The festival was in full swing. Ermengarlda, daughter of Kamu of Eostre and King Savoia of Polarstern, stood at the center of Le Vau's grand palace, poised to marry Barras, son of Le Bonaparte Celtille and Le Josephine Claudie of Couesnon. Nobles from both Couesnon and distant Polarstern filled the vast halls, their laughter and whispered conversations weaving through corridors draped with winter roses and glowing lanterns. The scent of frost-kissed blossoms mingled with the faint, sweet burn of spiced wine.
Everyone except the bride, groom, and King Celtille wore masks—intricately crafted filigree veils, slender beaked shapes, and feathered, jewel-encrusted visages that shimmered under the chandeliers. King Savoia had declared the masks a venerable tradition, honoring the ancient pacts of the kingdoms, but whispers threaded through the crowd suggesting darker reasons. Some said the masks were a reminder of their dominion over Nahewunder, a remote land whose loyalty wavered like the flickering lantern flames.
From a raised gallery, masked musicians played haunting violin melodies, their notes curling like smoke through the air. A lone painter, hidden in the shadows, captured fleeting expressions—the tightening of a jaw, a glance darting sideways—on a canvas that promised to hold the night's secrets long after the last guest had departed.
Among the crowd stood the Oureans—Polarstern's elite guard—clad in ash-gray uniforms, the black crowned eagle insignia gleaming sharply on their coats. Tonight, they were charged with guarding Ermengarlda against any threat, visible or unseen, their presence a silent promise of protection.
"So, why don't you talk to her, Ludovico?" Yong-ho, an Ourean from Gaenyomjui, nudged his friend gently. His eyes sparkled mischievously behind a sleek mask shaped like a raven's beak.
"We're on duty," Ludovico muttered, cheeks coloring under the mask. "I don't know what you mean."
"You've been staring at that blonde maid in the red mask all night. Just talk to her. Besides, you have a Terranova. Not everyone's lucky like a Bloombound."
Ludovico stiffened, tightening his coat around himself as if to hide beneath the fabric. "Bloombounds aren't trophies. They're sacred gifts from the Kami, given only to the worthy. Mine's still a Bud—not an Ancient Grove like the Heralds of Savoia."
Yong-ho shrugged, unconvinced but amused. "Fine. I'll talk to her for you."
With a smooth movement, he slipped through the throng of dancers and courtiers. Ludovico's gaze returned to the wedding couple. Ermengarlda's white hair shimmered like moonlight, her emerald eyes glowing softly beneath the chandeliers. Barras stood beside her—dark-haired, solemn, a pillar of steady calm amidst the swirling chaos. They moved like swans—graceful, timeless—dancing on the delicate line between hope and fragile peace.
Moments later, Yong-ho returned, two glasses of ruby-red wine cradled carefully in his hands.
"She's busy tonight," he said with a teasing grin. "But she promised she'll meet you tomorrow."
"You—" Ludovico started, but Yong-ho pressed a glass into his hand.
"Shut up and enjoy."
Ludovico lifted the glass hesitantly and took a small sip. The wine burned sharply as it slid down his throat—harsh, bitter, almost aggressive.
"Poison?" he gasped, eyes wide.
Yong-ho laughed softly. "Not poison. The finest from Couesnon's secret cellars. Rare, old, and powerful. It takes some getting used to."
The music swelled again, weaving a spell of enchantment over the guests. Even the stiffest courtiers found their limbs loosening as laughter bubbled and shadows danced across gilded faces.
Then, without warning, a scream cut through the night.
An older noblewoman crumpled to the floor, clutching her stomach, blood pooling on the marble beneath her. Her mask had fallen away, revealing a pale, contorted face twisted in agony.
"It's poison! The wine is poisoned!" a young man shouted, panic thickening his voice.
Chaos erupted. Guests scrambled in every direction—some fleeing, some rushing to aid the fallen. The glowing lanterns swayed wildly, casting grotesque shadows that seemed to writhe with the rising terror.
The Oureans snapped to attention, forming a protective barrier around Ermengarlda. She trembled visibly, her delicate hands clutching the folds of her gown.
"We have to help—Barras, please, for Eostre, say you're okay!" King Celtille implored, kneeling beside his son who had gone pale, blood staining the corners of his lips.
Barras clung weakly to his father's beard, a fragile, desperate grip that spoke of his dwindling strength. Tears streamed down the faces of King Celtille and Queen Claudié as they held him close.
Death showed no mercy that night—noble or common, Couesnon or Polarstern. It was colder than winter's frost, blinder than justice, and swift as the arrow's flight.
The grand festival, meant to bind kingdoms in unity, had fractured in a single poisoned breath.