Once the fight was over, Gor wasted no time leaving the base. His body ached from the battle, but pain was nothing new to him. What truly weighed on his mind was what he had learned from facing Bale. His new armor—impressive as it was—had limits. He had pushed it too far, draining its energy completely. But the real issue wasn't his own attacks; it was the sheer force of Bale's strikes. The armor had worked overtime to keep him alive, and yet Bale had been holding back. Gor bit his lip. The gap between them was still a mountain he had yet to climb.
He exhaled sharply.
"The princess will be expecting me," he muttered, turning toward the palace.
The city of Pshen, the beating heart of Wize, basked in the golden glow of the setting sun. Its ivory and sandstone walls shimmered beneath the countless lanterns hung in preparation for the Junaz Festival. The air was thick with the scent of incense and spices, blending with the rhythmic beats of drums and the soft melodies of flutes. Banners of deep gold lined the streets, matching the flowing garments of the citizens as they moved through grand boulevards, offering prayers to Ajánwá, the revered goddess of wealth.
But for the Palace of Pshen, this was no mere festival.
Perched atop the city's highest point, the palace stood as an architectural wonder—a fusion of carved sandstone, domes glistening with sapphire and gold mosaics, and towering spires that kissed the sky. The massive bronze doors, etched with images of past rulers, stood wide open. Inside, onyx pillars wrapped in golden silk framed the grand entrance, their bases entwined with perfumed flowers. The courtyard, paved with polished marble, had been transformed into a vision of opulence—rosewater fountains lined with pearls glistened in the evening light, while golden lanterns swayed gently from tall date palms.
Within the palace, the Hall of Dotan awaited its guests. The ceiling stretched endlessly, woven with intricate arabesque patterns in gold and sapphire, catching the glow of a thousand oil lamps encased in lotus-shaped glass. Along the walls, grand tapestries of gold and crimson depicted Wize's past—its victories, its tragedies, and the scars of a civil war still fresh in many minds.
At the head of the hall, beneath a silk canopy embroidered with Wize's sigil, sat King Jai—the newly crowned ruler—upon a throne of black obsidian inlaid with lapis lazuli. Before him, gathered in flowing robes of royal blue and white, stood the Sultens of Wize. They were not here merely for Junaz; they were here to shape the kingdom's future.
Among them was Sulten Midinna of Hadia. An older woman with a commanding presence, she sat with quiet dignity. Her golden-brown gown, embroidered with silver threads, shimmered under the lamplight. A sheer silk veil adorned with pearls framed her graying hair, and an amber necklace—symbolizing her station—rested against her chest. She was the wife of General Karim, Jai's uncle, whose loyalty had helped tip the war's scales.
Beside her, Sulten Lee of Cosant sat stiffly, eyes darting around the hall. He had sided with Burak during the war, and by all rights, he should have lost his head by now. But Jai had shown no interest in executions. Was it mercy? Distraction? Or something far more calculated? The thought made Lee's throat dry. He had a bargain to uphold, but under Jai's gaze—so heavy, so suffocating—he wasn't sure he had the courage. Across from him sat another conspirator, Sulten Nadia of Lyokis, her expression calm. Too calm.
"How is she not terrified?" Lee thought bitterly.
But Nadia was not as composed as she appeared. It was all an act, one she had perfected over years of playing dangerous games. She had always feared the god sword, but now that Jai had shown his true strength, that fear had deepened into something more unsettling. Their plans had stalled. Ever since Jai discovered their lines of communication, the organization had gone silent. But even if they reestablished contact, what could they really do? How did one fight a man like Jai?
Beside her sat Sulten Viran Yaya of Jubia, his dark wings folded elegantly behind him. He, like the rest of the Yaya lineage, stood out starkly among the Sultens—a legacy both admired and feared.
Further down the table, Sulten Goro of the Jang clan lounged with a satisfied smirk. Ri's uncle, and now the undisputed master of Dura's farmlands. Ever since Ri had fled the city, opposition had crumbled. He would have preferred to kill her himself, but her disappearance saved him the trouble. After all, he had already shed enough family blood—his brother, his nephews. What was one more? He raised his goblet, silently toasting his newfound power.
Yet not all shared his satisfaction.
Sulten Manaz of Fadis sat with a deep frown, making no effort to hide his displeasure. The fool still clung to the notion that Jai had a hand in his father's demise. The other Sultens only prayed he wouldn't voice such foolishness in the king's presence. It would be the last thing he ever said.
Then there was Sulten Mahmoud of Amresh, his gaze drifting over the table. His mind was elsewhere—on the deal he had struck. His daughter would soon be Jai's concubine, alongside the daughter of Sulten Viran. A small price to pay for power. But beyond that, his true desire burned bright.
"Eru will fall. Hazel will die," he thought, a slow grin spreading across his face.
Across from him, Sulten Paz of Sworis had simpler concerns. He only wished for leniency—lighter punishments for his people, the return of the hostages. He had no grand schemes, only hopes for survival.
Among them sat the Sulten of Heldi, Asano of the Otsuka clan. The Otsuka were invaluable to Jai's rule, not only for their influence but for their divine lineage. The Blessing of Nayomi, goddess of art and spirit, coursed through their blood. They were one of the families whose abilities were integral to the progress of Wize and were also in support of Jai's campaign in Wize
Although they said it was for the sake of the Nation of Wize, many knew of the feud between House Wilde and Clan Otsuka; they were not fooling anyone. Sulten Asano smiled as she stared at Jai with her magenta eyes as if she couldn't wait for their meeting to start.
And finally, there was Sulten Toro of Junai.
No one acknowledged him. No one spoke to him. He was feared, loathed, and ignored— all because of his curse. A curse so dark, so abhorrent, that even Jai had forbidden its use. But tonight, many feared that ban would be lifted.
The Sultens sat on opposite sides of the great table, tension thick in the air. Some had come to scheme, some to submit, and others simply to survive.
And at the head of it all sat King Jai, the god sword resting at his side, watching them all.