The palace bustled with activity in preparation for the evening’s grand banquet. Servants hurried through the corridors, balancing trays of crystal goblets and polishing the silverware until it gleamed. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, spiced wines, and freshly baked bread. The banquet was to be one of the most opulent affairs of the season, a spectacle meant to affirm the emperor’s power and elegance to the nobles in attendance.

For Soren, however, it was something else entirely: a trial by fire.

He sat stiffly in front of a gilded mirror in his quarters as two attendants fussed over him. Their hands moved quickly, fastening the buttons of his ornate tunic and combing his shoulder-length brown hair until it gleamed. The tunic, deep green embroidered with gold thread, was finer than anything he’d ever worn, but the weight of it felt oppressive. Soren stared at his reflection, his expression tense. He looked the part of a consort, but he felt like an imposter, a commoner playing dress-up in a world that didn’t want him.

“Stand still,” one of the attendants snapped when Soren shifted uncomfortably.

He forced himself to stay still, biting back a retort. When they finished, the attendants stepped back to assess their work. One of them gave a curt nod of approval.

“It will do,” she said, her tone as cold as the marble floors beneath their feet.

The grand hall was already filled with nobles by the time Soren arrived. The room glittered with the light of countless chandeliers, each crystal catching and refracting the glow of the flames. The nobles were dressed in their finest attire—silks, velvets, and jewels that sparkled with every movement. Their laughter and conversation filled the space, a symphony of wealth and power.

As Soren stepped through the arched doorway, the noise softened, and heads turned in his direction. Whispers rippled through the crowd like the rustling of leaves in a storm.

“That’s the Omega consort?”
“Look at him—he’s hardly more than a boy.”
“What was the emperor thinking?”

Soren’s chest tightened, but he squared his shoulders and forced himself to walk forward. Lady Elira’s advice echoed in his mind: Adapt, or this place will destroy you.

A steward approached and led him to a seat near the head of the long table, where Kairos sat. The emperor was dressed in a dark, richly embroidered tunic that seemed to absorb the light around him. His ice-blue eyes flicked to Soren as he approached, but his expression remained unreadable. Soren inclined his head in a respectful bow before taking his seat.

The dinner began with a procession of courses so lavish it was almost overwhelming. Platters of roasted pheasant, spiced lamb, and fresh seafood were passed around, accompanied by bowls of jeweled fruits and loaves of steaming bread. Wine flowed freely, poured into goblets etched with the imperial crest. Soren ate sparingly, his appetite dulled by nerves.

Around him, the nobles conversed with an ease born of privilege, their voices a constant hum of chatter. They discussed alliances, trade agreements, and court gossip, their words laced with subtext and hidden barbs. Occasionally, someone would glance in Soren’s direction, their lips curling into faint sneers or amused smiles.

He felt like a rabbit surrounded by wolves.

The first real challenge came halfway through the evening, during the third course. A minor lord—short, broad-shouldered, and ruddy-faced—rose from his seat a few places down the table. He held his goblet aloft, his voice loud enough to draw attention.

“My lords and ladies,” he said, a mocking smile on his lips, “it seems we are in the presence of a truly rare jewel tonight.”

The room quieted as all eyes turned to the man.

“I speak, of course, of our emperor’s new consort,” the lord continued, gesturing toward Soren. His tone dripped with sarcasm. “An Omega from some backwater village, plucked from obscurity to grace us with his presence. Truly, what an honor it must be for him to sit at this table.”

Laughter rippled through the room, though it was subdued, cautious. The nobles were testing the waters, unsure of how far they could push this game without drawing Kairos’s ire.

Soren’s face burned, but he kept his gaze steady, his hands curling into fists beneath the table. He felt the weight of their eyes, the anticipation of his reaction. He could feel Kairos watching, too, though the emperor gave no outward indication of interest.

The lord’s smile widened as he continued. “Tell us, my dear consort, do you have any fine words to share with us? Or is eloquence too much to expect from a farmer’s son?”

The room went still, the tension palpable.

Soren could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. The instinct to shrink back, to disappear into the shadows, clawed at him, but he shoved it down. He thought of his family, of their tear-streaked faces as he was taken from them. He thought of the endless whispers and the cruel smiles that had followed him since his arrival.

And then he thought of Lady Elira’s advice: Trust no one. But never let them see you falter.

Soren stood slowly, his movements deliberate. The room seemed to hold its breath as he raised his goblet, his green eyes locking onto the lord’s with surprising steadiness.

“Thank you for your kind words,” Soren said, his voice clear and calm. “It’s always humbling to receive praise from someone with such... refined manners.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd—genuine this time. The lord’s smile faltered, his face reddening further.

Soren tilted his head slightly, as if considering his next words. “As for eloquence, my lord, I find it’s best to speak plainly. So allow me to be plain: I may be a farmer’s son, but I was taught to show respect where it’s due. It seems not all noblemen were afforded the same lesson.”

The laughter grew louder, and the lord’s expression darkened. Soren held his ground, his heart hammering in his chest but his face carefully composed.

Kairos leaned back in his chair, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile. He said nothing, but his icy gaze flicked to the lord, silencing any further protest.

Soren sat down, his hands trembling slightly as he placed the goblet on the table. The tension in the room eased as the conversation shifted, the nobles now murmuring about the unexpected sharpness of the Omega consort’s tongue.

As the evening wore on, Soren caught snippets of more serious conversations. Whispers of unrest, of growing discontent in the outer provinces, seemed to weave their way through the hall like smoke.

“Have you heard about the rebellion near the southern border?” one noblewoman murmured to her companion.
“Valen’s been quiet lately,” another said. “Too quiet.”
“They say he’s been gathering allies,” a man added in a hushed tone.

Soren tried to listen without appearing too interested, but his attention was divided. He felt the occasional flicker of Kairos’s gaze on him, though the emperor said little for the remainder of the banquet.

When the meal finally ended, the nobles began to disperse, their voices rising and falling as they made their way out of the hall. Soren lingered near the door, unsure where to go until a steward approached to guide him back to his quarters.

As he followed the steward through the corridors, Lady Elira appeared, stepping out from the shadows with her usual grace.

“You handled yourself well,” she said, falling into step beside him.

“Did I?” Soren asked, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

“You survived,” she replied with a small smile. “That’s more than most would have managed.” She paused, her expression turning serious. “But don’t let tonight’s small victory go to your head. The court is a battlefield, and every victory makes you a target.”

Her words stayed with him long after he returned to his quarters. Soren sat by the window, staring out at the moonlit gardens below. The laughter and whispers from the banquet echoed in his mind, a reminder of the precarious position he now held.

He was beginning to understand the rules of this world—rules that offered no mercy to those who faltered.