Chapter 132 (Part 2): Veils of Loyalty
The Emperor's Hidden Blade
Bennett's pulse quickened as he studied the four figures flanking the carriage. Their robes, embroidered with the twin-headed phoenix of the Augustine dynasty, marked them as members of the Imperial Mage Guard—a secretive order rumored to trace its lineage back to the time of Aragorn the Unifier. Their gazes cut like frost-edged blades, sweeping over the gathered mages with open disdain. Even Alfred, ever stoic, stiffened imperceptibly beside him.
"Your carriage awaits, Your Highness," intoned a voice as dry as aged parchment. The speaker, a gaunt man in a plain gray tunic, sat perched on the driver's seat. His arms—corded with muscle that defied his rail-thin frame—rested casually on his knees. To most, he might have seemed a humble servant. But Bennett noticed how Alfred's hand drifted toward his sword hilt.
"Keech." Alfred's greeting held the weight of unsheathed steel. "Since when do the Inner Court's elite play coachman?"
The driver—Keech—smiled without warmth. "His Highness found my last duel… uninspired. A month's penance as his driver seemed fitting." His eyes locked with Alfred's. "Though I recall your blade grew dull two winters past at the Grand Melee. Shall we test its edge again?"
The air thickened with unspoken challenges until Chen's laughter sliced through the tension. "Gentlemen! Save your vigor for more worthy foes." The prince gestured toward the carriage door, its obsidian wood inlaid with celestial maps. "Master Bennett—let us converse where walls cannot whisper."
As the carriage lurched into motion, Bennett glimpsed Alfred's face hardening into a mask of cold fury. The message was clear: This is no mere prince. This is a storm wearing a man's skin.
A Father's Calculus
In the gloom of Rowling Manor's study, Count Raymond traced the scar splitting his oaken desk—a relic from his days commanding fleets against the Southern Corsairs. The crack mirrored the one forming in his carefully constructed world.
"Chen-Augustine controls the Inner Court?" The count's voice rasped like a blade dragged across stone. "If the emperor has gifted him both the Mage Guard and the Shadow Blades…"
Alfred stood rigid as a sentinel. "Worse, my lord. Keech's obedience suggests the prince has tamed even the Inner Court's wildest hounds. When combined with the palace mages…"
"The crown prince's position crumbles." Raymond slammed his fist, golden combat aura flaring briefly. Splinters rained onto the Persian rug below. "Fools! All of them! The old emperor weakens, yet instead of uniting against Chen's ambition, the nobles squabble like jackals over a dying lion!"
"And Bennett?" Alfred's question hung heavy.
The count turned toward the window, where moonlight silvered the ancestral Rowling crest—a stag impaled on a spear. "My son walks a blade's edge between two hungry thrones. Chen flaunts their meeting to provoke his brother. The crown prince will see this as our house hedging bets."
"Shall I send riders to intercept the carriage?"
"No." Raymond's smile held no mirth. "Let the princes measure my son's worth. But ready the Ravensword Battalion. If the emperor seeks to 'trim' my influence…" His thumb brushed the dagger at his belt, its pommel shaped like a drowning kraken. "We'll remind him why the seas still fear our name."
Whispers in the Gilded Cage
The carriage rolled beyond the capital's gates, leaving the spires of Yanjing shrouded in twilight mist. Chen leaned back against cushions stuffed with snow-fox fur, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"Tell me, Bennett—how many men could your hot air balloons lift across these plains undetected?" The question floated like a dagger balanced on silk.
Bennett fought to keep his breathing steady. "A dozen farmers, perhaps. Or crates of turnips. Hardly worth a prince's notice."
"Ah, but farmers armed with flamepowder bombs?" Chen's smile widened as Bennett stiffened. "Or turnips that bleed when cut?" He withdrew a scroll from his sleeve—a detailed sketch of the Fire Lily, Bennett's prototype balloon, complete with load calculations. "Your modesty does you credit. Yet I've seen your workshop ledgers. With proper funding, a fleet could breach even the Skywall Fortress."
Bennett's Quintessence Ring burned hot against his finger—the enchanted artifact Aireke had gifted him thrumming with defensive magic. "Why share this with a 'country bumpkin,' Your Highness?"
Chen's laughter filled the carriage. "Because bumpkins make excellent mirrors. They reflect truths too bright for kings to behold." He tapped the scroll. "Help me build them, and I'll ensure your family survives the coming storm."
Outside, the rhythmic clop of hooves slowed. Keech's voice drifted through the lattice window: "We arrive, Your Highness."
The Garden of Shattered Idols
The carriage halted before ruins older than the Augustine dynasty itself. Crumbling pillars clawed at the moon like skeletal fingers, their surfaces etched with glyphs that made Bennett's magic core tremble. At the structure's heart gaped a blackened pit—the fabled Fallen Star Crater, where legend claimed Aragorn's blade had cloven a god.
"Behold, the first and last truth of empires." Chen spread his arms as wind whipped his hair into a silver banner. "Here, the celestial fire that forged our nation's first crown. And here…" He kicked a shattered statue of Augustine I, its marble face worn featureless by centuries. "…its inevitable end."
Bennett knelt, brushing fingers over strange glass fused into the bedrock—molten stone frozen mid-flow. His Wucai Stone flared in response, its five-colored glow illuminating carvings beneath the slag:
Kings rise.
Stars fall.
The wheel turns.
"My father thinks himself the sun," Chen murmured, suddenly at Bennett's shoulder. "But even suns must set. Help me become the dawn, and I'll grant you wings to soar beyond this rotting world."
In the distance, thunder rumbled—or perhaps the growl of siege engines being tested.
Chapter 133 (Part 1): The Gilded Abyss
Whispers of Gold and Decay
Prince Chen-Augustine's smile deepened as Bennett's gaze sharpened with suspicion. The carriage veered onto a narrow path flanked by rows of manicured blue cypresses, their knife-straight trunks testifying to decades of meticulous care. Cobblestones paved the way—each slab etched with faint runic patterns that hummed beneath the wheels, a subtle display of wealth disguised as practicality.
"Look ahead," Chen murmured, gesturing through the window.
Nestled at the foot of a low mountain lay an estate that straddled the line between fortress and pleasure palace. Three stories of northern Roland granite rose like a weathered titan, its harsh edges softened by cascades of nightshade vines. Iron spikes crowned the perimeter wall—not for defense, but to cage whatever lay within. At the main gate, blood-red Bavarian roses writhed in the sunset, their petals glowing like embers in the dying light.
Bennett's throat tightened. He'd heard whispers of such places—shadowed gardens where the empire's elite shed their virtues with their court robes. The carriage rolled into a courtyard already choked with opulent conveyances. One vehicle gleamed like molten sunlight: its body gilded in liquid gold filigree, lanterns carved from flawless crystal housing self-illuminating fire diamonds. The extravagance reeked of new money, a garish peacock among pedigreed swans.
"Welcome to the Viper's Nest," Chen said as liveried attendants swarmed their carriage. Their bows were flawless, their muscles coiled like springtraps beneath tailored uniforms.
Serpent's Ballroom
The mansion's doors yawned open, releasing a flood of music laced with laughter too shrill to be genuine. Chen paused at the threshold, his profile etched against the golden haze within.
"You've heard of this place, yes? A 'paradise' where nobles come to let their masks slip." His voice dropped to a blade's edge. "But remember—every serpent here has fangs. Even the ones offering wine."
Before Bennett could respond, a silver-haired noble burst through the crowd, reeking of aged brandy and jasmine perfume. Marquis Solomon—a name that carried the weight of dynasties—clasped Chen's arm with familiarity bordering on lese-majesty.
"My dear princeling!" The marquis's eyes gleamed with predatory delight. "Come to sample Count Bylar's latest acquisitions? Two serpent priestesses from the Southern Marshes—supple as river reeds, hot as magma."
Chen's laugh was a well-practiced blade. "Careful, old friend. At your age, dual temptations might snap brittle bones."
Marquis Solomon turned his rheumy gaze to Bennett. "And this carved ivory statue beside you? Some fresh-faced mage to bless our revels?"
"Allow me to present Bennett Rowling," Chen said, draping an arm across Bennett's shoulders in a show of camaraderie that felt like chains. "Scion of House Rowling, magus of the Third Circle… and tonight's most intriguing guest."
A ripple passed through the nobles like wind through wheat. Bennett felt their stares dissect him—the cut of his robes, the Rowling crest's tarnished silver, the way Chen's fingers lingered near his pulse point.
Dance of Masks
The ballroom unfolded like a jeweler's nightmare. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto marble floors polished to mirror sheen. Nobles swayed in pairs, their movements too precise, their laughter timed to conceal whispered deals. A quartet of musicians played lutes strung with mermaid gut, the melody sweet enough to rot teeth.
Count Bylar materialized—a hawk-nosed man whose velvet doublet strained over shoulders broad enough to shame a blacksmith. "Your Highness honors us beyond measure," he intoned, bowing low enough to display the fresh scar beneath his powdered wig. "Might I offer you the private gallery? The viewing apertures provide… unique perspectives on tonight's entertainments."
Chen's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Lead on, good count. My friend here hungers for enlightenment."
As they ascended a spiral staircase, Bennett glimpsed shadows moving behind velvet curtains—lithe forms in jeweled collars, chains glinting like malevolent fireflies. The air grew thick with myrrh and something sharper, metallic.
The gallery overlooked a sunken amphitheater. Below, nobles clustered around a circular pit lined with obsidian tiles. Marquis Solomon leaned heavily on a cane topped with a carved viper's head, his voice booming:
"Bring out the Thorn Maidens! Let the games begin!"
Iron gates groaned open. Two women emerged—scales shimmering along their arms, eyes slitted like cats'. Their movements were liquid grace, but Bennett's magic senses recoiled at the rune brands smoldering on their throats.
"Observe closely," Chen murmured as the crowd roared. "Here, in this gilded sewer, you'll see the empire's true face. Greed wrapped in silk. Cruelty perfumed with roses. These snakes…" He nodded at the enthralled nobles. "…will sell their mothers for a night's novelty. Which makes them—"
A gong drowned his words. The Thorn Maidens began to dance, blades flashing between their fingers like silver serpents.
"—predictable." Chen finished, eyes cold as winter stars. "And predictability, dear Bennett, is the sharpest weapon of all."