The golden age of the Empire had been built on a foundation of lies. As the four companions moved through the Grand Gala, the festive lights felt like the cold eyes of a predator. The realization that Lord Valerius was merely a terrified puppet had led them to the Prime Minister—but even that trail had gone cold in the most horrific way possible.
They converged at the entrance to the Prime Minister's inner sanctum. The door was magically sealed, but Alaric's heavy boot and a surge of Killian's dark energy forced it open.
The room was freezing. Frost coated the windows from the inside, and the smell of stagnant mana was unmistakable. There, slumped in his high-backed chair, sat the Prime Minister.
"He's stone cold," Alaric said, touching the man's neck.
"He didn't just die," Eveline whispered, her hand glowing as she examined the corpse. "Look at the dehydration. This man has been dead for at least a week."
Killian growled, finding a small, black crystal embedded at the base of the skull. "A necromantic puppet. Someone has been wearing his skin and signing safety denials for those Siphon Stones for seven days. They wanted us to find him—to keep us busy while the trap was set."
They rushed to the balcony, overlooking the dual nature of the night's festivities. The "Order of the Final Breath" had designed a synchronized harvest:
The Imperial Palace (The Noble Gala): Above the shimmering gold halls, Siphon Stones were hidden within the chandeliers. The elite guests were to be the catalyst for a massive magical explosion.
The Capital Plaza (The People's Festival): In the square below, thousands of commoners cheered around bonfires. The layout of the stalls and fountains formed a perfect ritual circle. The commoners were the primary fuel; their life force would be ripped out to empower the ritual.
The black crystal in the corpse's neck began to pulse with a rhythmic, violet light. Outside, the first firework exploded—a signal for the stones to begin their hum.
"We can't be in two places at once," Alaric said, his heart hammering as he looked at the unsuspecting commoners below.
"Yes, we can," Seraphina countered. She stood between her three companions, no longer the victim of the past, but the commander of the present. "I didn't learn the sword to just stand by and watch. We split up and we end this now."
She looked at Killian and Alaric. "Get to the Plaza. The commoners have no protection. Use your authority to break the circle. If a stone won't move, shatter it."
As Alaric and Killian vaulted over the balcony to race toward the city, Seraphina and Eveline stepped back into the ballroom. Seraphina's hand gripped her hilt, her eyes scanning the crowd for the one person whose soul wasn't vibrating with the music, but with the jagged, dark rhythm of the stones.
They moved through the sea of masks. Seraphina checked the High General—he was drunk and laughing with his lieutenants. She checked the Emperor's cousins—they were preoccupied with petty gossip. Eveline used her holy resonance to sweep the room, but the result was a terrifying blur.
"I can't find them, Sera," Eveline whispered, her face pale. "The mana from the stones is so thick it's masking everyone's aura. The mastermind... they aren't standing out. They are perfectly blended into the crowd."
They searched the shadows behind the throne, the kitchens, and the musicians' gallery. Every person they suspected turned out to be just another oblivious noble. The mastermind was a ghost among the living, watching them struggle while remaining completely invisible.
"They're not here to fight us," Seraphina realized, her heart sinking as the violet hum of the chandeliers grew louder. "They're here to watch us fail. They don't need to be near the Emperor to trigger this—the ritual is already self-sustaining."
The realization was a cold blade to the chest: they were hunting a shadow that had already left the room, leaving behind a city-wide execution block that was seconds away from activating.