The Sarman Empire churned with unrest, currents twisting under the polished surface of politics, yet the gilded royal reception hall flared back to life like dawn striking lacquered gold.

Long unused but lovingly kept, the red velvet drapes rolled up like tides, while rim-chimes of goblets and the swell of strings carried on all night like a river of music. Fountain magic braided with radiant Magic Crystal Stones, weaving a rainbow that lit Balad’s night like a painted arch in the sky.

Usually, only towering political figures merited a banquet at this level, like mountains that force the court to bend. After Richard VI’s iron-fisted reign, famed for violence and frostbite cruelty, the client kingdoms on the Empire’s rim had lost all leverage; anyone below a duke couldn’t even set foot in this hall.

Yet this high ceremony was thrown for one man.

He wasn’t a statesman by title; in truth, before tonight almost no one in the Empire knew his name—though his surname and that flame-red hair were both from the storied House Berlik, like a crest stamped in wax.

Kabos raised his goblet, sun-browned skin showing where his cuff failed, a tan carved by wind and rain. His muscles held clean lines like blade-work; his presence was rough at the edges, his spirit easy and bright, like heroes from legend who endure the storm and ride home victorious. Every other royal and noble around him dimmed like moth-eaten silk.

“You wouldn’t believe it. I traded three hundred rounds with Chaos Spawn that move without sound or shape, came out soaked in blood, cut in and out of that horde seven times—”

His cheeks flushed; his voice carried the lazy slur of wine and a far-country lilt, yet it only sharpened his masculinity, like fire in iron. He tipped back another mouthful; red wine, the same shade as his hair, slid down his jaw and fell across his broad chest like a crimson line, and unwed and wed ladies alike held their breath, hands over hearts, faces pale as if the air had thinned; a few simply pressed a damp brow and fainted.

“Kabos, sir—your adventures are truly awe-inspiring! I’m Alisa Jane of House Tommis. If you’re free tomorrow afternoon, could you, um, join me for tea—”

“Kabos, sir! I’m Catherine of House Patnia. Do you remember? We met once as children, so it should be me who—”

“No, no—Kabos, sir, this is my card. Please, you must take it—”

“Wait, I’m Athel of House Nitra—anyway, this is my communication Magic Crystal Stone. If you want, call me and I’ll be there—”

Once one dared, the rest surged like a tide. He was ringed by giddy voices; the bolder ladies began battling for the space at his side like sparrows over a crumb. Those with cards pushed cards; those without tore jewels from hair and throat and pressed them on him as tokens, desperately trying to plant even a seed of themselves in his memory, until the scene teetered on chaos like a market at dusk.

These were cloistered daughters raised as political currency, polished like jade for years. On a normal day, seeing them lose decorum so badly would have made their house lords spit blood on the spot, like a kettle losing its lid.

No one stepped in tonight. It wasn’t that Kabos had cast some wicked spell; everyone here moved by choice, like boats pulled by their own oars.

The reason was simple. The Empire’s power struggle had dragged on for years, the conservative cabinet under Regent Rockridge grinding against the reformists spearheaded by the Redlan Society and the Tribunal, and the word “civil war” had shifted from tea-time chatter to a shadow you could touch. In such a storm, noble ranks had turned into feathers; better a hero like Kabos, whose record was forged in the outer domains, than a title that might be plucked clean any morning.

Whoever won him would hold a pardon in their pocket like a charm. Conservative or reformist, anyone who tried to move against them would now think twice. Even in the worst case, the name of this hero could keep a head on a neck. With that arithmetic running hot, the house lords let their daughters scramble for him like bargain hunters on market day.

No—if not for age and gender, those lords would have fawned over him themselves, like hawks acting tame for a slice of meat.

“Hey, Kabos, I heard you’re close with the Elves. What’s your impression of them? People say they’re all ethereal beauties, but every one has some shocking quirk, and they even do that with each other—uh! I hardly know how to say it, but forgive me, they’re nothing like our human ladies.”

“Quirks?” Kabos rolled his eyes like a coin. “Hard to say about quirks, but they really don’t like males. And their bodies—smell truly awful. I mean it.”

What?

He described the stench—rotten egg married to hangover vomit—and the duke who’d asked gaped, stunned. He’d started by talking down the Elves in a staged self-answer, but hearing that these avatars of “beauty” couldn’t even couple with human men, he sagged like a punctured wineskin, words meant to advertise his daughter caught in his throat.

Other men wore the same brittle look of broken fantasies, but these were old serpents who could spend a decade grooming daughters into perfect bargaining chips. Filth in their minds shoved aside, they steadied fast and kept flattering the young hero in their own ways, like dice thrown again after a bad roll.

“Anyway, you must’ve met the beastfolk this trip, right? Those hairy-butt types—can you even talk to them—”

“First, don’t call them that. Their name’s the Nacha Tribe. Second, their butt hair isn’t thicker than ours. Though their backsides do have a signature—a lot of muscle there. If both cheeks clamp together and they press down, they could probably crack your neck with a snap.”

“Huh?”

Curiosity dressed up as flattery kept flowing, and Kabos was the star at the center like a bonfire ringed by moths. No one complained—well, save one.

(What’s he strutting for? Worthless trash. Ptoo.)

Beyond the wall of bodies around Kabos, a red-haired man sat in a corner with a storm face. A maid passed with a tray; he didn’t check if the glass was reserved, just snatched it with a clawed hand, as if the girl didn’t exist, drained it in a single pour, then let the glass crash to the floor and waved her away like smoke.

(Gone for years, and he comes back like this? Mouth full of gutter talk, no trace of a noble. Disgrace to the house!)

When the maid fled in tears, he went back to muttering, eyes a thunderhead fixed on Kabos. He tried to swallow the feeling with wine, gulp after gulp, but the hate only thickened, tar-viscous and black.

When Kabos launched into how he’d leapt over a bottomless abyss, pulled the safety lever, and ground an ancient evil dragon into shards, that hate hit its limit and surged on alcohol like fire taking oil.

“Shut your lying mouth! You fraud stuffed with hot air! You think I don’t know what you are? ‘Leapt over the endless abyss’? Hilarious. You? You’d piss yourself just standing near a window!”

The hall, a moment ago buzzing, fell pin-drop silent, every gaze turning to Kabos and him, like a pair pinned under a sudden spotlight.

A few noble girls grimaced and tried to speak for Kabos, but he lifted a hand to still them, then turned to the source of the shout like a compass swinging true.

“Brother, I’m not lying.”

The drunk shouter was Berlik’s heir—Kabos’s elder brother, the firstborn who had always monopolized House Berlik’s resources and attention like a tall tree hogging sunlight.

Hearing his younger brother, high on the crowd’s shoulders, call him “big brother” after so long, his face showed no kinship and no warmth. He slammed the table and roared on like a storm breaking windows.

“You say you’re not, so you’re not? What a joke. I could say Emperor Belior is a woman! Who can’t boast? Do you have proof? Answer me—do you—”

His voice cut off, not from sudden respect for the blasphemy he’d just uttered, but because Kabos took something from his breast like a magician palming a coin.

A badge.

A badge carved from plum-petal jade, a stone that held colors words can’t catch, its beauty shifting like light on water. The plain red-white glow of the Magic Crystal Stones struck it and scattered into winter-snow glints dancing across the floor.

What stole the heir’s voice wasn’t the scene, but what that scene signified, like a seal pressed into wet wax.

In the Empire’s great cathedral, one identical badge rests on the altar like a relic.

It was the gift the Elven Queen gave Emperor Belior after the Chaos Uprising.

An artwork carved from plum-jade cut from the World Tree’s roots; a priceless symbol of friendship among the three races, like three hands clasped over a river.

“Impossible…”

“Nothing’s impossible, brother. This is the proof Queen Dreamlan awarded me.”

Kabos flicked the badge with a careless hand; it arced into his brother’s arms like a falling leaf.

The heir scrambled and caught it, cradling it like a pan turned blue-hot, his face flushing, disbelief wrinkling his brow like paper.

“This—then it has to be fake. Yes, fake! If it were real, why would you toss your only proof around like a toy?”

“Because it isn’t my only proof,” Kabos said, shrugging like a man shaking off dust. “From Her Majesty herself, I heard something hotter, something about to be proven—something no one in the Empire knows yet.”

He faced the nobles around him and lifted a finger to his lips, asking for hush like a handler calming horses.

“Her Majesty the Elven Queen has long been tired of us humans. With Chaos dealt with, and hands now free, her next target—”

Is our Empire.