And there he sat at the end of the room. Raised above the assembled nobility of the Hegemony on a stone estrade. Framed by twin black sarcophagi that held nothing but the hollow weight of his parents’ memories, the Grand Game’s finest performer prepared to play his part once more.
A grim mourning dress had replaced his suit, its heavy velvet wrapping around him like armour for a battlefield of the Hegemony’s design. Golden rouge dusted his cheekbones, and black colour traced his lips—sharp, glittering flourishes in place of the sabre left behind in the quiet solitude of his study.
Still, continuity was present in the twin suns of De Vends golden, autumn-leaf coloured eyes. No matter if they graced the people present from a body in a dress or suit, they had always been hers.
De Vend—the man—had no place in this hall. He was sharp edges, pragmatism, and silence, and none of those things could win him enough space to manoeuvre tonight.
But Katharina could.
Katharina De Vend, princess of house De Vend, would.
And for De Vend, this had been the worst implication.
He had wanted her to rest. To sleep and heal. But in the movement of sitting down before the mirror, in the space of a missed heartbeat, he opened his eyes to have her greet him in the mirror. Two golden stars that belonged to her again — and through her, his to wield.
A sensation so well-remembered from their youth, when things were different. A soft waking, a mental embrace.
In the churning seas of De Vends fabrications and machinations, she had been his lighthouse. A structure of safety and comfort, but also of necessary isolation. Today she would be his storm. There didn’t need to be an argument or even a word between them to align - no raising edge, no resistance, only understanding.
“I will find another way forward”, his lips had said as if coming from another throat, and De Vend had nodded to himself. He would repay her for this service somehow- for this ugly necessity the hegemony had condemned them into.
His oldest maid had wept tears of joy at that, mistaking the statement to be addressed to her. As she brushed his black hair into smooth locks, her hands trembling as she fastened it with jewelled pins and delicate strands of gold, De Vend caught her eyes searching his face.
For her, this was a resurrection—a glimpse of the lady she thought she had lost two decades earlier.
For De Vend, this had been a betrayal. Not by the maid as a person, but as if the Hegemony had infiltrated even his closest servants’ minds to humiliate him. For a moment he wondered whether he had done Katharina a disservice by not trading places more often—by not letting their inner circle grow used to the woman who would one day rule.
The thought passed as quickly as it had formed. It shouldn’t have mattered; De Vend should’ve been a passing note in her history by now.
And so he endured the adornment in silent penitence, his gaze fixed on the mirror, and watching each piece of clothing adding its weight to the situation as they settled over him like chains drawn taut.
De Vend inhaled, slow and noting his rising and falling chest to find a calm rhythm. Tilting his chin just so, he found the familiar way to catch the light like a porcelain doll.
They wanted to see Katharina, and see her they would.
The low hum of the hall had settled then at the edges of his awareness, broken only by the faint pulse of filament sticks lining the walls. Their amber light spilled across polished surfaces, catching on the lacquered sheen of the sarcophagi behind him, to dance as little stars on the floor in front of De Vend.
De Vend sat motionless, the folds of his mourning gown pooling around him in deliberate stillness. Every breath forced to be flat to enhance his appearance of stillness, every shift in posture calculated in advance to be smooth and elegant. A display of desperate inaction as even one misplaced finger had the power to shatter the vigil’s fragile sombreness.
The room thrummed with unspoken tension, with whispers that didn’t quite die before reaching his ears. They had come for the vigil, yes—but not to mourn his parents, but to witness De Vends demise.
To witness his fall.
And why not?
He was their perfect tragedy: the heir created and denied by tradition. A house left to drift without a monarch by the same rules that enforced its existence.
De Vend had spent twenty years building something they could not tear down by their own force, but the Hegemony’s judgement had swept it away with a gilded decree in a moment.
His parents, adventurers to the end, had passed from this life as carelessly as they had lived it; leaving him nothing but the weight of their name. Their titles. Their failure.
He let his gaze wander over the room once more, unhurried but sharp, cataloguing the clusters of silk-clad nobles watching him from behind fans and crystal goblets. Their grief was painted on with all the precision of a shipwright’s lettering stencil. De Vend easily named the true emotions they had for him: pity, amusement, hunger. To them, he was no longer a rival. He had become an opportunity.
But the one thing he couldn’t accept was that they had thought they had found Katharina crumbling like the ruins of her life around her.
De Vend tightened his fingers against the velvet folds of his gown—stopping short of causing a telltale wrinkle, instead elongated the motion into a dab with the handkerchief he held against his cheek.
He had to give himself more time to manoeuvre. Just enough to steady himself and find a crack to set an anchor in. Let them murmur. Let their eyes linger. They wanted Katharina De Vend, meek and grieving, desperate for rescue.
They would have her.
And he would be there as always to ensure they pay.
Beneath the heavy velvet and powdered perfection, his anger burned like a slow furnace. He had learned to feed it over the years, to let its steady heat keep him moving through every betrayal, every indignity. It wouldn’t be different today, even though the stakes were high.
De Vend shifted his gaze to the edges of the hall, where the light bled into shadows. None of these vultures would do. They would pick apart the pieces of his house until nothing remained. He didn’t need scavengers.
He needed a predator.
The vigil stretched on, a quiet stage for the unspoken games played in every corner of the room in parallel to his. De Vend searched the crowd, his expression impassive but attentive, as he weighed each cluster of nobles exchanging murmured words behind gloved hands.
He had run out of options almost immediately. Most were unremarkable, their ambitions as predictable as their mourning attire.
And then, as if on instinct, his eyes caught movement—a figure weaving through the room with the ease that came only from knowing no one would dare obstruct its path.
Baroness Hatya Vom Thaintal.
They didn’t skulk in the shadows or linger on the edges like the rest of the nobility. Their approach was fluid, unhurried; commanding from presence, not skill. The sharp heels of their boots struck the floor in deliberate rhythm, not loud enough to demand attention, but just enough to carry through the muted hum of the hall.
De Vend noticed the distinct shape their coat drew behind them, the fabric falling into clean, deliberate lines with every step like a bird’s feather dress. No crease ran out of place, no fold created wasted space. It clung at the shoulders, sharp and deliberate, then tapered out to give volume like a canvas.
Hatya tilted their head slightly to acknowledge someone in passing, only to throw their eyes to De Vend with a knowing smile. The Baroness was enjoying themself.
The faint light of the filament sticks caught the edges of their features—sculpted cheekbones, a faint smile that seemed carved into their expression, and eyes that gleamed like polished metal.
A construct of their own making, as everyone knew. The rumours and backhanded compliments told of alterations far beyond reasonable lengths. This created a strange kinship between a person like De Vend who had always called himself produced instead of born, and Hatya, who was candidly a self-made person.
Annoyed, De Vend realised that, caught in his thoughts, he had returned the gaze of the Baroness for too long. He still looked away, well knowing it had been already too late, and permission had been implied. A rookies mistake.
He felt the weight of Hatya’s attention shift, their gaze locking onto him across the room. De Vend shifted in preparation, settling sideways on his chair, lifting and turning away his legs against it to appear appropriately modest.
With the tableau set, the Baroness didn’t hesitate. Their course shifted like a ship turning itself on its anchor.
The crowd parted without fanfare, nobles retreating away from Hatya’s steps like escaping a broken faucet. House Vom Thaintal was known for its hunger, not its power.
De Vend had to note to himself that they didn’t understand Hatya any better than they understood Katharina De Vend.
The Baroness had turned a House clinging to the last scraps of hegemonic nobility into a thriving mercenary operation. Not by trying to get rid of their ancestral curse, but by subverting it to their own cause.
When Hatya finally reached the estrade, they paused at the base of the steps, their coat sweeping out behind them like a shadow. They stood there for a moment, studying De Vend with a gaze that felt uncomfortably close to amusement.
“Princess De Vend,” Hatya said, their voice dropping with a bow - low but polished like the surface of glass. The motion subtly closed the distance enough to speak without raising their voice, but far enough to respect the trappings of ceremony. “I must say, you play this role beautifully. The noble heir in mourning, poised but untouchable. It suits you.”
De Vend, presenting his cheek and looking towards the nearby wall while Hatya had approached, turned his head without lowering it, and let his eyes drop onto Hatya like judgement. “Baroness Hatya Vom Thaintal,” he said in reply, the words precise, clipped. “I see your reputation for subtlety remains… aspirational.”
Hatya’s smile widened as though they had found De Vends retort expected. “Subtlety is for those who hope to avoid notice. I’ve never had much patience for invisibility.”
“self-evident,” De Vend said, not betraying his emotions. His voice carried just the faintest trace of boredom, enough to signal that he would tolerate the Baroness’s presence but not indulge it.
Hatya stepped closer, ascending a step with unhurried precision. The midnight folds of their coat whispered against the marble, its gold embroidery flickering in the soft light of the filament sticks. De Vend fought himself to stillness.
He saw this for what it was — deliberate provocation. So he engaged with it like only he could, with the patience of someone accustomed to unwanted intrusions.
Hatya could’ve tried to interpose themself above De Vend. Instead, they gently moved into a crouch, keeping their relative height equal despite closing the distance to barely existing.
The silver-grey gaze of the Baroness locked with the golden-brown of the princess before them, and Hatya seemed to vibrate in anticipation and enjoyment.
“Princess De Vend,” they said, their voice low and smooth, pitched for him alone. “I’ve enjoyed myself many times over the thoughts of having you for myself.” The corner of Hatya’s mouth twitched upward, as though they were savouring the words and memories even as they spoke them. “Sometimes I wonder how I’ve not yet fallen into madness”, they said, letting the sentence languish like a courtesan presenting themself draped over a loveseat.
De Vend’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, his brow lifting by a fraction. “Your restraint is impressive, then,” he said with the faintest note of boredom accentuating his tone. “Or disappointing, depending on perspective.”
Hatya laughed softly, a low, rich sound that sent ripples through the brittle silence of the room. With it, they turned their head up and accompanied the movement with a sensual closing of the eyes. The faint scent of spice and metal clung to the air between them when Hatya said, “I’d hardly call it restraint, De Vend. I’ve simply been patient.”
They leaned in, their voice dropping to a murmur that brushed against his ear like the faintest caress. “But understand this—I want you. That body, so beautiful in this dress. That mind, so precise it could carve the stars. I want you at my side.”
De Vend tilted his head slightly, the autumnal hues of his eyes darkening, unreadable. “And for what purpose? To add me to your collection of indulgences?”
“No,” Hatya said, the word slipping out like silk over steel. “To build something greater than both of us. Together, we could make the Hegemony tremble. You, the mind that cuts like glass. Me, the hunger they cannot tame. We would be something they fear.”
They paused, letting the weight of the words settle before leaning even closer, their breath brushing faintly against his lips. “Think about it.”
De Vend held their gaze, unmoving, his stare carrying a promise—cold and final—that this would not end well for Hatya if they forced the moment any further.
His fingers twitched, drifting toward his side, reaching for the sabre that wasn’t there. The realisation struck, sharp and quiet, stilling him.
The weapon, like so many things, had no place here. But his eyes held the same weight, the same finality, as if he already held the drawn blade ready in his hand.
Hatya stilled, the thin line of space between them charged with unspoken violence. Then, as though recognising the edge they balanced on, they straightened with a smirk that suggested victory, however small.
“But don’t force me to get you,” they said, their voice softening as the words progressed, like a lover promising a future together.
With that, they turned, their coat sweeping the estrade as they stepped off. The hall buzzed faintly with renewed whispers, though no one dared meet De Vend’s gaze. He remained perfectly still, watching Hatya retreat as if calculating the precise weight of the encounter.
Hatya had made their move. And as they disappeared into the crowd, De Vend’s mind was already working on the next.
The sharp crack of the herald’s staff struck the marble like the tolling of a distant bell, reverberating through the hall and cutting through the murmurs.
The herald’s voice echoed through the silent hall, its clarity cutting through the marble acoustics: “Announcing the delegation of Aethland Kaerndal: His majesty monarch Alend, princess Magnus Weissebeard, and her highness crown princess Amathea.”
The words rippled through the room like an invisible wave. A hush followed, heavy with anticipation and unease, as the Peregrini nobles stiffened in their seats. Kaerndal did not attend Hegemony vigils.
Kaerndal rarely attended anything.
Their absence from the Grand Game was both a point of pride and a deliberate strategy. Their presence here was an anomaly so profound it left the room reeling with confusion.
De Vend tilted his head up to present resigned while his hands fell into his lap, palms up. His expression betrayed no reaction, but his mind raced. Kaerndal’s arrival was deliberate. Calculated. And entirely unexpected.
The ornate metal doors opened barely ahead of the three figures that stepped down the hallway behind it. There was no pomp, no flourish—only the sound of their footsteps reverberating softly against the marble floor. Their presence alone was enough to draw every eye.
At the forefront walked Monarch Alend, an older man, grey-haired and starting to hunch as age pressed down on his often-tested shoulders. His robe, black but trimmed with sharp silver embroidery, bore the clean, angular designs of Kaerndal’s heraldry. Understated to a fault.
Beside him was princess Magnus Weissebeard, towering over his monarch and the room alike. Magnus’ sheer size was enough to unsettle the Peregrini, but it was his self-assured posture and slow glances from side to side that created the unrest among them. As if making sure they knew he wanted them to see him fully.
Magnus military uniform was austere in contrast even to his monarchs dress, simple thick black fabric, no ornamentation beside the cut that presented Magnus in best light, and the richly detailed medal of the “Shield of Kaerndal” - a decoration which was created for him alone.
Trailing just behind Magnus was crown princess Amathea, and at first glance, she was a figure out of place in the Kaerndal delegation. She too wore a military uniform that did nothing to put her in the correct light, but not for lack of trying. De Vend wondered for a moment if it belonged to someone else that had a fuller figure or wider shoulders, but then concluded it sat too neatly at her hip and leg to be borrowed.
Since she already had De Vends attention, he took time to inspect her more fully.
Her figure still lingered somewhere between adolescence and adulthood, caught in the frustrating liminality of a late-blooming body. The faint lines of femininity had taken root, visible in the slight curve of her hips and the beginnings of sharper cheekbones - the direction was visible, but it would be a while before she reached it.
There was a faint gangliness to her movements, a subtle uncertainty in the way she carried herself, as though the uniform she wore was an armour she hadn’t yet learned to wield. But her eyes betrayed her - she was not to be underestimated - there was a hunger and certainty buried under a surface of worry De Vend could see even from the other side of the hall.
She was unbalanced; he thought. Unsure of herself, and of how she fit within this display of power.
From the sharpness of her gaze to the deliberate set of her jaw, he could see the effort she poured into her performance, the mask she wore to match her father’s calm authority and Magnus’ monumental strength. But it was a mask that didn’t quite fit. The way her fingers flexed faintly against her sash, the smallest twitch of her lips when she noticed a Peregrini noble’s lingering glance, betrayed her self-doubt.
The uniform was meant to steady her, De Vend concluded; to lend her the gravitas of the large man beside her. But like this, it only put emphasis on the tension between who she was now and who she was trying to be.
The Peregrini nobles stiffened as Kaerndal’s delegation moved past them toward the estrade. Three sets of steps rippled over the marble like a clock reaching the end of its count. Whispers were hushed; even the faint flutter of fans ceased.
De Vend remained motionless, forcing his body to follow the story his porcelain face was already telling. He could not risk flaunting whatever this situation could be.
As the delegation reached the foot of the estrade, De Vend met monarch Alend’s steady gaze and inclined his head in greeting. When he lifted it again, there was a quick susurrus — then stillness.
De Vend wondered if the crowd understood why Kaerndal would intrude openly — or if they simply held still because they didn’t. The distance between Kaerndal and Him was still respectful, still acceptable. Then Alend took another deliberate step closer, and Magnus and Amathea followed suit.
De Vend’s expression did not waver, but his mind churned like waves. Whatever they wanted, it was not for the crowd to hear.
“The Game shifts”, De Vend thought, his fingers brushing the folds of his mourning gown flat, then as he smiled to invite a comment or greeting, he added, “Perhaps today I will allow it.”