Cataclysm War | Chapter 70: Coronation Ball (First Draft)

“A marvelous speech, Your Majesty, just marvelous.”

Leonidas smiled politely at the words from Sayyad al-Musana, the Terran Merchant that had managed to gather a moment with him alongside his associates, all of them dressed in finery for the Ball. Two hours after his speech and Coronation, the Castle’s grand ballroom was alive with festivity, at the same time as food and drink were being supplied to the city at large. The celebrations would continue for two days and nights across the weekend, in keeping with Alteran custom.

The ball, thankfully for Leonidas, would not.

The ballroom itself was immense, at least one hundred meters from end to end, and nearly fifty across, with arcane-lit chandeliers, a veritable army of waiters and servers of both sexes and multitudinous races, and enough food, drink, and guests to greatly fill the space. Over a thousand people from across Dawnhaven, perhaps more, were in attendance—along with four full Lances of the Royal Guard watching over everything.

It was, in a word, an exhaustingly massive enterprise, and Leonidas had been making small talk already for the last hour and a half following the transition from the Throne Room to the Coronation Ball.

“Truly, the words were inspirational,” Jacinda Larris said, her makeup-laden face doing nothing to hide her age. The woman must have been thirty years older than him while she batted her eyes in an attempt to ingratiate herself. “I was just saying to Marcus that we must ask you and the Queen for dinner!”

Marcus, the portly redhead who completed the trio, nodded in affirmation.

Leonidas inclined his head in thanks, unspoken being the fact that the King and Queen would never attend a dinner at someone else’s behest outside of key people, and lifted his glass of Alteran Aetherwine to them in appreciation. “Your kind words are well-received, my fellow Terrans,” he said graciously. “However, I would encourage any such invitations to go through my wife,” he continued with a small smile. “She is far more adept at handling those matters than I am.”

That had the intended effect, and he was subtly relieved to see Jacinda’s expression flicker as she glanced toward the Queen, who was speaking in musical Haelfennyr to several noblewomen who were remarking on her ring.

Aylar, as many of the Terrans knew, was far more ruthless when it came to social engagements than Leonidas would ever be.

“That being said,” Leonidas stated politely, but firmly, “I need to continue making the rounds. I hope you all enjoy the Ball.”

A round of enthusiastic agreement met his not-so-subtly disengagement, and Leonidas turned away, keeping the smile on his face as he moved to join his wife.

“{Ladies,}” he greeted the collective politely, sliding in smoothly to Aylar’s side and bending to kiss his Queen’s temple. “{I hope my ring selection passes your critical examination?}”

A round of laughter followed his words, and the noblewomen—three Haelfenn, two Naiafenn, and an Orc—smiled at him in a way that never fully reached their eyes. The disapproving friends, naturally.

“{We were just telling Her Majesty how inspired the design was,}” the lead woman, a fiery blue-haired woman named Marjan, responded smoothly. “{Gold-edged platinum is a bold choice.}”

That translated, nominally, to ‘lacking in creativity in every capacity’, but Leonidas affected an expression of appreciation. It was always best to let others fail to see how much he actually understood, especially when it came to Alteran nobles.

“{My thoughts trended toward simplistic,}” he said freely, his eyes drifting to admire Aylar with entirely sincere adoration. “{I already have the most beautiful existence on Terra, why would I bother trying to match that beauty with something as base as jewelry? All that matters is that my ring is on her finger, now and forever.}”

The words had the intended impact, and the women fell silent for a moment as they considered them, looking between Leonidas and a blushing Aylar as he kissed her pink lips lightly, and she smiled at him with post-marital happiness.

“{The King,}” Aylar said before anyone else could muster words, “{is a man of intricate thoughts. No doubt you saw that during his speech earlier.}”

“{Ah, yes. The declaration,}” Portia, one of the other Haelfenn, said with a casual toss of her auburn hair. “{Truly a deviation from the norm, Your Majesty. What inspired such a formative change in the way things have been thus far?}”

Leonidas smiled at the question and turned back to them, allowing some extra Psi to leak into his eyes as he did, and wiping the smiles from their faces when his gaze fell upon them. He saw wine glasses still, breaths hitch, and faces pale as he tacitly reminded them of what he was, more than who he was.

Not just a King. Not just a Husband. An Archon.

“{I am an Archon, Lady MaRossi,}” he said deliberately with a calm smile, turned to an edge by his Psi-bleeding gaze. “{We tend to be rather single-minded in our pursuit of what we believe to be right for all peoples under our watch.}”

Leonidas turned back to Aylar after he spoke and kissed her temple again, clinking his glass of violet-pink Aetherwine to hers.

“{I need to continue my rounds,}” he said as she smiled at him slyly, knowing exactly what he’d done and seemingly unable to be angry at him for it. “{I will see you in no time at all, my darling wife.}”

Aylar stepped forward, gripped his tunic, and pulled him into another firm kiss before nodding, her cheeks flushed with happiness.

“{Not soon enough, my heart,}” she said in a delightful lilt, “{never soon enough, if it means you are away from my side at all.}”

Leonidas felt giddy at her words and managed the wherewithal to nod to the noblewomen, turning to wander away with what he had no doubt was an inexplicably stupid smile on his face toward one of the waiters.

“{What is that?}” he asked distractedly, reaching out to take a random snack from the tray.

“{Foie Gras, Your Majesty,}” the black-suited Haelfar man said with a faint smile.

“{Oh, sure,}” Leonidas replied, stuffing one in his mouth and snagging another, lifting the second in salute as the waiter bowed and continued on his way.

Well, any food is better than no food. I’m famished. I wonder if they have—AHA!

Leonidas beelined immediately for the hotdogs the moment he spotted them, grinning at Maurice Jenkins, the proprietor of his favorite hotdog stand in Dawnhaven. The man was standing in front of a table laden with ornate stainless steel coverings, each wafting the delicious scent of hotdogs. The moment Leonidas approached, the thick man grinned at him, face lighting up in delight.

“Hullo there, Achilles,” he said cheerfully, drawing a sudden wave of disparaging looks that made him blush behind his beard. “Or, er, I suppose I should call you ‘Your Majesty’ now, eh?”

“Honestly, Maurrie, you could call me Danny Zuko if it means I can eat one of your hotdogs,” Leonidas said, stuffing the foie gras in his mouth and swallowing swiftly before speaking again. “All the food here is way too fancy for my taste. What’ve you got?”

“Hell, for you, whatever you damn well want! Er, Your Majesty.”

Leonidas rubbed his hands together, about to make his order, when he was abruptly joined by his father.

“Son,” Reginald said without preamble, his voice conspiratorial. “Is this what I think it is?”

Maurice looked between them and seemed to clock the family connection immediately, which, given how similar Leonidas looked to his father, probably wasn’t too hard to do.

“If you mean the best hotdogs in Dawnhaven, my lord, you bet your patootie!”

Reginald rubbed his hands together in an exact mimicry of Leonidas at hearing those words, and nodded enthusiastically. “Perfect. What do you recommend?”

Before Maurice could speak, Leonidas waved a hand.

“Nah, Dad. You want the Achilles special,” he said with absolute confidence. “Come on, Maurrie. Show him.”

The hotdog vendor seemed all-too-happy to comply as he promptly fetched a bun from his cache, opened one tray to extract some not-quite-melted butter to lather up the bun, using a dispensing bottle to drop zig-zagged slashes of what passed for ketchup in the cataclysm, followed by a bed of bacon bites, the hotdog itself, a health dose of melted cheese, some fried onions, and topped it off with a line of Alteran spices that exemplified the oomph factor.

The vendor handed the hotdog to Reginald, who eyed the purple-and-blue assortment of spices warily until Leonidas gestured encouragingly.

“Come on, old man. You’re going to love it.”

Reginald hesitated and then shrugged and bit into the ‘dog at the same time as Leonidas received his own. At his side, his father let out a quiet groan of delight and pointed at the hotdog animatedly.

Leonidas grinned victoriously.

“I told you,” he said smugly, saluting Maurice with the hotdog. “Best damn food in Dawnhaven. I’m going to have to make you my personal ‘dog man at this rate, Maurrie.”

The wide-set hawker chortled at the words and waved his hands.

“I’m quite happy in the Prosperity Quarter, Your Majesty,” Maurice said cheerfully. “You’re welcome to come by any time, though! You’ll always eat free at Maurrie’s.”

Leonidas gave the man a thumbs up and turned away with his father, savoring a bite of the hotdog and chewing in delight.

“Honestly, son,” Reginald said as he finished his own first bite and swallowed. “This alone makes it all worth it. Honestly, the biggest travesty of this entire Incursion was—”

“Derrick’s Dog Cart,” Leonidas agreed readily. “I know. The idea of never having one of those again infuriated me until I found Maurrie. God, these are good.”

“And the condiments!” his father said with enthusiasm. “I never thought alien spices would go so well with a hotdog, but damned if they aren’t—”

“Ahem.”

Leonidas and his father froze at an all-too-familiar disapproving voice, and then slowly turned as one to look down at Leonidas’ mother, staring at them over a glass of red wine with a pointedly raised eyebrow.

“Are you two quite enjoying yourselves?” she asked flatly.

Leonidas watched silently as his father smiled guiltily at the Sword of Manhattan and then cleared his throat.

“Ace was just introducing me to his favorite food, my dear,” Reginald said with a winning smile. “It’s a funny story, actually, you see I was just lamenting Derrick’s Dog Cart, and—”

“We are at a ball, Reginald,” Maryanne cut him off in a low, mortified tone. “A ball, in honor of our son and our new daughter-in-law, who both just so happen to be monarchs, and you are dragging that very same son into eating hotdogs! At a Ball!”

A moment later, before either Reginald or Leonidas could respond, Ceruviel of all people materialized out of nowhere, with a very resigned-looking Uriel Aventus glued to her arm. Before any of them could say anything, the Archon stared at Leonidas and Reginald in momentary silence, and her expression turned predatory.

“I smell Maurice’s Hotdogs,” she declared firmly. “Where?”

Despite the stunned looks from his parents, Leonidas calmly pointed back to where Maurice was, and Ceruviel made an ‘aha!’ noise, dragging a long-suffering Dawn-Lord with her straight to the hotdog cart. The comedic disbelief of seeing Ceruviel dragging Uriel around with her like a defeated husband notwithstanding, Leonidas’ attention drifted as his mother, now floored, muttered into her wine as his father tried to comfort her.

A moment later, his wife appeared, winding her arm with his and sniffing delicately at the air.

“Ah,” she said in musical English. “Maurice?”

Maryanne started at that, looked at Aylar, and then promptly drained the last of her wine in defeat.

“May I have a bite?” Aylar asked, her azure eyes shimmering with desire.

Leonidas eyed her speculatively, glanced at his hotdog, and then sighed and offered it to her. Delighted, Aylar took a ‘bite’, opening her mouth enough to steal nearly a fifth of the hotdog in a single movement with a look of absolute bliss.

“You’ve corrupted her, too,” Maryanne said a moment later, looking at Aylar like she was heartbroken. “The poor woman. My beautiful daughter-in-law, lost to the madness of this bloodline.”

Aylar, in turn, chewed delicately and swallowed valiantly, forcing Leonidas’ mind to consider exactly how non-existent her gag reflex was before his cheeks flushed and he focused intently on anything else.

“Honestly, Mary,” Aylar said, blessedly unaware of Leonidas’ thoughts, “Maurice truly is a gem. Hotdogs are all the rage among the nobility these days. I believe it’s actually Ceruviel’s fault.”

As if summoned, the Dusk-Lord appeared a moment later, carting a hotdog in one hand and a hotdog-laden Uriel Aventus on the other.

“What is my fault, Your Majesty?” the Duchess asked primly.

“The Hotdogs, Mentor,” Leonidas answered informatively.

“Oh! These? Wonderful things! Even Uriel likes them, don’t you, tightpants?”

Uriel stared at Ceruviel in long-suffering silence, exhaled, and then directed his radiant gaze to Leonidas, Aylar, Reginald, and Maryanne.

“I must admit,” the Duke said quietly, “they are rather spectacular.”

“You see, Mary?” Reginald asked soothingly. “It truly is perfectly alright to be—”

“{Achilles!}”

Reginald was cut off as Leonidas turned with the rest of his accompaniment, looking to where a flushed blond Haelfar man was stalking toward him, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Ah, Leonidas thought with a mental sigh, Baron Cartellis. Of course.

The platinum-haired Baron was a symbol of fury as he marched up toward their group, eyes solely focused on Leonidas as he came to a halt before them. The Baron’s glare could very well have stripped flesh off of a lesser man, and Leonidas distantly found that fact somewhat impressive.

“Baron Cartellis,” he said calmly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“{Achilles! You owe me a—}”

Leonidas’ eyes flicked to Ceruviel, and the Duchess needed no more.

The Baron abruptly choked as Leonidas sensed a vise of Psi close around his throat and lifted him to the tips of his toes, silencing the nearby murmurs. Ceruviel stepped forward a second later, ballgown swaying around her body with her hotdog held idly in one hand, and her other arm—no longer gripped around Uriel Aventus—resting with her hand on one pronounced hip.

“You are addressing your King, boy,” the Duchess said in a tone that could have frozen lava. “You will address him as befits a King, or I will remove your tongue so you can cease embarrassing our entire culture with its misuse. Am I clear?”

The Baron’s bulging eyes flickered in impotent fury at her words, but he just barely managed a nod around his purpling face, and the Psi vanished as Leonidas watched indifferently, dropping the Haelfar back onto his feet. Aylar, her own features a mask of cold disapproval, did not move when the Baron choked down air, and instead she shifted to fold her arms disapprovingly before her, chin raised in clear disgust at the Haelfar’s manners.

Finally, after a time of recovery, the Cartellis Heir spoke again.

“{I am owed, Your Majesty,}” he said, all-but-spitting the title. “{A duel. You promised to honor your duels. I am owed!}”

Leonidas nodded at the words, somehow entirely unimpressed by the man’s bravado. Something about it just seemed hollow to him, after Valerian Cade and Braedon himself. It felt almost performative or tantrum-esque, rather than motivated by something deeper. At least his last two opponents had possessed something amounting to conviction.

Baron Cartellis, by comparison, just seemed petty.

“You are owed a duel,” Leonidas recognized calmly, his voice echoing within the now-silent ballroom as the Royal Guard watched intently. “That is true, Baron, and I acknowledge it. However, this is not the proper time.”

“{Archon-King!}” the Baron said, almost as if adding ‘King’ belatedly. “{Are you refusing to—}”

“No, Baron,” Leonidas said, allowing his Mana and Psi to bleed into his body, and generating a small crackle of lightning around him as he did, silencing the man for a moment. “I said this is not the proper time. In fact, Count Cartellis! Are you present, my lord?”

Almost as if he’d been expecting the summons, the unassuming green-eyed count appeared a moment later, a glass of Aetherwine in his hand, and a functional smile on his features, one that never reached his eyes. “{Your Majesty?}”

Still stubbornly sticking to English to make a point, Leonidas continued.

“Count, would you please inform the assembled guests of what the Codices of Honor state relating to a duel, when one party is imminently about to begin Tempering?”

The Count’s eyes flashed at the question, but the man was far too shrewd to make a scene—a genetic restraint that seemed to have skipped both his children.

“{Of course, Your Majesty. The Codices of Honor state, clearly, that if a Duel is to be commenced, an appropriate opportunity must be afforded for the challenged party, and only the challenged party, to complete their Tempering before the date of commencement. Usually, this window extends to three days—seventy-two hours on Terra.}”

“Thank you, Count, and as the Baron is choosing to press me for my answer now, would that not in turn demand I be afforded my chance to Temper?”

The Count swirled his drink as the eyes of the assembled turned to him, and he nodded slowly.

“{Despite the duel proclamation being issued over two weeks ago, the prosecution of the challenge only occurred tonight, and as you say, Your Majesty, you are naturally entitled to the codices’ permitted three-day Tempering window.}”

The Baron spun to stare at his father in incredulity as Count Cartellis spoke, and the shorter, older Haelfar simply shrugged.

“{I did warn you that tonight was not the night, Cerion. You did not heed me.}”

The Baron, furious, turned back toward Leonidas and took a step forward, only for Uriel Aventus to appear in a crack of displaced air, his hand raised calmly. The Duke moved so fast that the sound only came after he appeared, and resulted in a collective step back for several of the onlookers, including the Baron himself.

“You have been given your answer, Baron,” the Duke of Morning said solemnly. “The Archon-King, as you aptly name him, has proven his mettle and honor in the Arena during the Right of Challenge. He will face you in three days’ time, or after he has completed and recovered from his Tempering, whichever comes first. I believe it is time for you to withdraw, now.”

The Baron stared at the implacable golden gaze of the Dawn-Lord for a moment longer, turned his green eyes on Leonidas and Aylar, and then snarled, turning on his heel to storm toward the exit.

When the Royal Guard shifted, Aylar raised her hand.

“Let him depart in peace,” the Queen commanded, her voice halting them in their gilded tracks. “The issue has been resolved, and there is no need to sully the evening with more pointless disturbance. This is a celebration!”

As she spoke, she clapped her hands, using her Tempering to make them echo.

“Let the music and merriment recommence!”

Music immediately filled the ballroom again at her order, and Aylar turned back to Leonidas as the crowd of onlookers murmured excitedly, drifting back to their conversations while Count Cartellis lifted his glass in mirthless toast and turned to wander back to his conversation, leaving Leonidas alone with his wife, the returning Dawn-Lord, his Mentor, and his parents.

“You need to finish your next Temper,” Ceruviel said grimly, the moment the six of them were alone again. “As soon as possible.”

“I know,” Leonidas conceded, instinctively wrapping his arm around Aylar, who leaned into his embrace with equally natural inclination. “I have a [Platinum Chest] and [Gold Chest] to redeem, too, as well as fifty-four thousand experience from the Right of Challenge. I’ve just been avoiding it because I’m almost certain there’ll be another tribulation.”

Both of his parents reacted to that, looking alarmed, but Ceruviel just shook her head while Aylar set a hand protectively over Leonidas’ heart.

“Let Uriel and I handle the preparations for the Tribulation,” his Mentor said firmly, nodding to the Dawn-Lord, who met her gaze with a single nod of his own. “We will ensure things are in hand. I would normally suggest you exit the city, but I think the Arena may actually be the best site for this. We can reinforce the area with Psionic wards and Radiant wards, and Uriel and I can control the spread of the Tribulation. At only Adept rank, it’s still within our ability to restrain.”

“To a point,” the Knight of the Luxan Spear added gravely, Uriel’s voice and tone serious. “Given what we know about your nature, Your Majesty, I fear that future Tribulations will only grow more and more dangerous. By the time you reach Elite rank, it is unlikely that the Duchess and I alone will be able to restrain the fury of the System. You will likely need to come up with a solution by that point that does not imperil your own Capital.”

Leonidas nodded at their words, and his father chimed in abruptly.

“Hold on, sorry, what’s this about my son’s nature?” Reginald asked, looking between the two Venerate Haelfar with a father’s unerring courage. “What aren’t you all telling us?”

Maryanne nodded to his words.

“If there is something about my son that is threatening his life, we would like to know.”

Both Venerates exchanged a glance and looked at Leonidas, who looked in turn to Aylar, and saw her smile at him encouragingly.

Then, he turned back to his parents. When he did, Ceruviel erected a [Psionic Force] bubble instantly, cutting off outside hearing when she did.

Leonidas nodded at her in thanks and then turned once more to his parents.

“Right, well, Mom, Dad, there’s something—”

“Ace is the Cataclysm,” a new voice chimed in casually, coming from the suddenly manifesting form of his younger sister, still in her bridesmaid dress, with a hotdog in hand. “That’s what we’re discussing, right? Him being the once-in-an-integration Super-Cultivator?”

All eyes turned to the Deathdancer, and Kairi grinned as the older Paendrags looked between their daughter and son, poleaxed with shock.

“Oh, sorry,” Kairi said casually as she took a bite of her hotdog. “Oops?”

Leonidas, despite his incredulity, could only laugh.