The Surprise Banquet

To hurry them along, the Council sent a great bat that swiftly bore them back to the palace. As they landed in the torchlit courtyard, a guard stepped forward at once. He bowed low to Luxa, then held out her crown with reverence. She accepted it without a word, slipping it onto her head as though donning a mantle of steel.

“This way, Your Majesty. A feast has been prepared in your honor.”

Luxa’s brows knit together. She had ordered no feast. Gregor caught the flicker of surprise in her eyes, but she said nothing. Together they followed the guard through the echoing corridors until the sound of voices swelled around them.

The cavernous hall of Regalia glowed with crystal chandeliers. Banners in violet and silver draped from the ceiling, their colors rich against the pale stone walls. Long tables stretched the length of the chamber, laden with platters of baked fish, roasted roots, and silver goblets filled with dark wine. The entire Council was present—many with eyes sharp as daggers.

At the high table, Luxa sat poised, her crown glinting in the glow. Beside her, Gregor shifted uneasily, every muscle taut. He had faced armies of rats and worse in this city, but tonight felt different—more dangerous. A banquet was never just a meal in Regalia. It was a stage.

“Gregor of the Overland,” one of the elder councilors began, his voice carrying. “We welcome you again among us. It seems you find your way back to Regalia whenever fate grows restless.”

A ripple of polite laughter followed, though Gregor heard the steel beneath the words. He forced a smile. “I guess trouble has a way of finding me.”

Luxa’s hand brushed against the edge of his chair, a subtle touch meant to steady him. Her eyes met his—calming, yet warning: “Hold steady. Do not give them what they seek.”

The courses passed—platters of fish from the subterranean rivers and steaming bowls of mushroom stew. Gregor forced himself to eat, though the taste was heavy compared to the sandwiches he remembered from Central Park picnics. Then came the toasts. One by one, councilors rose, raising goblets with words that praised Luxa’s reign but always circled back to the same undertone: “Who is this Overlander, and why does he sit at her side?”

Finally, Vikus stood, his silver hair gleaming in the firelight. His voice was warm, yet carried the weight of decades. “Let it not be forgotten: Gregor has stood in the dark when few others dared. He has earned his place among us—though his heart be divided between lands above and below.”

The hall stilled. All eyes turned to Gregor. He swallowed, feeling the weight of expectation press on him like stone. Luxa’s fingers, hidden beneath the table, sought his.

Before he could speak, a crash split the silence. The door closest to Luxa banged open. A figure in black stormed in, hood drawn low, dagger flashing. Guards shouted, lunging forward, but the assassin was fast—too fast—charging straight for Luxa.

Gregor didn’t think. He moved. In one heartbeat, he was up from the table. He seized his goblet and hurled it with all the strength of an Overlander ballplayer. The metal struck the attacker’s wrist, sending the dagger clattering across the floor.

Chaos erupted. Guards swarmed, tackling the assailant. Cries of alarm echoed through the chamber, and the councilors pressed back from their tables. In the center of it all, Gregor stood panting, his hand finding Luxa’s.

For a long moment, silence reigned. Then Luxa rose, her voice like a blade cutting through the noise. “Let it be known,” she said coldly, her storm-lit eyes sweeping the council, “that those who stand at my side will not falter when shadows fall.” She did not release Gregor’s hand.

The uproar in the hall did not fade quickly. Some at the feast resumed their uneasy murmurs. Everyone in the chamber knew something had shifted. Gregor was no longer just a guest—he was bound to their queen, in danger and in defiance. He had not spoken it, but his actions had said more than words ever could.

Though guards had dragged the assassin away in irons, the Council was far from settled. Voices rose again—sharp, questioning, some accusing. A few cried out for tighter security; others muttered darkly of conspiracies. And still, every glance returned to Gregor.

“He moves like a warrior,” one councilor whispered. “But is he our ally—or a danger to us waiting to strike?”

Another slammed his goblet down. “It is no chance that trouble follows the Overlander wherever he sets foot. Even our banquets are not safe from his shadow.”

Gregor stiffened, heat rising in his chest, but Luxa’s hand tightened around his. She stood, her presence commanding, amethyst gaze cutting through the din.

“You speak of shadows?” Her voice rang out, firm and cold. “Then speak also of the light that casts them. Tonight, when death sought me, who among you rose first? Who struck the blow that turned aside the dagger? Not a councilor, not a guard, not a veteran at arms. It was Gregor, whose courage and loyalty you question even as you drink your wine.”

The chamber fell silent, her words reverberating off the stone walls. Even those who had spoken harshest looked away, chastened.

Vikus nodded gravely, his gaze lingering on Gregor with something between sorrow and pride. “Let this night remind us,” he said softly, “that courage may come from places we do not expect—and that those who stand beside the queen do so at both peril and honor.”

Luxa lowered herself back into her chair, still holding Gregor’s hand in plain view of all. The message was clear: she would not hide, nor would she allow the Council to dismiss him. Whatever storms awaited, they would face them together.