Chapter 49 Chapter 48: A Whisper of Venom
The duality of the scene before me was unnerving. As we walked back through the vast, harem-like room, it was transformed from the vibrant, chattering space I had first entered, into something spectral and silent. It was now eerily empty, the air still and heavy with the scent of jasmine. The only light came from the stars, their cold, distant brilliance reflected perfectly in the still, black water of the massive communal bathing pool. Not a single Polli was in sight; the only signs of life were the statue-like Clam guards stationed at intervals, their presence more architectural than human, their stillness absolute.
Chup-chup moved with a silent, unnerving speed, his feet seeming to barely graze the polished floors. I remembered Marcel, weeks ago, drilling me in a pair of practice heels, his critical eye watching my every step. When he’d asked, “Can you actually walk in these?” I hadn’t realized he meant at something closer to a run, which was the pace I now had to maintain to keep up with my silent escort as we moved towards Lord Vincent’s suite.
When I arrived, slightly breathless, the scene within was a study in formal tension. Ciel, Jode, and even Saul was arranged around the sitting room in stark black tuxedos. Ciel looked academic, Jode looked uncomfortable, and Saul looked like a predator forced into a cage, his jacket strained across his broad, muscular chest, the formalwear a flimsy disguise for his lethal capability.
They all looked up as I entered. The reaction was instantaneous. In their eyes, I saw the confirmation that the dress was everything Marcel had planned for, and more. It was Ciel’s slight, appreciative nod; Jode’s quickly averted gaze, as if the sight was too potent to hold. But it was Saul who broke the silence. He let out a low, sharp exhale, another silent, “Fuck…” before shaking his head with pure dismay. “Nanda, really?”
Lord Vincent chose that moment to make his entrance, a master of timing as always. He was resplendent in a perfectly tailored, completely black tuxedo, his silver-tipped cane tapping a soft rhythm on the floor. “What seems to be the problem, Saul, old chum?” he asked, his voice a study in casual amusement.
Saul gestured sharply in my direction, his composure fraying. “Have you seen… her… Nanda. Look at her.”
Lord Vincent’s gaze swept over me, not with Saul’s tactical horror, but with the eye of a connoisseur admiring a fine piece of art. “Why, she looks like a breath of fresh air on a starry night!” he boomed, as if that settled the matter entirely.
Saul tried one more time, his voice dropping to an urgent, gravelly whisper. “I don’t think you realize that we are amongst the enemy, totally unarmed.”
“Nonsense,” Lord Vincent declared to the room at large. Then, his eyes flicked towards Chup-chup, who stood silently in the corner, observing everything. “We are amongst future friends, are we not?”
Chup-chup did not answer. His silence was more damning than any agreement could have been.
“Well, I am still famished,” Vincent announced, deftly cutting through the tension. He turned to me, his expression genial and utterly unshakeable. “Nanda, if you would.” He held out his arm.
I took it, my hand resting on the fine black wool of his sleeve. And with that, our delegation of freaks, the genius, the analyst, the soldier, and the gimmick in emerald, green, stepped forward to enter the lair of our enemy, with the silent, watchful Chup-chup bringing up the rear.
The room we entered was, according to the pretence of diplomacy, meant to be a small, intimate, informal gathering. But Karn Isa had pulled out all the stops. Whether his aim was to impress or intimidate with sheer, unadulterated grandeur, it was working, at least on me.
Before us lay not a dining room, but a vast, echoing banquet hall. The vaulted ceiling was lost in shadow, from which hung colossal chandeliers of crystal and gold, casting a thousand dancing points of light across the scene. The walls were draped in silks of deep crimson and gold, and the long, central table was a river of polished obsidian, set with gleaming silver and porcelain so fine it seemed it might shatter at a harsh glance.
Karn Isa stood at the head of this splendour, a figure of immense power. He was flanked by two men who, by their formidable bearing and the clear family resemblance, the same sharp jawline and penetrating gaze, I could only guess were two of the four other Karns, the Emperor's sons who each ruled their own state within the empire. Beyond them was a constellation of aides, advisors, and attendants, a silent court hanging on every word. And ringing the entire room, standing as still as the statues in the harem garden, were more Clam guards. These wore even more elaborate royal costumes, their enormous, jewelled curved swords held upright before them, a glittering, silent threat.
As we entered, Zeb, the Karn's ever-present aide, announced us in a ringing voice that cut through the murmur of conversation.
“The Lord Vincent and his Entourage from Polli-Nation!”
Once again, the dark emerald dress Marcel had chosen for me performed its intended magic, pulling the gaze of every Nate in the hall. As I walked down the sweeping marble staircase on the arm of Lord Vincent, the weight of their collective stare was a physical pressure. It was about halfway down, my heels clicking softly on the stone, that the second, more isolating realization struck me: amidst this sea of powerful, formally dressed Nates, I was the only Polli in the entire, cavernous room.
Karn Isa met us graciously at the bottom of the stairs, a smile playing on his lips that did not quite reach his calculating eyes.
“Lord Vincent, Nanda Stone, welcome. May the moon and the sun, shine upon this blessed night.” He gestured to the two formidable men beside him. “These are my brothers, Karn Teb of Haora and Karn Zul of Ardenia. I am afraid my other brothers will not be joining us this evening, as they are on state business for my father, The Exalted Emperor.”
Lord Vincent offered a perfectly measured bow, and I followed with another one of my clumsy curtsies, feeling the emerald heavy against my chest. Karn Teb stepped forward first. “Lord Vincent,” he said, his voice a low purr, but his eyes, cold and assessing, were locked on me as he bowed. Karn Zul followed suit, his greeting a simple, “Lord Vincent,” his own gaze more circumspect, but no less intense.
Lord Vincent, ever the brutish Nate and a master of deliberately deviating from protocol, broke the formal silence with a booming laugh. “So, Karn Isa! You said something about the best food in the known world. My stomach is so hungry it is beginning to believe my throat has been slit!”
Karn Isa threw his head back and laughed, a loud, hearty sound that seemed to genuinely amuse him. I could see Lord Vincent’s boisterous, friendly manner was a potent charm on the host. His brother Zul, however, remained unmoved, his smirk frozen into something colder. “Yes, of course! Let us sit,” Karn Isa declared, clapping Vincent on the shoulder. “I will show you what real food is, so your stomach can sing its praises once more.” With that, he led our peculiar delegation to the table, the first course in a high-stakes game of politics and power.
The dinner was a symphony of orchestrated decadence. The rich, spiced food kept coming, one elaborate course after another, each a delicate masterpiece presented on gilded plates. They were complemented not with vine, but with an array of jewel-toned juices, complex cordials, and infused waters, each non-alcoholic drink meticulously paired to enhance the flavours, a testament to the Sylvan prohibition and their own form of sophisticated indulgence.
At the head of the table, Lord Vincent and Karn Isa fell into a loud, excited banter that became the engine of the evening. They traded boasts and anecdotes about the splendours their respective cultures had to offer, the architectural marvels of the North against the artistic heritage of the Sylvan Empire. Their conversation was a performance, a verbal dance of power and prestige. Occasionally, Vincent would draw me in with a pointed question about Polli-Nation's cultural archives, or Karn Isa would include his brothers with a jovial nudge, forcing a semblance of camaraderie.
Emboldened by this display at the high table, the rest of the hall followed suit, though in a more subdued manner. A quiet, muffled hum of pleasant talk filled the air, the clink of porcelain and crystal providing a soft percussion. For a fleeting, hopeful moment, it appeared the foundation for genuine diplomacy was being laid. Lord Vincent's warm, booming charm and Karn Isa's receptive humour seemed to radiate through the hall, loosening tongues and lulling everyone into a state of casual ease. The rigid formality of our arrival had melted into something that felt almost… convivial.
This might actually work, I thought to myself, allowing a sliver of optimism to break through my constant vigilance.
And then I met the gaze of Karn Zul.
His eyes, cold and sharp as shards of obsidian, cut directly through the festive noise. There was no hint of the feigned pleasantry his brother displayed, no trace of the general ease infecting the room. In his stare was only a pure, undiluted hatred. It was so potent, so personal, it felt like a physical blow. My breath caught in my throat. Was this venom directed solely at me, the conspicuous Polli in their midst, the living symbol of the society they refused to recognize? Or did it encompass our entire delegation, a deep-seated loathing for everything we represented? I could not fathom its source, only its chilling intensity, a stark reminder that beneath the surface of this lavish banquet, the foundations were anything but stable.
The evening finally began to wind down, steeped in the hazy warmth of full stomachs and the delicate fragrance of spiced tea. Karn Isa, his demeanour expansive and satisfied, rose to formally conclude the proceedings.
“Tomorrow,” he announced, his voice carrying easily across the now-quieting hall, “I shall have the honour of showing you the wonders of my city. The markets, the Spire of the First Sun… you shall see the heart of Sylvan prosperity.” His eyes twinkled as he turned to Lord Vincent, clapping a heavy, genial hand on his shoulder. “And tomorrow night, we shall gather once more. I promise you; we will have the great pleasure of getting the Lord Vincent’s belly to sing again at the banquet in the presence of my father, The Exalted Emperor himself.”
The promise hung in the air, a glittering prospect of even greater opulence and higher stakes. We said our goodbyes in a line, a final piece of diplomatic theatre. Lord Vincent exchanged a few more booming pleasantries with Karn Isa, while Ciel and Jode offered polite, subdued nods to the other officials.
Then it was my turn. I moved down the line, offering a small, respectful curtsy to each of the Karns. Karn Teb offered a neutral, almost bored nod, his mind already elsewhere. But when I came to Karn Zul, the air grew cold. He took my offered hand not in a clasp, but with a brief, contemptuous touch of his fingertips. As he bowed his head, the motion brought his lips perilously close to my ear. The public smile was still fixed on his face, a mask for the venom he delivered in a whisper so low and sharp it was like a needle plunged into my skin.
“Whore.”
The word was there and then gone, so swift and quiet I might have convinced myself I had imagined it, were it not for the icy trail it left coiled in my stomach. He straightened up, his expression unreadable once more, and moved on as if nothing had happened, leaving me standing there, my own smile frozen solid, the emerald around my neck feeling less like a jewel and more like a target.