Evening fell, casting golden light across the front gates of the Vale estate. The family gathered there one by one, dressed in their finest.
Darian and his wife, dignified and proud.
Lyra, radiant and beautiful at her husband's side, nervous but smiling.
Elara and Mira, little princesses in velvet and silk, holding hands and trying their best to behave.
All waiting.
When Aren and Selene appeared at last, every head turned.
Aren, in black and silver formal wear, looked like something from legend — his raven-black hair slicked back, his golden eyes sharp and brilliant, a subtle purple aura faintly crackling over his form like a mirage.
Selene walked beside him, a vision of ageless beauty, her violet eyes gentle and warm, a silver gown flowing around her.
Aren let out a theatrical sigh, surveying them with an exaggerated frown.
"Are we going to a banquet or a funeral?" he teased, earning a chorus of relieved laughter that broke the tension.
They boarded the sleek black limousines, Aren and Selene leading, the family following close behind.
The Imperial Palace rose before them, an impossible monument of splendor and power.
As the limousines pulled up, noble families in glittering outfits spilled around the grand steps. Murmurs spread. Heads turned.
Some stiffened. Some whispered. Some unconsciously stepped aside.
They all knew who was arriving.
They all feared the man stepping out of the first car — the man they once begged to lead them into war and victory, and now prayed would stay quietly retired.
Aren Vale.
The announcer at the main doors, an older noble tasked with shouting the names of arriving guests, visibly paled when he saw him.
His voice trembled as he called out:
"His Grace, the Former Grand Duke, Lord Aren Vale of House Vale… and Her Grace, Lady Selene Vale!"
Aren walked forward, Selene at his arm, nodding politely, expression unreadable.
Darian and his wife followed, announced with appropriate ceremony.
Then came Lyra, her husband, and the two little girls.
And that's when it happened.
Two guards at the grand doors abruptly stepped forward, their hands raised — blocking them.
One of them barked, voice loud and cutting:
"Only invited guests may enter. Uninvited persons will not be admitted."
The grand hall fell silent.
Heads turned.
Murmurs broke out like ripples.
Lyra froze, her hands trembling slightly as Mira clung to her skirts.
Her husband stiffened, furious and humiliated but unable to react.
Even little Elara shrank back, clutching Mira protectively.
For one terrible heartbeat, Aren did nothing.
Then he moved.
The air around him cracked.
In a blink, the two knights were pinned to the marble floor, flattened by a weight they couldn't resist — Aren's pure killing intent.
Gasps rang out. Several nobles staggered backward, faces pale, hands trembling.
Aren slowly turned his golden gaze toward the announcer, whose mouth opened and closed wordlessly in terror.
Purple light bloomed around Aren's hands — he wove it gently, wrapping the ears of Mira and Elara in a soft, invisible shell to shield them from the nightmare unfolding.
Then he spoke.
Quietly. Dangerously.
"I threw my life into the flames of war for this empire," Aren said, his voice a low growl that seemed to shake the very stones.
"I bled. I killed. I died a thousand deaths so you—" he pointed at the announcer, the guards, the nobles "—could live in peace. So you could build your palaces and throw your banquets and send your invitations."
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his presence enough to make strong men want to kneel.
"And you dare," Aren continued, voice sharpening into something lethal, "to shame my family?"
The announcer whimpered audibly, collapsing to his knees, the scroll of invitations falling from his hands.
"Listen carefully," Aren said, his voice dropping into a whisper that somehow carried through the entire silent hall.
"Either you call my daughter's name — with the same reverence you would offer a goddess — or I will show this world what happens when you wake a dragon from his sleep."
The silence stretched impossibly.
The guards had long since lost consciousness from the pressure.
Nobles could not breathe, let alone speak.
Even the musicians, hidden in the corners, dared not lift their instruments.
Then—
Trumpets.
The grand announcement of the Emperor's arrival broke the frozen tension.
From the upper stairwell descended Emperor Ceylan, clothed in deep imperial blue, his family behind him.
And just behind the Emperor walked the Crown Prince — white-faced, stricken, realizing the disaster he had unknowingly provoked.
But Aren did not even glance toward them yet.
His golden eyes remained locked on the crumpled announcer.
The man, sobbing openly now, scrambled for the scroll, found the name, and with a shaking voice bellowed:
"Her Ladyship, Lady Lyra Vale of House Vale — and her family!"
It echoed across the hall, loud and terrified.
Aren gave a cold, thin smile.
He offered his hand to Mira, who beamed and clutched his fingers proudly.
Selene stepped to his side, resting a hand on his arm, calming his storm without a word.
And together — with dignity intact, heads held high — the entire Vale family walked into the banquet.
As they passed the Emperor on the stairs, Aren gave him the barest nod — enough to be polite, but nothing more.
The message was clear.
The world might have forgotten.
But Aren Vale was still very much alive.
And he would burn it all down before letting them hurt his family again.