Chapter 321
Estellis doesn’t just throw a party. It stages a performance—an overture in glitter and polished marble, with a full orchestra of tradition, power, and the weight of centuries pressing down like a velvet yoke. Even before we reach the ballroom, the corridors are lit by floating orbs of starlight and lined with guards in ceremonial obsidian armor, spears like silver flame. Music rises and falls through the water like breath held too long.
And I can feel it. The anticipation. The subtle currents of awe and envy twisting through the palace like smoke.
The Grand Ballroom is a towering hollow of crystal and Darklite, polished so perfectly the light inside refracts into hundreds of rainbow shards across the vaulted ceiling. Massive columns carved with aquatic scenes line the edges, and suspended overhead are glowing lily-shaped chandeliers that pulse faintly with living Ether.
There's a platform at the far end for the musicians—harpists with fingers like silk and percussionists tapping on shells of glass. The rest of the space is open, save for a raised dais where the royal family presides.
It’s packed.
Nobles from every surviving Clan float in glittering clusters, whispering behind jeweled masks and fanning themselves with translucent sea-feather fans. Their tails sparkle with oil and dye, trailing behind them in elegant curves. Most of the court women from earlier have retreated to their families, draped in gossamer silks and ceremonial jewels. I spot Petra on the dais beside Lovelace, watching the room like a queen of a dying hive, her gaze sharp, her posture unmoved.
“Is this what power looks like?” Cora mutters beside me as we wait behind the thick velvet curtain separating us from the ballroom. She’s dressed like a firestorm in flame-hued silks and volcanic stone jewelry, a blatant counter to the delicate pastels of the Eastern Twilight. “All fluff and sparkle?”
Delphi answers her from the other side. “No. But it’s what power wants to look like when it forgets what it’s for.”
Khale’s voice floats over from behind us. “A crown is heavy even when it’s made of light.”
We exchange a look. None of us are here to be dazzled.
One by one, the Heirs are announced.
“Presenting Lile, Heir to Ægir, Warden of the Anchor, and Lady Elanora, Heir to the Heavenly Queen, Amphitrite, Keeper of the Great Expanse.”
They enter together, side by side, all sharp lines and colder expressions. Lile wears pale blues and jagged silver armor; Elanora shimmers in opalescent layers like broken shells. Together, they’re a calculated message: Shoal has allies. They are not few. They are not afraid.
I feel Wake tense beside me. I reach for his hand.
“Presenting Sir Miore, Heir of Nu, Steward of the Primordial Waters.”
Miore steps through with a calm, quiet poise, dressed in flowing pearl-white robes threaded with bioluminescent strands. His expression is unreadable, but I see his fingers twitch at his sides. Nervous, probably. But he looks taller. More composed. The boy we helped in the mountains is gone. This is someone reborn in the Ether.
“Presenting Nuala of the Deep Crescent, Warden of the Cradle, Emissary of Olokun.”
Nuala moves like current made flesh, her dark gown flowing like a whirlpool behind her. Her eyes are lined with obsidian paint, her hair gathered in braids tipped with raw emeralds. The Cradle delegation, even from a distance, commands silence. She bows to no one.
“Presenting Tangaroa’s Heir, Khale, Dawn King of the Eternal Sunrise, and his queen, Anthozoa, daughter of the Eastern Twilight.”
Khale, regal and fluid in his stride, enters arm-in-arm with Cora, who glows in coral and gold. Her smile is polite. Empty. But her grip on Khale’s arm is tight. Khale, for his part, scans the crowd like a soldier, not a suitor. He looks past Elanora, past Lile, until his eyes find Wake and mine behind the curtain.
He nods.
A hush ripples through the crowd.
“Presenting Wake, Heir of Dagon, Commander of the Abyssinian Deep—and Lady Phoebe, Heir of Electra the Mother of Storms, Jewel of the Eastern Twilight.”
We don’t move.
Instead, Wake reaches for my hand again, and together we release the transformation—our scales flickering with light, dissolving, limbs shifting. In an instant, our tails split and reform into legs, toes splaying against the polished marble beneath us. It’s not painful, but it feels like shedding a second skin, like breathing in reverse. I stagger slightly, catching myself on Wake’s arm.
And then we walk in.
Gasps echo like bubbles rising too fast. Whispers swirl like kelp in a current. Some nobles clutch their pearls. Others draw back entirely, scandalized. But I stand tall.
Let them look. Let them see.
Wake looks devastating in his onyx tunic, the same metal laced across his bracers and collar. I wear violet and silver, but I feel like thunder wrapped in silk. Every step we take is deliberate.
We are the heretics. The rebels. The proof that we are no longer bound to old forms.
We are the future.
Lovelace tries to mask his expression with a slow clap, joined awkwardly by the rest of the dais. Petra does not smile. Her fingers dig into the arm of her chair. I can’t tell if it’s fear or rage that flits through her eyes. Maybe both.
We ascend the central platform meant for opening speeches. I step forward, alone, as Wake takes his place behind me. My voice carries—amplified by the Ether that lives in my throat now.
“Tonight is not about crowns or customs,” I begin, eyes sweeping the crowd. “Nor is it about ancient lines and who deserves more recognition. It is not about politics, or ceremonies, or even which of us is willing to trust the other.”
The room stills. Even the chandeliers seem to pause their glow.
“Tonight is about survival.”
A few nobles shift uncomfortably. I keep going.
“The Enkian people stand on the edge of something vast. For generations, the Clans have fought over scraps left by gods long gone. We’ve bowed to names we do not understand, worshipped at shrines we never questioned. We have lost connectivity. We have venerated isolation and pride.”
I hear Lovelace’s sharp inhale behind me.
“But tonight, we are gathered as something more. We are Heirs. And more than that—we are leaders. It is no longer enough to inherit power. We must decide what to do with it. What world we want to build. What mistakes we are brave enough to admit.”
I look at Lile and Elanora. At Miore. At Nuala. At Khale. At my family, with their jewel-pinned hair, trembling.
“Enkian kind cannot survive by repeating the past. We are more than what history tells us we must be.”
I reach back and take Wake’s hand again, raising it.
“We are not just our blood. We are not just our ancestors. We are something new. And I believe—I believe with every piece of me—that if we can put aside our fear, if we can link instead of divide, if we choose courage over tradition, we can save ourselves.”
I feel the Ether flicker around me. Some part of it responds. Some old weight lifting.
And just as I take a breath to close, just as the applause begins—
The palace windows explode inward in a spray of glass and water.
The crowd screams. A thousand nobles flinch. I throw up a shield without thinking, catching the shards with crackling energy. Wake is already moving, drawing power to his hands.
From the shattered wall, Shoal steps through the mist.
His armor is black. Sleek. Glistening with molten Darklite. Behind him, soldiers pour in—enhanced, mechanical, more monstrous than men. Their eyes glow.
And at Shoal’s side is Lily, her body changed, Enkian now—the same as it was in my nightmares. Flawless, regal, divine.
“Forgive the interruption,” Shoal says with a smile like frost. “I wouldn’t dream of missing such a historic evening.”
The music dies.
And the final battle begins.
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