“Justice comes by justice, not by unjust deed.”
My eyes wander upward, drawn to the seats of their highness, as though gravity itself pulls me toward that gilded platform. The fork rests heavy in my left hand, the knife in my right. Before me lies a steak, well done. Not how I would choose it. I prefer medium rare, with a softer texture and a more vibrant flavor. Yet blue-blooded meat, even scorched, still carries its richness, still spills its strange succulence across my tongue. So I chew, and though resentment festers in my chest, I do not complain.
The aroma fills my mouth, but the hall drowns it out. Violins rise and weave their weeping into the air, delicate and sharp, like blades drawn across silk. A piano follows, steady and patient, a heartbeat beneath the melody. Then the singer joins them, her voice climbing high, carrying a language not meant for common mouths. It is not sung in the speech of mortals but in the tongue of the gods.
A risk. Always a risk. One might think it foolish, dangerous even, to utter those syllables aloud, for their weight is not human. Misstep once, misplace even a syllable, and the divines might take notice. And if they notice, they punish. A voice misaligned, a word misused, and the gold-blooded would come.
Their fury would not fall like a storm or fire but would rot the very marrow of the speaker, leaving the body to crumble under the betrayal of its own blood. But so long as one sings in God’s tongue without naming them directly, so long as reverence does not teeter into invocation, the voice may remain safe. Free. The music may soar without the world collapsing in response.
Simon sits to my right, a foreigner from the Avelorian Kingdom. A southlander. His words, in our brief conversations, were sharp, edged with the concern of one who measures kingdoms not in acres or armies but in their fragility. He eats with quiet precision, enjoying the feast as much as any other here, though his eyes often wander—restless, weighing.
On my other side sits Melissa, her skin pale as mine, with just the faintest bluish taint that betrays her bloodline. Her fork glides through vegetables, her head bobbing with the singer’s voice as if caught in the current of her notes.
The hall glitters around us, filled with laughter and with the dull murmur of nobles congratulating themselves on victories they never fought for. Their Highness has already delivered his speech—words dripping with assurance of prosperity, of how everything is greater than before, brighter, safer.
Promises lined with lies. The moment his voice fell silent, chatter spread like wildfire. Toasts were raised, glasses clinked, and now the nobility lose themselves in pleasantries, their smugness filling every corner of this suffocating banquet.
My gaze drifts to the center of the hall. A man stands there, bridging the divide between the orchestra and the tables where the so-called patrons lounge and gorge themselves. Amidst the music, amidst the laughter and the gluttony, some of them begin to dance.
My throat dries, even though the juices of the steak still coat my tongue. My chest tightens as recognition strikes. The man, the one who dares stand there as if entitled to the entire room’s attention, is none other than my second-eldest brother.
Exclusion, I have grown used to. The quiet cruelty of being left out, of being made a shadow at the edges of my own bloodline—that is nothing new. But rarely, so very rarely, have they not even bothered with the pretense of inviting me at all. To see him there, radiant, while I am left to chew meat and swallow resentment, is its own kind of knife.
I sigh, trying to mask it behind the rhythm of my chewing, yet it burns my throat all the same. And then—Sebastian. The firstborn. Father’s pride. He is here too, standing not far off, perhaps thirty feet, speaking with those who share our blood. Family Schild, and even Jäger. Emma von Jäger, the woman with whom I’ve reluctantly slept from time to time, dances with another man.