The Queen's palace pulsed with life.
Light from golden chandeliers danced across crystal goblets and velvet drapes. Every inch of the grand hall gleamed — banners of every kingdom draped high, a hundred voices woven into music and merriment. Nobles, royals, envoys — all had gathered to witness the formal appointment of Damian, the newest of the Queen's royal guards.
It was a celebration unlike any other.
Damian stood near the base of the stairs beside Arthur and Sebastian, nursing a half-empty goblet and trying to quiet the rush in his chest. But it wasn't nerves this time. It was awe. He'd never seen such splendour. Dancers twirled beneath floating lanterns. Aromas of honeyed meats and spices drifted through the air. The Queen, radiant and regal, held court among the elite, her laughter soft, her voice warm.
Still… something tugged at him. Subtle. Off.
One of the Queen's five royal guards was missing. Demetrius.
He blinked it away. Probably stationed outside. Protocol. Nothing odd.
He let himself breathe. He'd made it here — truly here. Among giants.
"Don't stand like a statue," Sebastian muttered, nudging him. "You'll spook the dancers."
Damian chuckled. "Just trying to take it all in."
Arthur grinned. "Get used to it. This is the life now. Royal Guards don't just protect. We represent."
Damian nodded, eyes still tracing the dazzling swirl of high society. For once, he felt calm. No looming threat. No weight of the blade.
After a while, he excused himself, ducking into a quieter corridor under the pretense of needing the washroom — truthfully, he just wanted a breath away from the perfume-thick air and the endless sparkle.
The side halls were still, cooler. The distant hum of music echoed softly through marble.
Then he heard it.
A voice.
Faint. Low.
He moved closer, steps light, until he reached a slightly open door — a chamber lit by a single hanging lantern.
Inside, a noble stood alone before a mirror.
Damian pressed himself behind the nearest wall and stilled. The man was mid-sentence, his reflection staring back.
"Let them raise their glasses. Let them cheer for peace. They forget kingdoms built on illusion are the easiest to topple."
He adjusted the gold trim of his cloak.
"She hides behind her blades and smiles. But even the sun falls when the sky grows tired. I'll end this farce. And when the smoke clears… the throne will belong to one man."
Then, without pause, the noble turned and charged purposefully toward the main hall.
Damian's chest tightened. He stepped forward, breath caught in his throat.
He didn't recognise the noble — just another face in a sea of jewels and crowns — but his intent was unmistakable. Real.
Damian reached instinctively for his side, only to remember: his blade had been surrendered at the entrance.
He turned and broke into a jog, heading for the main hall.
Think. Arthur? Heimdall? Who to warn first?
But as he reached the archway, a chime rang out. The music faded.
The Queen had risen.
She stood at the centre of the hall, a soft smile curving her lips as she raised a glass. Her blonde hair shimmered under the chandeliers, green eyes sweeping the crowd with grace and warmth.
"To unity," she said, voice carrying with ease. "To peace earned, not gifted. To those who guard our future. To Damian."
Applause thundered.
Damian stood frozen. He couldn't shout. His voice would only be clouded by the wave of applause.
He scanned the crowd — there. The noble. Slipping through the throng with a smile, calm and unbothered.
Step by step. Closer to the Queen. A dagger gleamed, curled in his palm.
Damian began moving, faster now, weaving between silk.
The noble drew nearer.
Damian opened his mouth to shout—
BOOM.
An explosion ripped through the hall.
Everyone's eyes diverted to the noise.
Damian had, in a moment of carelessness, had taken his eyes off the Queen.
A flare burst near the far end of the room, cloaking everything in chaos. People stumbled. Glass shattered. Panic swept through the crowd like fire. Smoke rolled in thick waves.
Damian covered his mouth, eyes stinging. He pushed forward, heart hammering, toward where the Queen had stood.
figures darted past — dancers, guards, servants fleeing for the exits but Damian pressed on.
Then — he saw it.
A figure on the floor.
The very noble who had sought to strike down the Queen now lay motionless at Damian's feet.
Eyes wide in death. A single slash across the neck.
Damian dropped to a crouch, checking for breath. Nothing.
"Clear the hall!" Arthur shouted
Arthur's voice cut through the noise, leading the Queen away to safety.
Damian turned to help, guiding stunned guests through the smoke-filled corridors. One by one, they stumbled into the moonlit palace gardens, until everyone had evacuated.
Cool air. Gasps. Confusion.
Damian looked back once more.
And there, in the shadows of the wreckage — past the smoke and broken glass, above the noble's body—
A mask.
White.
slowly fading into the smoke.
Death.