to lift him off his feet. His body hit the floor hard, the breath knocked from his lungs, blood rising to his throat and spilling past his lips. He coughed violently, dazed.

Thinking fast, he began forming his earth rune again, hoping to raise a barrier before the next blow landed. The wall began to rise, but before it could fully form, it was smashed apart by a massive weapon.

And then he saw her.

A large, heavily built woman, towering over most, dressed in hardened leather and wielding a warhammer nearly as tall as Arthur himself. The weapon glowed with a faint, dense aura, grey, heavy, oppressive like smoke clinging to stone. Even without sensing it directly, Arthur could feel the weight of it, and that told him everything he needed to know.

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'A rank eight knight.' Too strong.

He could fight a rank ten, maybe even win with luck. But a rank eight was in a different league entirely, someone who'd carved a name for themselves through battlefield experience and brutal efficiency. He didn't stand a chance, not head-on.

Without thinking, he fired a bolt of lightning in her direction and turned to run, hoping to slow her down, maybe buy a second to think.

But he didn't get that second.

Something heavy struck his back again, this time with enough force to drive pain deep into his spine. Something cracked. He collapsed face-first onto the ground, struggling for breath, the taste of iron flooding his mouth. His arms barely responded. Everything felt distant, slow.

Lifting his head with effort, he could just make out the knight approaching, her massive frame blotting out the flickering light behind her, the hammer already rising for another swing.

'So this is how I die,' Arthur thought. There was no fear in the thought, no final surge of regret only a quiet resignation. He closed his eyes and let the weight of it settle, allowing the pain in his back and the looming shadow above him to fade into black.

He lost consciousness.

When his eyes opened again, something in them had changed. The warmth, the flicker of humour or hesitation that had always lingered behind his gaze was gone. What remained was cold, focused, and empty of distraction. He rose slowly, expression unreadable, and turned his head just enough to see the knight striding toward him with that same cocky sneer carved into her face.

"This is your warning," he said quietly, voice flat but unshaken. "Walk away now, and you get to live a little longer. Keep coming, and you die here."

She didn't take it seriously, of course.

Still grinning, she rolled her shoulder and laughed, her warhammer already rising again. "You were just wheezing in the dirt. Pretty boy, bluffing doesn't suit you."

Arthur didn't respond at first. He stood upright, brushed the dust from his suit with measured movements, and then looked her directly in the eye.

"Mind if I get a sword?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Sure," she said, clearly amused. After all, what was a mage going to do with a sword?

Arthur walked calmly toward a fallen knight nearby, bent down, and pulled the sword from his limp hand. He turned it over once, testing its balance, and let out a quiet, satisfied hum.

"Alright," he said. "I'll start with an arm."

The knight barely had time to process the words before pain exploded in her shoulder. She looked down in disbelief. Her left arm was gone, cleaved cleanly at the joint, the wound already sealed by heat. She hadn't even seen him move.

She staggered backward, face twisting in confusion and fear, as Arthur straightened and turned toward her again.

"That boy you were playing with earlier," he said calmly, nodding toward where he'd fallen moments before, "he's weak, so I understand the mistake. You assumed I was him. You assumed wrong."

His eyes met hers, and for the first time, she took a full step back.

"I'm not a rank ten mage. I'm something more. Much more." He took a step forward, and though no aura radiated from him, the sheer weight of his presence seemed to press against her like gravity made personal.

"Don't feel ashamed," he said, his voice still quiet, almost gentle. "If anything, be proud. Few can say they died to Arthur Slautre, heir to the Slautre legacy." He paused then, as if considering whether or not to say more.

"And the Blood Demon of Whisper."

Her pupils shrank to pinpricks at the name, but whatever instinct she had to retreat or attack came too late. In a blur, her head was severed from her shoulders, her body hitting the ground moments later with a lifeless thud.

Arthur hadn't drawn on his aura. He hadn't needed to. Pure speed, precision, and technique had been more than enough.

"Now… where's Jacob?" he muttered, already turning away from the corpse.

The woman had told him not to interfere. Even if the target was considered important, he was to observe and remain passive. But Arthur didn't take orders from anyone below his rank, and certainly not when it involved someone as vital to his long-term goals as Jacob.

It didn't take long to spot him.

Jacob, of course, was in the middle of a fight. Arthur narrowed his eyes. His opponent wasn't just any mage, he was ranked the same as Jacob, yes, but he was also drawing on faith. That made things more complicated. The fusion of mana and faith wasn't something to take lightly.

Arthur exhaled through his nose, rubbing at his temple with a growing sense of irritation. "Always making things harder," he muttered.

He glanced toward one of the nearby tables, grabbed a loose piece of cloth, a table runner, or maybe a torn curtain and wrapped it around his shoulders like a makeshift cloak. He concealed his figure as best he could, tucking the edges close, then reached into the inner lining until his fingers closed around a small, smooth stone etched with precise runes, an artefact.

Tucking it carefully into the folds of cloth, he broke into a sprint, weaving through the debris and chaos of the hall as he made his way toward Jacob.

He reached him soon after, breathing evenly despite the pace, and then slowed, hesitating just briefly as he studied the ongoing battle. He could see the strain in Jacob's stance, the weariness behind his eyes, and the overwhelming pressure bearing down on him from his opponent.

Arthur didn't speak. He didn't reveal himself.

Instead, he stood a few steps away, watching and calculating, fingers tightening around the artefact in his clothes.

'Now then,' he thought, 'how do I get this to him without ruining everything?'

As long as Jacob had it, he wouldn't die, not to this opponent, not today. The challenge now was how to pass it off without drawing attention.

It was just then that Jacob had shouted at him, voice strained but firm, telling him to run, to get help, to leave him behind. At the very same moment, Arthur felt it: the unmistakable pulse of killing intent, focused and sharp, radiating from somewhere to his left. He turned his head slightly and spotted the archer, no more than twenty meters away, already drawing the string back on a longbow with quiet precision.

Arthur didn't move immediately. He waited, let the moment breathe, then shifted subtly, allowing the tension in his legs to give out as if he were stumbling forward, feigning exhaustion or collapse. The arrow loosed just as he fell, and it tore through the cloth at his side, cleanly slicing away the section that held the artefact. The projectile continued on, embedding itself deep in a nearby pillar.

'Good enough,' Arthur thought, already on his feet again and sprinting away, not far, just enough to vanish into the chaos while keeping eyes on Jacob's fight.

From a shadowed alcove, Arthur watched the battle unfold. Jacob was hurt, visibly, repeatedly but Arthur wasn't worried. The artefact had been designed for a single purpose: survival. As soon as Jacob's life was in true danger, it would activate the preservation rune and teleport him far from the battlefield, to a predetermined location where he would be safe.

But then Jacob did something completely unexpected.

He raised his hand, and a rune flared to life, a fire rune, at first glance. That alone wouldn't have surprised Arthur. But the design was unfamiliar, intricate in a way that made his breath catch. Arthur prided himself on recognizing almost every common and uncommon rune in circulation, but this one… this one was different.

And then came the power.

The flames Jacob unleashed weren't just potent they were devastating. The spell surged forward with such violent force that Arthur instinctively took a step back. It wasn't just at the upper edge of what a rank ten mage should be capable of, it crossed that line. The intensity was brushing against the bottom edge of rank nine, something no ordinary ten could manage.

When Jacob finally collapsed, Arthur remained still, stunned more by the rune than the outcome. Jessica appeared a moment later, racing toward him. She grabbed Jacob's arm, hauled him up, and half-dragged, half-carried him out of sight, eventually disappearing into one of the rooms flanking the corridor.

Arthur waited, watched until he was sure they were relatively safe, and then exhaled a long, quiet breath.

"I believe," said a voice behind him, light and mocking, "I asked you not to interfere."

Arthur turned and saw the noblewoman again, the same one who had flirted with him before exposing herself, and warned him not to get involved. Now standing with blood staining her emerald green dress, her hands empty but her posture relaxed, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as if amused by her own hypocrisy.

His expression remained flat. The moment she spoke, something inside him soured.

"You're giving me orders now?" he asked, voice devoid of emotion. "I think you've forgotten who I am."

"I haven't," she replied evenly, stepping closer. "But Jacob's life and death should've been left to the will of the gods, or chance, at least. He wasn't yours to save."

She was close now, too close, the coppery scent of blood rolling off her like perfume. Arthur didn't flinch, but his hand moved to his side, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword.

"What's done is done," he said, drawing the blade with practiced ease. "Unless you plan to make something of it?"

The woman stared at him for a moment, eyes measuring, weighing the threat. Then she smiled again and took a graceful step back, followed by another. "Arthur, love," she said with a short laugh, "I wouldn't dream of it. You'd beat me senseless. I just hope you keep your interference limited to Jacob, and no one else."

He gave a silent nod and turned away without another word.

Making his way toward the room Jessica had entered, he allowed his posture to shift, his expression to soften. He tugged at his clothes, ruffling them up, made a shallow cut across his arm to complete the illusion of desperation, then pushed the door open with a touch of theatrical urgency, stumbling inside like someone who had barely escaped with his life.

His eyes flicked back to normal, bright, youthful, laced with concern.

Arthur blinked, as if just now realizing where he was. Jessica was crouched low on the floor, a sword gripped tightly in her hands, every muscle in her body straining with tension. Jacob lay beside her, unmoving, his body covered in burns that hadn't yet begun to heal.

Arthur didn't remember what had happened in the last few minutes. He didn't remember the fight, or the woman, or the blood on his hands. He had no idea how he had even gotten here. But he ignored all of those problems.

Right now, the only thing that mattered was that Jacob was injured but not dead. Not yet.

He kicked the door shut behind him and sprinted toward them, already reaching out.

"Hang in there," he muttered, dropping to his knees beside Jacob. "Just hold on a little longer."

Let the war rage outside, for now, this room was the only battlefield that mattered.

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