Ruin reclined upon his darkened throne, posture immaculate, as though carved from the same ancient stone that formed the dais beneath him. One gloved hand rested lightly against the armrest, fingers relaxed yet purposeful, while the other lay folded across his lap. He listened in silence—he always did—allowing the voices of his court to rise and fall beneath the vaulted ceiling without interruption.
Tall, slender pillars stretched skyward, their surfaces etched with sigils worn smooth by centuries of reverent touch. High windows filtered muted light into the hall, casting long, somber reflections across the polished marble floor. The air carried the faint scent of incense and cold stone, and every step taken below the dais echoed with deliberate restraint.
The nobles stood arranged with careful precision, robes immaculate, expressions measured. Every bow was practiced. Every word, rehearsed.
“As Your Majesty’s reign continues to flourish,” one minister began, voice smooth and respectful, “the people naturally begin to look toward what comes next.”
Another noble inclined his head slightly. “Stability eases uncertainty. An heir would provide reassurance to the kingdom at large.”
“A consort,” a third added, hands clasped tightly before him, “would strengthen alliances and secure the realm’s future beyond your lifetime.”
Ruin’s expression did not shift. He neither frowned nor smiled, yet the atmosphere subtly tightened, as though the hall itself had drawn a quiet breath. These arguments were familiar—worn thin by repetition, refined until they sounded less like demands and more like inevitabilities. Marriage. Legacy. Continuation. Concepts spoken as duties rather than choices.
His fingers traced the carved detailing of the throne once, slow and unhurried.
Silence followed—immediate and complete.
As expected, the court adjusted its approach.
“Perhaps a ball, Your Majesty,” suggested one of the elder advisors, stepping forward just enough to be noticed. His tone was deferential, almost hopeful. “A formal gathering worthy of your station. Nobility from every province could attend. It would allow introductions to be made… and destiny the opportunity to reveal itself.”
A ball.
Ruin’s gaze lifted at last, pale and assessing, sweeping across the assembled court without favor or disdain. He did not scoff. He did not sigh. His displeasure, when it existed, was quiet—contained behind composure and calculation. He understood the function of such spectacles, even if he held little affection for them. Appearances mattered. Unity mattered. And the court would not abandon the subject without some concession.
Time stretched, heavy and deliberate, before he spoke.
“…Very well,” Ruin said at last.
His voice was calm, even, carrying an authority that required no elevation in volume. “If this will still the court’s unrest, we will host the ball.”
A restrained ripple of relief passed through the assembly—subtle, controlled, but unmistakable. Before any murmured approval could swell into celebration, Ruin lifted a single finger.
The movement alone was enough to silence them.
“The announcement will not be left to rumor or embellishment,” he continued. “My assistant will handle it personally.”
Several nobles stiffened in faint surprise.
“Send Bloodmoon,” Ruin said, his tone unchanged. “He will travel to the town squares of the surrounding villages and deliver the notice himself. Clearly. Publicly. Without flourish.”
His gaze sharpened, just slightly.
“He will be accompanied by two guards. For protection—and to ensure the message is conveyed exactly as intended.”
The court bowed as one, heads lowered deeply, gratitude murmured in careful unison. None questioned the choice. Bloodmoon’s presence alone carried weight; his words would not be taken lightly, nor twisted without consequence.
As the nobles withdrew and the great doors closed behind them, the hall returned to stillness. Ruin leaned back against his throne once more, eyes drifting toward the distant windows where dim light bled through stone and glass alike.
Outwardly