CHAPTER 46: THE FEAST

The king and queen stood there in a welcoming manner, their only son positioned between them.

The king had a strong build—broad and imposing.

The queen was gorgeous, her beauty graceful and sharp.

But their son... he was something else entirely.

He didn’t look like he came from her.

He was overweight, his face sagging in odd places, and yet, somehow, he was surrounded by beautiful women.

They clung to him with stiff smiles, their eyes wide and distant—like dolls posed for display.

The moment Sylas and the others stepped out of the cart, the prince’s gaze locked onto Ana.

He didn’t blink.

His eyes dragged across her like claws—slow and possessive, like he had just spotted something he thought already belonged to him.

"Welcome, King Kael," the King of Selvaran muttered.

His tone was soft—yet deceiving.

He wore that grin—that smug little curve that screamed: Don’t trust me.

Then the king turned to Sylas.

"And who do we have here?"

"I’m Sylas, son of Richard, the King of Virelia."

He hadn’t planned on using his father’s name—but for safety, he did.

If they were the ones who sent the monster, then they already knew who he was.

His heart slowed. Mind sharpened. Now, he had to keep his guard up.

The prince hadn’t taken his eyes off Ana.

Not even once. His stare was slow. Hungry. Like he was trying to undress her with his eyes.

Stripping her. Slowly. Possessively.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t bother hiding it.

"And who might you be?" he asked, his voice smooth—too smooth.

The kind that sounded like silk...

But felt like rope tightening around your throat.

Before she—or anyone—could speak, Sylas stepped forward.

Without any hesitation.

"She is my fiancée," he said coldly.

His voice didn’t rise or shake. But it carried weight—like a king.

"Now take your filthy eyes off her... before I gouge them out."

Silence fell like a hammer.

The prince’s grin cracked.

His face twitched. His shoulders tensed.

For a moment, it looked like he might explode.

He stomped forward.

Each step landed like a hammer—hard.

The ground trembled underneath him.

His whole body shook, not from fear... but fury.

Like he was trying to hold something in.

And he was failing.

But then, the king raised a hand.

Then he whispered something into his son’s ear.

Whatever he said, it worked.

The prince’s anger didn’t vanish.

It shifted. Hardened. Became something quieter—and far more dangerous.

His lips curled into a devilish smile.

"I am sorry, Sir Sylas," he muttered.

Then he turned and walked away.

His swollen body swayed with each step—heavy, slow, unnatural.

It wasn’t just gross.

It was horrific.

Like watching something that shouldn’t exist try to act human.

The moment they stepped into the room, Sylas could smell it.

The scent of the Veil.

It clung to the walls like smoke—thick, sour, and pungent.

It was so strong, he could tell the door to the Veil itself was hidden right beneath the floor.

His chest tightened.

They were deep in enemy territory now.

And for once... he wasn’t sure he could take them all.

If something went wrong—if they were ambushed—he might not survive.

Worse, he might not be able to protect them.

He only saw one option.

He had to abandon his pride.

He turned to King Kael and lowered his voice.

"Can I send a message to my father?"

The king nodded without hesitation.

A sharp whistle echoed outside.

A hawk answered from the sky.

It had been following them since their journey began—circling overhead, watching over the king silently.

Sylas sat at the small wooden desk.

He dipped the quill into the ink.

Then... he began to write.

It wasn’t a long letter.

Just a few lines. But each one felt heavy.

Just enough to say what mattered:

"Father, don’t ask why, but I need backup. Please send trusted men. Come quickly."

He sealed the scroll and tied it to the hawk’s leg.

With a quiet breath, he let it fly.

As it soared upward, disappearing into the clouds, he felt a sliver of relief.

"If we can just burn a little time..." he muttered, "we might make it out alive."

—

Through all of this, Ana remained calm.

No—more than calm.

She was happy.

Too happy.

She hadn’t stopped smiling since the courtyard.

Her eyes sparkled. Her steps were light.

Not because they were safe.

But because Sylas had called her his fiancée.

—

That night, before the feast, King Kael pulled Sylas aside.

King Kael didn’t waste time.

"I need your word," he said, voice low.

Sylas turned to him.

"What is it?"

The king hesitated.

"I need you to keep my daughter safe."

He said it plainly.

But the weight in his voice made it clear: he knew he was not going to make it out of this alive.

Sylas let out a soft smile.

"I’ve already given her my blessing," he said. "It will protect her. Please don’t worry."

Kael looked at him for a moment, feeling relieved.

Like a man who had already walked through death and come back countless times.

And then it hit him.

The meaning behind the question he asked him.

That night in the room. That question Sylas had asked:

"If you had the choice... would you rather know how you’ll die, or when?"

He finally understood.

Kael looked at Sylas again.

This wasn’t a man guessing at death.

This was someone who had accepted it.

Not with fear... but with a purpose.

He had already chosen how he would die.

And more importantly—what he would die for.

Kael exhaled softly, then gave a slow nod, feeling relieved.

"That’s all I needed to hear."

He set a hand on Sylas’s shoulder—not just firm... but final.

Like a king giving something he could never take back.

"Thank you, son," he said.

And as they turned to walk toward the feast, toward the trap waiting for them...

The feast began.

Calling it a feast would be downplaying it.

It was massive.

All the nobles had gathered—every last one—from the cities they had taken over.

That’s when Sylas finally understood their reason.

They didn’t just want peace.

They didn’t want unity.

They wanted control.

Complete control.

No more rivals for the throne.

No more balance.

Just one family.

One name.

One kingdom to rule it all.

—

After the feast, no one left.

They all stayed.

The two kings sat down—facing each other like old friends.

Sylas took King Kael’s seat.

And then... they played chess.

Everyone watched.

Nobles. Guards. Servants. Even the daughters sitting beside the prince.

And that’s when Sylas noticed it.

All the women around the prince—every last one—were daughters of noble families.

Their fathers had given them up like bargaining chips.

Peace offerings dressed in silk.

It made him sick.

But Sylas kept playing.

Because there was nothing to talk about.

They couldn’t speak of truces—what was there to negotiate?

Selvaran had already taken over seventy-five percent of the country.

No matter what happened tonight... they would still win.

At least, that’s what they believed.

Sylas clenched his jaw, fingers tightening around the bishop.

He was angry.

And he took it out on the board.

Move after move—he dismantled the king.

There was no strategy. No mercy.

Just pure, quiet rage.

Piece by piece, he crushed him.

When it was over, Sylas leaned back in his chair. His eyes sharp. His voice cold.

"You see, I don’t know if this truce will work," Sylas said.

"Especially since you already have control over almost the entire country."

He stood.

His chair scraped back across the floor—loud enough to silence the room.

"I don’t know why you have invited us here," he said.

"But this is a sign of betrayal."

Sylas took a slow and sharp breath.

"And if I live through this..."

His voice dropped. Low. Steady.

"I promise you this—every single one of you here, your kingdoms, countries, states—you name it..."

He stepped forward.

Eyes burning gold.

Each word sharper than the last.

"I’ll burn them all to the ground."

He turned to King Kael.

"We are leaving."

The enemy king laughed, smug.

"Sorry," he said,

"but you’re not leaving this place alive."