As Ash settled into his chair, the great dining doors opened once more with a soft, measured breath of air.
In stepped Zareth, the royal butler — tall, silent, and silver-clad. His movements were precise, each step a quiet echo of discipline and ritual. Behind him followed a line of maids, heads bowed, hands gloved, their robes trailing like shadows across polished stone.
Zareth gave a single nod — and the ceremony began.
Dishes were carried in on trays of blacksteel and shadowglass. The table, once bare, was now crowned with a royal feast, arranged with artistry and order.
Platters of seared abyssal venison, glistening with crimson glaze, were placed at the center. Bowls of roasted root vegetables followed — golden roots from the Flame Peaks, pale vines from the Darkreach groves.
Fresh fruits — silver-plum, moonberry, duskpear — shimmered in shallow bowls, their aroma sweet and strange. Trays of crusted breads lined with dark grains and soft steam rose like breath from each.
For the adults: wine the color of starlit blood, poured into crystal goblets that sparkled with sigils faint to the mortal eye.
For the children: juice, pressed from twilight fruit, glowing faintly in their cups — violet and deep gold.
Zareth moved to each side of the table in turn, his gloved hands never faltering, his eyes lowered in respect. The maids followed his pace, never brushing the robes of the seated family, never speaking a word.
When all was placed, Zareth stepped back.
He bowed deeply, silver claws resting over his chest.
"It is served," he intoned, voice smooth as polished stone.
Ash looked down at his plate, the scent of fire-kissed meat rising softly.
He did not yet move to eat.
Instead, his eyes drifted once more — to his siblings, to his mothers, and finally to the man who sat at the center of it all.
To his father, the Emperor.
For in this house, no one ate before the Emperor did.
And so the table waited — in silence not of fear, but of ancient custom.
A pause, a breath.
And then… the Emperor raised his goblet.
"Let it begin," he said.
They ate with noble grace — a silence more refined than cold. Forks lifted, blades sliced with poise, and no motion was wasted. The room rang not with words but with the gentle symphony of crystal and silver, of meat divided and wine poured.
Ash mirrored them all, quiet and precise. He watched — and matched. Every motion of his fork was deliberate, his back straight, his eyes aware.
It did not take long. As always, they did not linger.
When the meal concluded, hands folded and gazes lifted. The maids returned in flowing formation, their footsteps muffled by the velvet runners beneath the table. They moved in pairs, clearing each plate with swift, silent efficiency.
Only the goblets remained — vessels of bloodwine and starlight juice — resting like final offerings.
Then the maids departed, slipping through the doors with the remains of the feast, the scent of roasted dusk fading behind them.
For a moment, the room held a deep and regal stillness — like a held breath within the heart of the empire.
Then the Emperor spoke.
His voice was calm, but rich with the power of command.
"Now," said Vael Drakthar, his red eyes burning softly beneath his crown of horn. "Your training."
He turned his gaze first to the eldest.
Lyseria, seated nearest her father on the left, lifted her chin.
"I expanded the bounds of my domain during morning meditation," she said. "It now reaches twelve strides in diameter. Within it, I can suppress low-tier spells and alter elemental flow."
Vael gave a slow nod.
"Continue. Control is more vital than growth."
He turned next to Kaelreth, the crimson-haired son beside her.
"I sparred with Commander Thalor," Kaelreth said. "Tier Six. I lost — but only after drawing blood."
"You are two years too early to boast," Vael said, though a faint smirk touched his lips. "Still, well done."
Then to Saryne — Kaelreth's twin.
"I trained with flame resonance," she said. "My body can now channel heat for over ten breaths without pain."
Vael merely nodded, approving.
And then, finally, to Malrik, the quiet boy with pale skin and a single violet eye.
"I wove three shadows today," Malrik murmured. "And hid my presence from the Shadow Sentinels for a full hour."
That made the Emperor pause.
"Even Nyrelle's sentinels?"
"Yes, Father."
"Impressive."
At last, his gaze shifted to the youngest.
Ash.
He said nothing at first. Simply looked — measured — and let the silence stretch.
Ash did not flinch.
He met that gaze evenly, wings still folded, his cup untouched.
"My tongue is clear. My hand is steady. I've memorized the basic runes of language, the three oldest Abyssal poems, and five spells from the first script," he said. "The maid said I learn too fast."
There was a silence — not mocking, not cruel. Just… assessing.
And then the Emperor gave a quiet sound — perhaps not quite approval, but acknowledgment.
"We'll see," he said.
Then he turned, his voice shifting — deeper, broader.
"Wives. Reports."
The three women seated at his right lifted their gazes.
First to speak was Elaenora, the first wife — silver-eyed and calm.
"Abyss trade remains stable," she said. "The Watchtowers on the Shadowed Ring report no breaches. The Seraphyx clan has sent word from exile — no change in their status, but they inquire after Ash."
A flicker passed over Vael's expression — unreadable.
Then spoke Valessara, the fire-blooded second wife.
"The Dray'Karth have completed reinforcement of the Flame Pass," she said. "Two minor uprisings in the Emberlow region have been extinguished. The fire temples request an audience with you — a matter of spiritual succession."
He waved a hand slightly. "Later."
Then, finally, Nyrelle — the third wife, pale and violet-eyed.
"Abyssal whispers grow stronger near the Deep Spires," she said. "I've sent our shadowbinders to investigate. And the Umbrosyn clan has fulfilled their quota of trained assassins for the year."
She paused.
"They also ask to begin Malrik's formal initiation."
Vael's eyes narrowed slightly. "He is still young."
"So was I" Nyrelle said softly.
The Emperor said nothing to that.
Instead, he lifted his goblet. Crimson wine swirled within it like blood and prophecy.
"The Empire is steady," he said. "Let it remain so."