When Nicholas told me that the dining room was called the ‘Golden Hall’, I pictured an overblown nightmare of gold on gold. The reality is opulent, yes, but it’s a restrained magnificence rather than gaudy excess. Gilded filigree winds up white marble pillars like climbing vines, catching the light of hundreds of softly glowing crystal orbs – floating, or so it seems – that bob lazily and chime when they brush together. A faint breeze, scented with citrus and jasmine, breathes through the expansive space, setting them in motion. The airflow keeps the hall fresh – without it, the press of people pouring in from multiple doorways might make it close and stifling, despite its size.

  Light from the orbs catches on everything – the vaulted gold-plated ceiling reflecting their glow, crystalline glassware glinting like starlight, golden utensils framing etched plates, and glass sculptures decorated in gold. Subtle magic animates the sculptures – a dragon arches its wings, a hydra twists seven necks in a slow, sinuous knot, a horned bird-rabbit flaps its wings. The carving is so lifelike, I half-expect the hydra to hiss or the dragon to breathe fire.

  It’s a room made to awe, and it succeeds – but as we walk along next to one of the tables that all radiate from a corner of the room like rays from a star, I notice that each plate is etched with the Starblade crest. It’s a reminder that we dine beneath the King’s roof – and at his pleasure.

  The layout is nothing like the king’s halls I’ve seen in films – no central high table with the ruler flanked by lords and ladies, glaring down the length of perpendicular tables.

  Here, the King’s table is oval, on the highest part of a raised dais, with just six chairs. It sits not in the centre, but tucked into the far-right corner from the doors. One step below and standing between it and the rest of the hall are two other tables, one circular, the other rectangular, jutting out from the wall. The smaller one to the right bears only six chairs; the rectangular one is set with fourteen.

  The heir’s table, Nicholas murmurs, nodding fractionally to the one on the right.

  And the one on the left? I ask him even as we head towards where I am due to sit.

  For the spouses and younger children, Nicholas explains. It will most likely be empty today given the haste of the summons. In short, it’s unlikely anyone wanted to pay for the private teleportation of people unnecessary for the matters at hand.

  Radiating out from the corner, the other tables are similar to the spouse’s table – long rectangles, each seating fourteen, with the head and foot conspicuously empty. The first layer holds four tables, the second six, the third ten; the quarter-circle shape leaves room for a fourth ring of sixteen.

  It’s also clear the Golden Hall isn’t reserved solely for nobles; ours isn’t the only door people enter through. Those who enter through the same door as us fill the first ring and much of the second; the rest of the tables are filled with those who file in through doors on the opposite wall.

  Who are they? I ask Nicholas.

  Mages, foreign envoys, extended House kin, honoured merchants, palace officers…. It’s a privilege to dine here instead of in the lesser halls – a mark of favour, rank, or both. Some have permanent seats; others have been issued an invitation for this night alone.

  Is that why there are empty chairs among the nobles? I wonder. One table only seems to have three nobles present, though they appear to have chosen to sit near each other – or maybe those are their normal seats and it’s pure coincidence that none of them are absent like the rest of their tablemates.

  Indeed, though attendance is far better today than most days. The last time I saw the Hall this full was when Ionith made his announcement about the competition. The Lord or Lady, their spouse, and their heir all have reserved places which will remain open for them, regardless of whether they are present or not. The non-nobles do not have that privilege.

  Sure enough, the third and fourth layers are packed, and even the second is nearly full. Several of the non-nobles look as awed and stiff as I feel – perhaps it’s their first time here too. I can only hope my face isn’t giving me away; Nicholas hasn’t sent any warning, so I must be doing a decent job.

  I reach my table sooner than I’d like. Nicholas taps the back of one of the ornate chairs, indicating silently where I should sit, then strides confidently towards his own table. I feel abruptly stripped of my only support. I lightly brush the Bond that lies between the two of us as if it’s a good luck charm. If I can ask him questions silently, maybe I won’t make a complete fool of myself.

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  I swallow and sit down, briefly noticing how, despite being intricately carved out of stone, the chair is actually unexpectedly comfortable. Alone for now, I smooth my hands over the pale, gold-veined marble of the tabletop, grounding myself.

  I wonder how much magic it would take to replicate this stone. On impulse, I send a thread of mana through my fingers into the stone to try to feel its internal structure. It’s little different from natural gold-laced marble, but traces of lingering magic mark it as crafted. The King doesn’t do things by halves, I comment wryly to myself. I wonder how many earth mages were roped in just to make these tables, let alone the rest of the hall? Just another reminder of how far some people will go to make an impression.

  Soft footsteps tap quietly on the marble flooring. I glance up to see a figure nearing the table, with others trailing behind. I pull my hand – and mana – back, my brief exploration having steadied my nerves enough to meet the newcomer with equanimity.

  The first to approach is dressed in crimson robes with golden embroidery of flames that seem to flicker in the corner of my eye – he’s recognisable as the one previously standing next to Lady Flameform. His hair is a burnished orange and his eyes are brown and sharp. He holds himself with a noble bearing, but the last year has taught me how to identify a predator – he’s someone to watch. He gives me a once over and then briefly nods at me before taking a seat, neither warm nor cold. I nod back at him.

  “Jareon Flameform,” he introduces.

  “Markus Titanbend,” I reply, following his lead.

  “So I’ve heard,” he murmurs, unreadable. Another faint shadow passes over the table.

  “Elarion,” Jareon greets with a polite nod of his head – warmer than the one he gave me.

  “Jareon, greetings,” the new man acknowledges with his own nod, then he turns his attention to me, caution clear in his eyes. He’s older than Jareon and I – perhaps mid-thirties in appearance – but his eyes suggest he’s older than that. For all I know, with a Class masking his age, he could already be in his seventies. As I saw in the antechamber, he’s pale-skinned like his lord, dressed in Forestheart’s dark green and silver, his hair a duller blond. “You must be the new Heir Titanbend,” he states.

  “I am,” I confirm with a polite nod. “Markus.” I introduce myself simply.

  “Greetings, my lord,” Elarion’s head dips lower than it did for Jareon – almost a bow. My eyes narrow before I forcibly relax them. He sits to the left of Jareon, leaving a chair between us. His movements are precise and efficient, but without the predator’s edge that Jareon had.

  The last two heirs arrive almost simultaneously. The only woman among the heirs, Heir Goldmine is all elegance, much like her Lady who she strongly resembles. Golden combs in her hair and robes like liquid metal that tease more than conceal a womanly form catch my gaze. She sweeps up to our table and rests slim gold-tipped fingers on the back of the chair to Jareon’s right. She surveys the table calculatingly. The last heir drops into the seat at my left with a lazy sprawl, radiating the entitled ease of someone used to being the centre of attention. He’s just as instantly recognisable – blue robes patterned in silver, storm-grey eyes, hair to match his House crest.

  “Greetings everyone,” he intones with a distinct tone of boredom. He nods vaguely in the direction of everyone, though his eyes catch on me, cold and sharp. “Well hello there, Heir Titanbend,” he greets with a hint of mockery in his voice and a nod that’s barely a twitch of the head. His eyes flash with something that my instincts call anger, but it’s gone before I can examine it more closely. He turns his head languidly.

  “Oh do sit down, Elyra. I’ve told you before that you don’t need to stand on ceremony for me. I won’t ask that from you even after we’re betrothed.”

  The newly-identified Elyra eyes Heir Torrent with cool disdain.

  “We are not betrothed,” Elyra replies coolly, “and if you keep speaking to me like that, we never will be.”

  “Come on,” Torrent chuckles. “It’s a jest – I know humour’s taxed in your territory, but here in Crownseat it’s free. Smile a little.”

  “It won’t cost you to stop being an imbecile, Kyrian,” Jareon cuts in, voice like a blade. “We’re not in Rainpoint – no one here will pretend your bad manners are Lamit-worthy witticisms.” He looks contemplative for a moment. “Worthy of a peasant’s bar, perhaps.”

  Kyrian leans forward sharply, eyes flashing, but Jareon only regards him with bored amusement, though mocking humour in his eyes shows his enjoyment at the taunting. It’s hard not to see Kyrian as a boy pulling a girl’s pigtails – and with the faint roundness still in his cheeks, I wonder if he’s even reached twenty.

  “Boys,” Elyra says, level and unyielding. “If you start a fight in the Golden Hall, neither of you will escape the consequences.” She lets the words hang a moment, then turns to me instead. “Elyra Goldmine,” she introduces herself with a polite and very precise nod.

  “Markus Titanbend,” I return, aiming for precision though I know I don’t have her polish. She slips into her seat between Jaeron and Kyrian. The seat to my right is left empty – I can only guess that it would be for the Starblade heir. With the competition meant to decide who fills it, leaving it vacant makes sense.

  Across the table, Jareon and Kyrian’s silent staring contest breaks as the sweet-toned bell chimes again. Conversation ebbs away, and the glow from the floating orbs seems to shift subtly, gilding the gold and crystal around us. There’s a susurration as every head turns to look in the same direction. For a heartbeat, the entire Hall seems to hold its breath.

  here!

  here!

  here!

  here