A Tense Banquet

Two days later Joseph woke up bright and early, his legs stiff after spending the entire previous day channeling spirit energy. After a bath he changed into his new clothes — a fairly standard leather-and-cloth adventuring outfit.

A brown leather jerkin sat over a dark tunic, the material light enough to move in but thick enough to handle travel and the odd scrape. His trousers were sturdy but plain, tucked into worn boots that rose to his calves, the kind meant more for marching and climbing than for looks.

A simple belt with a few loops for pouches and a knife kept everything in place. Nothing fancy, nothing striking — just the sort of gear you’d expect on anyone heading out into the wild, practical above all else.

Osric, the Guild Master, as usual, was the only other one awake that early, giving him ample time to relax. By the time the rest of the group came down and prepared, everything was ready.

They climbed back into the carriage with Thalia driving, the Guild Master and the others inside, while Clive and Mello remained at the house since they weren’t needed.

It didn’t take long to arrive outside the palace walls, where a modest line of carriages and pedestrians waited their turn to be checked. From inside their own carriage, Joseph and the others peered out at the towering stone walls—smooth white blocks rising high above, capped with banners bearing the royal crest.

The gates themselves were wide and plated with iron, guarded by men in polished breastplates who kept the line moving with curt efficiency.

Once through the gates, the palace grounds opened up into a broad expanse of trimmed lawns and paved paths. Manicured trees lined the walkways, their branches cut into neat shapes, and fountains dotted the open courtyards, sending arcs of water into the air.

In the distance, the palace proper loomed—an imposing structure of marble towers and arched windows, its sheer size dominating the view.

They weren’t led directly to the main building, however. Instead, the guards turned them toward a large side hall set a little apart from the palace itself.

Less ornate but still impressive, the hall was built of the same pale stone, with tall windows and heavy wooden doors wide enough for groups to pass through at once. It had the air of a place meant for officials and formal business—grand enough to reflect the crown’s authority, but more practical in its design.

Another guard soon arrived, separating them into two separate groups.

“Those participating should follow me. Seniors, please follow my companion.”

The Guild Master wished them luck one last time before parting. Joseph, Han, and the others followed their escort into a large hall filled with people moving about, most between the ages of twenty and 25.

The group was led to a line, told to wait their turn, and eventually brought before a desk. Each placing their hand on a small crystal ball that projected their age as a glowing number.

With them all passing except Logan, he separately was retested, this time estimating his level to be 31, within the acceptable limits.

After the check, they were each handed a wooden plaque magically engraved with their guild name and number, then guided into a massive courtyard surrounded by doors leading to guild-specific rooms.

None of them were in the mood to mingle with potential rivals, so they retired to their quarters to prepare and strategize for the following day. Many other guilds seemed to have a similar idea as the courtyard remained fairly quiet.

That evening, after all guilds had submitted their participants, a grand reception dinner was held. It wasn’t mandatory to attend, and Joseph refused outright and told Tokko to stay with him, leaving Han, Che, and Logan to attend in their place.

…

While Joseph and Tokko remained behind, Han and the others were escorted through the palace grounds, lanterns casting warm pools of light across stone paths and manicured gardens.

The main reception hall opened before them in full splendor — a vaulted ceiling heavy with banners, walls trimmed in gold leaf, and chandeliers casting warm, golden light across polished floors.

Voices mingled in a steady hum, layered with the clink of glass and rustling of silk.

Long tables lined the sides, stacked with food and drink: roasted meats, sugared fruits, soft breads, and wines poured into silver and crystal goblets. The middle of the room, however, belonged to the guilds.

Dozens of groups had gathered, their spacing as calculated as their words, each keeping sharp, wary eyes on the others.

Some wore uniforms sharp enough to be military — disciplined lines, armor polished bright, every member standing like they were drilled.

Others dressed rich, jewelery glittering as much as their swords, more merchant lords than adventurers.

A few were rowdy, laughing loud and drinking harder, their group spilling out from the corner with boisterous energy.

And scattered among them were the smaller guilds, clothes simpler, eyes sharper, trying to look like they belonged but keeping a notable air of alertness.

They quickly found Osric and Thalia. Both had made an effort in their attire — Osric in a pressed tunic with polished boots, Thalia in a gown carefully chosen, though plainly humbler than the silks and finery around her.

It was enough to be respectable, but not enough to blend in compared to the other leaders and representatives.

A herald’s horn called for silence. The king appeared at the far end, his family seated with him, and gave a brief speech of welcome before the room stirred back to life.

Guild masters one by one went forward to bow and speak their thanks. Osric stepped away to do the same, leaving them standing together near the edge of the floor, clearly separated from the other guilds.

Thalia looked over the room, and noticed eyes cutting their way to give them the once over. “It’s always like this; it may have been best if you lot had stayed back.”

Han smiled and shook his head, the glances not affecting him in the slightest. “It is fine, a few gazes won’t get to me. If anything, it just fuels my motivation for tomorrow!” Logan and Che nodded in agreement.

The awkward stares only stoked their hunger for revenge and their need to prove themselves. Han smiled—this was one of the main reasons he’d wanted to attend the banquet.

As for one of the other reasons, Han’s gaze drifted and landed firmly on the prince standing just in front of the royal seating area. With a long blink, Han finally took a step forward but just then, a sharp laughter cut across the room, directly headed their way.

A group of young men and women angled toward them, cloaks rich, clothes sharper still, their confidence the sort that came from never having to question it. With goblets half raised, their eyes swept over them with pity.

“Well, if it isn’t Fallenshade,” one of them said, his tone light but carrying. “Didn’t expect to see your lot standing here, not after what I heard happened last time.”

Thalia’s eyes sharpened as she gave the young man a threatening look, but he just smirked, confident, without the slightest care for her reputation as the Demoness of the guild.

Logan’s face churned, ready to fight back, but Han shifted slightly, a hand motion enough to still him. His own reply was calm, measured. “We were given an invite, the same as everyone else.”

The man smiled, taking a slow sip of wine before leaning in just enough for his words to carry. “Strange sight though, isn’t it? A guild like yours, struggling just to survive.

Everyone knows it’s not the same anymore. And with that man at the helm…” he gestured faintly toward where Osric bowed before the king, “…well, not every title suits the one wearing it.”

The comment wasn’t delivered like an insult. The man said it almost idly, as if making small talk, but that made it sharper.

Han’s eyes fixed on him, his expression unreadable but his tone edged. “Insulting a Guild Master can be considered a crime in some places, choose your words more carefully.”

The man blinked, caught off guard by the shift in weight. He tried to play it off with another laugh. “Ah yes, the barbaric west and their love for beheading.” While his group laughed, Han’s unflinching seriousness made him take a step back.

“Haha, no harm meant. Just saying what people think, don’t take everything so seriously.”

Che’s fists curled white, Logan muttered under his breath, but Han gave them nothing. He simply held the man’s gaze until the silence pressed long enough that even the others in his group shifted uncomfortably.

Feeling the weight of Han’s gaze and seeing the steady steps of Osric approaching, the group finally turned to go.

Their chuckles and whispering gossip could be heard clearly as they circled the room. It was all just a joke to them, cheap entertainment at best.

A ripple of whispers moved through nearby guilds, heads leaning together, more eyes flicking their way. Some smiled knowingly, others smirked.

When Osric rejoined, seemingly aware of what had just occurred. His face stayed calm, trying to ease the others’ emotions, but clearly the bitter taste lingered for a while.