Orion leaned back in his seat. His eyes flicked between the glowing holoscreen in his lap and the ga interface hovering just above it, his fingers effortlessly maneuvering through the controls. The ga—a tactical war simulation—was a habit more than a challenge, sothing to keep his mind occupied while his thoughts worked through more pressing matters.
The guest list scrolled before him, a parade of nas carrying weight, influence, and danger. The Valcourne na stood out. House Valcourne had always been a respected Ducal House, but hosting the gala was a step far beyond their usual role. Orion tapped on Duke Karl Valcourne's profile, skimming through the condensed political brief.
Bold. Reckless, even.
The Confederacy's internal politics thrived on balance—too much ambition from a lesser house could disrupt the delicate hierarchy. Hosting the gala was a privilege typically reserved for Archon families, or at the very least, a house with unshakable backing. The Valcournes had neither. Once masters of diplomacy, their influence had faded over the decades due to economic failures and internal strife. This was a desperate gamble, a final bid to reclaim their standing before they slid into irrelevance.
Orion's fingers twitched over the ga controls, executing a precision strike against an enemy force before turning his attention back to the information. Duke Karl had a reputation for calculated risks, but this? This was more than just a risk—it was a challenge. A challenge to the established order, to the Archon families, and to anyone who thought the Valcournes could be ignored.
He exhaled slowly, the ga flashing a victory screen in his peripheral vision.
The hovercraft's gull-wing doors hissed open at his approach, revealing a plush, dimly lit interior lined with dark synth-leather. The onboard AI registered his biotrics, and the vehicle lifted smoothly into the air the mont he settled into the seat.
Through the tinted glass, the city stretched out beneath him—a glittering sprawl of towers and skybridges suspended in the night. Traffic streams of aerial vehicles weaved in synchronized patterns.
Beyond them, the sky darkened toward the edges of the atmosphere, where planetary defense satellites blinked like distant stars.
The hovercraft descended toward its destination, a sprawling estate where the gala was already in full swing. As the doors opened, the low hum of conversation and music spilled into the night. He adjusted his cuffs, stepping out with the lazy confidence expected of soone in his position.
Gilded chandeliers hung like stars overhead, casting a warm glow over the aristocrats weaving through the opulence. Laughter rang out in practiced intervals, glasses clinked, and behind every polite smile lurked the quiet hum of political maneuvering.
Orion leaned casually against a marble column, scanning the room with a carefully asured disinterest. He had perfected the role of the charming, reckless heir—the one who laughed too easily, who never quite took anything seriously.
A movent in silver and crimson caught his eye. Ingrid Reyes approached, her athyst eyes flicking over him with amusent. She moved like she belonged in the center of every room.
Her mother, Lizette De Asher Reyes, is the reigning matriarch, a woman whose influence had shaped the family's future. Cassian, Orion's father, had once been her closest ally, the sibling she had counted on most.
But when he had chosen to marry Valeria Zey'ran, the balance had shifted. Lizette had never resented him, but she had been forced to step into the role of leadership alone, while Cassian carved his place as a Chancellor within the high council. It had never been a rift—just a quiet tension that lingered beneath the surface.
Ingrid stopped beside him, swirling the wine in her glass. "You're awfully quiet tonight," she mused. "I expected you to be charming so poor soul into a terrible bet by now."
Orion smirked, taking a deliberate sip from his own glass before replying. "I like to keep people guessing."
She tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharp, assessing. "You do realize you're surrounded by so of the most important children in the Confederacy, don't you?"
He followed her gaze to the center of the room, where clusters of young aristocrats traded veiled barbs beneath the guise of civility. His lips quirked. "That's exactly it. They're children."
Ingrid's expression barely shifted, but there was a flicker of amusent in her eyes. Before she could respond, a sharp voice cut through the air.
"What's this?"
Orion didn't need to turn to know who it was. The weight of the voice, the entitled arrogance threaded through every syllable—it could only belong to one person.
Ares Petrosyan.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing his status like armor, Ares was the embodint of everything the Confederacy's aristocracy stood for. But it was the look in his eyes that Orion focused on—sothing cold, sothing certain.
"Are you really wasting your ti with this outcast, Ingrid?" Ares sneered, his gaze sweeping over Orion like he was sothing beneath his notice.
He was a child of two archon houses, Reyes and Zey'ran, a union that should have made him twice as powerful, twice as influential. Instead, it marked him as a threat. No Archon family would tolerate a child capable of bridging together two dynasties.
Not that Orion ever cared for such things. The politics of legacy, of succession, —none of that mattered to him. If they wanted to see him as an outcast, then he would embrace the role with a smirk.
Orion raised an eyebrow, tilting his head. "Outcast?" The word rolled off his tongue, slow and unimpressed. "Do you even know what that ans, little Ares?"
Ares smirked, taking a step closer. "It ans you don't belong. You may have the na, but you're not one of us."
Orion exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the tension settling in the air. "Interesting," he murmured. "You talk like you've already decided how this plays out."
Ares's smirk widened. "Oh, I have." His hand rested casually on the hilt of his ceremonial blade, the unspoken challenge hanging heavy between them. "Unless you'd like to prove wrong."
In the Confederacy's aristocratic circles, dueling was neither outlawed nor openly encouraged—it was an unspoken tradition, a relic of an era where honor was settled with steel rather than politics.
Formal duels required sanction from a house elder or a military superior, but informal challenges, the kind exchanged in the charged atmosphere of galas and private gatherings, were more about posturing than bloodshed.
A hand on the hilt was a statent, a challenge without words—a declaration that any insult could be answered with a blade if the other party dared escalate. Rarely did such monts spill into actual combat; the risk of political fallout often outweighed personal grudges. But in the right company, with the right audience, a duel could shift alliances, humiliate rivals, or cent reputations.
The room went silent.
Orion could feel Ingrid's gaze on him, could sense the shifting attention of the crowd as they turned, waiting. The anticipation was electric.
He didn't particularly care for these gas, but if they insisted on treating him as a threat, he might as well remind them why.
He stepped forward, letting the weight of the mont settle into place, then bowed with exaggerated grace, his fist resting lightly against his palm in mock deference. "Then allow to put you in your place," he said, his voice smooth, unwavering.
Reviews
All reviews (0)