The garden's cold air still clung to Aren's coat when he and Selene returned to the banquet hall.
But inside, the air was warmer — too warm.
He felt it the moment they stepped back in.
A subtle shift.
Not the friendly buzz of laughter they had left behind.
Something else.
Something watching.
Predatory.
Aren's smile never faltered.
He guided Selene back to the others, his hand gentle at her back.
Mira and Elara rushed toward them immediately, their beautiful dresses swirling, faces bright with excitement.
"Dance with me, Grandpa!" Mira laughed, clinging to his hand.
"Me too!" Elara chimed in, her little arms crossing stubbornly.
Aren chuckled warmly, kneeling slightly to ruffle their hair. "Both of you at once? I must be quite the lucky man."
Their giggles filled the air like tiny bells.
But inside — behind his calm, loving smile — Aren's instincts sharpened to a knife's edge.
As he rose, straightening his cuffs, he did it so naturally that no one noticed:
A thin, invisible layer of purple-gold aura spread from his body.
It brushed over Selene first — familiar, trusted.
Then Mira and Elara.
Then Darian and Lyra.
A seamless blanket of protection, feather-light, undetectable to even the sharpest senses.
Only those wrapped in it — his family — felt the subtle warmth.
The reassuring touch.
As if the world itself bent around them, unseen but vigilant.
They said nothing.
Aren wanted it that way.
He would not cloud their smiles with fear.
He would not rob this night from them.
If there were blades hiding in the velvet and gold of this hall, he would be the wall between them.
And if need be, he would drown this hall in blood and fire — without hesitation, without mercy.
The nobles watched.
Some whispered behind jeweled fans and wine glasses.
Some lowered their gazes quickly, terrified.
But some — a few — watched too intently.
Eyes like polished stones.
Voices too soft, laughter too sharp-edged.
They knew something.
Or thought they did.
Aren filed each face away in his mind without showing a hint of it.
Lyra teased Darian, tugging on his sleeve and laughing when he scowled and straightened his posture like an embarrassed soldier.
Selene smiled at them both, her eyes warm, though the worry never left her heart.
Mira and Elara ran between tables with dessert plates like tiny whirlwinds, their laughter sweet and bright.
The music swelled again.
And from the far end of the hall, Aren caught it:
A flash of robes.
The glint of a sigil hidden beneath a noble's sleeve.
A whisper carried on currents of magic far too faint for human hearing.
Words in a language he hadn't heard in decades.
He caught only fragments:
"Soon..."
"Trial..."
"Return..."
Aren's blood stilled.
His smile sharpened just slightly — only enough for those foolish enough to look too closely to feel a chill dance down their spines.
He sipped his wine slowly.
There would be no war tonight.
Not here.
Not while Mira and Elara laughed over chocolate cakes.
Not while Selene's hand was warm in his.
But soon.
And when that time came…
Aren Vale would remind the heavens and hells alike:
You do not touch what is mine.
The crown prince approached again, his steps careful and respectful.
Aren turned and offered him an easy, almost teasing smile.
"Your Highness," Aren said warmly, his voice cutting through the heavy air. "You're still so stiff around me."
The prince stiffened even more awkwardly, bowing his head low. "I—I'm sorry, Grand Duke Vale. I deeply regret the earlier mishap with the invitations, and I—"
Aren chuckled — a deep, genuine sound — and placed a hand lightly on the young man's shoulder.
"Relax," he said gently. "What happened before was not a decree of death, only a warning of protection."
The prince blinked up at him, startled.
"As long as you act with good intentions and no harm comes to my family," Aren continued, "there is nothing you need to fear from me."
He leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice just enough for the prince alone to hear.
"And if you wish... you can even call me Uncle," he said with a wink. "After all, your father is like a brother to me."
The prince's face turned beet red, but a smile — a genuine, grateful one — cracked through his stiff mask.
"I... I would be honored, Uncle."
Aren ruffled his hair briefly, making the young man splutter and straighten his crown awkwardly.
Lyra and Selene giggled softly behind their hands, while Darian watched with a bemused, slightly envious look.
As the evening wore on, the tension never quite left Aren's senses.
It was like a low hum beneath the music.
A second heart beating beneath the floorboards.
He memorized every exit.
Every hidden corridor.
Every magic fluctuation in the air.
He danced once more with Mira and Elara, spinning them high until they shrieked with laughter.
He complimented Lyra on how radiant she looked tonight, teasing her until she laughed and swatted his arm.
He clinked glasses with Darian, clapping his son's shoulder with pride even as Darian tried to hide his overwhelmed gratitude.
He lived every moment.
For them.
Behind his eyes, though —
Behind his soft words and gentle smiles —
The storm grew.
And he welcomed it.
He was no longer a man bound by duty, empire, or ambition.
He was a father.
A husband.
A grandfather.
And there was nothing more terrifying in all the realms than a man who fought for love.
Nothing.
By the time the night began to end, Aren led his family back to their waiting cars, the children dozing, the women smiling and whispering together.
The nobles watched them go with reverence — and no small amount of fear.
Aren's shadow fell long behind him.
And somewhere deep inside the palace — behind sealed doors and trembling advisors — the Emperor himself was already preparing.
Preparing for a war that could burn worlds to ash.
And in the center of it all stood one man.
Smiling.
Waiting.
Aren Vale.