Kialan
The hall was massive—grand in a way that almost made me pause. Gold chandeliers floated like stars overhead, casting a warm, regal glow across marble floors and intricately carved pillars. The air was rich with the scent of burning incense, exotic spices, and sweet fruits.
Everything screamed luxury.
People were already seated at long, polished tables: nobles in richly embroidered robes, warriors in ceremonial armor, elders wearing insignias of age and wisdom. Conversations murmured like a carefully tuned orchestra—low, rhythmic, and deliberate.
Then I spotted them—my parents.
They were seated at the far right, waving warmly as soon as they saw me. My mother's smile was radiant as ever, her posture graceful and poised. My father nodded with a quiet pride that only I would recognize.
"Thank you," I said to the man who had escorted me in.
He gave a short bow and stepped away.
I made my way toward my family's table, nodding respectfully to those I passed. Some faces I recognized from earlier in the hall, others were strangers—yet wore the quiet confidence of power. They watched me with varying expressions: interest, appraisal, caution.
"Good evening," I said as I reached the table, offering a polite bow to those seated near my parents.
A few murmured greetings in return. One of the older women reached out, lightly touching my arm.
"You're the Domus Hustharic boy who conquered the sea beast."
There was something in her voice—curiosity, perhaps, edged with awe.
I simply nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
She smiled and nodded back. "Good. We need strong ones."
I took my seat beside my father. His hand brushed my back—a rare gesture of comfort. My mother leaned in and whispered, "You look well. Rested."
"Mostly," I murmured.
I looked around again. Three long banquet tables formed a wide U, leaving a central space between them—likely for announcements or performances. At the head of the hall stood a raised platform, and just then, a man stepped onto it.
Davey Valenheart.
The same smirk from earlier danced on his lips as he raised a hand, calling the room to silence.
"Honored families. Respected elders. And our newest arrivals…" His gaze flicked briefly to mine. "Welcome."
"Before the rest of the Domus family takes their seats," Mr. Davey announced, his voice smooth and commanding, "we have a dance performance from the Businish Island dancers."
A ripple of applause swept through the hall—gentle at first, then swelling with enthusiasm. Clearly, the guests were eager for the show.
The lights dimmed slightly as a soft melody began to rise—first the breathy notes of wind instruments, then the grounding pulse of drums.
Young women and men stepped into the open space, their garments flowing like water under moonlight. They moved in slow unison, each step a tribute to an old tale. Their arms curved like waves, their bodies swaying with the pull of an unseen tide.
Even unfamiliar as I was with their tradition, I could sense the story in it—the story of the sea. Of trial. Of belonging.
A shift in rhythm quickened the tempo. The dancers spun in sync, crossing paths and forming shifting circles that opened and closed like blooming flowers. Gasps rippled through the audience. A few guests leaned forward, entranced.
Beside me, my mother clapped softly in rhythm, eyes locked on the dancers. My father sat upright, his expression unreadable—but I noticed the way his gaze sharpened. He was always a student of grace and control.
I let out a slow breath.
For the first time since arriving, I felt something settle inside me. This performance—wordless and fluid—felt like a welcome. A quiet one, but sincere.
As the dance reached its final movements, the music slowed. The dancers froze in place—hands lifted skyward, one knee bent, eyes closed.
Silence.
Then thunderous applause filled the hall.
I clapped too—not out of politeness, but because it had been beautiful.
Mr. Davey returned to the center, waiting patiently for the sound to settle.
"Thank you, dancers of Businish Island," he said with a respectful nod. "You remind us why tradition must never be forgotten—even in the face of change."
He turned slightly, surveying the hall.
"Now… let the banquet begin."
A soft bell chimed. The remaining members of the Domus family began to file in, taking their seats.
Servants appeared almost immediately, carrying trays of food—bowls of steaming grains, roasted meats wrapped in fragrant leaves, sauces that shimmered with spice, and fruits I didn't recognize.
As platters were placed in front of us, I leaned toward my father.
"Will the other families be introduced too?"
He nodded once. "Yes. In time."
I wasn't sure what that meant, but I didn't press further.
Because at that moment, I saw him again.
The boy from the hall.
Now seated two tables across—alert, awake—and staring straight at me.
Our eyes locked.
There was no curiosity in his gaze. No recognition.
Just cold, simmering hatred.
It struck me—not because I feared it, but because I didn't understand it.
A slow breath escaped me as I looked away, but the weight of his stare lingered.
So… not a friend, then.
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TO BE CONTINUED...
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