[Oliver's PoV]

  “Long live House Dardanus! Long live Louise and Nico Dardanus!” Cicero’s voice thundered across the stadium.

  For a heartbeat, silence followed like the calm before a storm.

  Then the station erupted.

  The sound was overwhelming. A tidal wave of cheers, roars, and applause rolled through the air, shaking the very structure of the estation.

  Even the representatives of the Great Houses looked shaken. Some flinched instinctively, eyes wide, while others gripped the arms of their chairs as if expecting the station to crumble under the noise.

  And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the tremors stopped.

  The applause softened to laughter, conversation, and the clinking of glasses. The ceremony was over.

  “Please, remain where you are,” an organizer’s voice called out over the comm system. “The entire stadium will now serve as the celebration venue.”

  The transformation was immediate and seamless.

  Dozens of service androids emerged from hidden compartments in the walls, moving with mechanical grace as they distributed trays of drinks. Floating drones descended with platters of canapés, their soft propulsion systems humming as they drifted between guests.

  The elevated tiers where the Houses had been seated began to shift, the floor plates reconfiguring. The stands descended smoothly until they merged with the main floor.

  However, Oliver wasn’t watching the spectacle.

  His gaze was distant, his thoughts focused. The celebration, the noise, the grandeur. It all faded into the background.

  'Emilia Velor.'

  He repeated the name silently, as his eyes scanned the endless crowd. He’d seen her image before. Yet, he didn’t know what she’d look like tonight, not in the chaos of this event, not among the silks and uniforms of the Empire’s elite.

  Even his own attire felt out of place. The formal jacket, the blue insignia embroidered into the sleeve, was meant to blend him in. But he felt like a weapon disguised as a guest.

  Somewhere in that sea of people, she was there.

  Oliver’s eyes swept across the crowd again. Near the central podium, a long line had begun to form, guests waiting to offer their congratulations to the newlyweds. He scanned the faces, searching for anything that matched Emilia’s features.

  Nothing.

  Then, the comm in his ear crackled, Midas’s voice cutting through the noise. “Raine is with me.”

  'Emilia is with the Militarist Faction… maybe that’ll make her easier to find.'

  He turned, scanning the section of the field where the Militarist Houses had gathered.

  Then he recognized someone.

  Amid the crowd, a young woman stood out. Short dark hair, a hardened gaze, and a voice that carried easily over the noise. She was laughing loudly, her tone sharp and unrestrained, her gestures bold.

  'Demi.'

  Oliver walked toward her, his steps steady, his expression unreadable. As he crossed the artificial grass, the murmur of conversation around him began to shift. Eyes followed him. Representatives from the Houses turned, whispering to each other as he passed.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “Is he going to speak to the Demi?”

  The ripple of speculation spread quickly, but Oliver ignored it. He walked straight through the murmurs, the crowd parting instinctively as he approached where the Militarist representatives stood.

  “Atlas!”

  Demi’s voice cut through the noise, bright and familiar. She didn’t seem the least bit concerned by the attention their exchange was drawing. With a grin, she extended her hand, and before Oliver could respond, she grabbed his and pulled him closer.

  Her cheeks were flushed, her short hair slightly disheveled, and in her other hand she held a small glass filled with amber liquid and melting ice. The faint scent of alcohol that hung around her was sharp, intoxicating, impossible to ignore.

  “I was just telling them about the beating you gave me,” she chirped, tapping the bridge of her nose with a finger. A thin white scar ran across it, catching the light.

  Oliver blinked, momentarily caught off guard by her openness. “Then you should tell them you nearly killed me with that trident.”

  Demi laughed, the sound loud and genuine, her shoulders shaking. “Fair enough!”

  Her laughter drew a few curious glances from nearby delegates, but she didn’t seem to care. She turned back to her companions, raising her glass as if to toast the absurdity of it all.

  Oliver allowed himself a small smile, though his mind was still racing. He hadn’t expected warmth from her, not after the fight. He’d anticipated cold civility. But the ease with which she greeted him was disarming.

  'Maybe it’s the drink,' he pondered.

  “The idiot from the Lot House just stood there watching while this one gave me a beating!” Demi shouted, her voice carrying over the chatter. She jabbed a thumb toward Oliver, grinning wide enough for half the crowd to hear. “But I got him with the trident! I almost had him, Emilia!”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  At that name, Oliver’s attention sharpened.

  He turned his gaze toward the woman standing beside Demi and recognized her instantly.

  Emilia Velor.

  Her presence hit him like static through the air. She was shorter than Demi, with her hair cropped close but softly curled. She wasn’t the kind of beauty that drew gasps or stares, but there was something disarmingly warm about her. Her expression carried a softness that contrasted with the sharp, battle-hardened demeanor of the Militarist faction.

  Demi, oblivious to the shift in Oliver’s focus, lifted her glass and swung her arm enthusiastically. “At least he gave me a Bronze Crystal!” she announced proudly, her voice bubbling with laughter. Then, leaning in close, she caught Oliver by the collar and pulled him toward her, her breath laced with the sharp tang of alcohol.

  “We jumped up in the rankings because of that,” she whispered, her tone conspiratorial.

  Oliver smiled faintly, nodding. 'We only needed to avoid last place,' he thought back. 'No one pays attention to the middle of the scoreboard.'

  He didn’t care about the rankings or how many Orks they’d slaughtered. He only needed to buy time till he could face the Sovereign.

  “I heard you’ve been having trouble with the Lot House.” For the first time, Emilia spoke.

  Her voice was soft but steady, and Oliver could hear the intent behind it; the probing curiosity of someone fishing for information.

  'She wants to know if it’s true,' he realized, suppressing a smile. 'She’s trying to confirm the rumors.'

  The Militarist Faction had always been hungry for new technology, new weapons. And if whispers about modified mechs had already reached them, it meant the leaks were spreading faster than expected.

  He straightened slightly, his tone calm and measured. “Unfortunately, they got a little too aggressive during negotiations,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “We had to put an end to the discussion before it escalated further.”

  Demi let out a bark of laughter, nearly spilling her drink. “That’s not what I heard!” she said, grinning at him. “I heard they tried to invade your territory, and you held them off with custom mechs! Some even said those machines had engineering straight from the Dardanus labs!”

  Her voice carried just enough to catch the attention of nearby delegates. A few heads turned. Curious eyes flicked toward them.

  Oliver’s smile didn’t falter, but beneath it, his mind was already racing.

  'Dardanus engineering. So the rumors are already that detailed.'

  He met Demi’s gaze, steady and calm. “People love to exaggerate,” he said smoothly. “You know how stories spread.”

  “Well, I can’t confirm anything,” he continued, hands clasped behind his back, the faintest curve of a smile on his lips. “But even before I represented a Great House, I was a trader. My expertise is in mechs. Mostly industrial ones, used for asteroid mining.”

  He let his tone drop slightly, as though letting them in on a secret. “But once you know how to crack an asteroid apart, it’s not so different from dismantling a ship.”

  Demi’s expression shifted, her earlier drunken haze fading into sharp focus. “So that’s why you arrived at the base early?” she pressed, her eyes narrowing. “To act as a merchant?”

  Oliver nodded, keeping his tone light. “Exactly. I brought a few mechs for interested partners.”

  He could feel Emilia’s attention tighten like a wire. Her expression remained calm, polite even, but her eyes, those sharp, curious eyes, betrayed the spark of intrigue. She wasn’t just listening; she was assessing, dissecting every word he said.

  “And what if,” Emilia said at last, her voice even, smooth as glass, “I were one of those interested partners?”

  There was no flirtation in her tone, just the pragmatic curiosity of a buyer negotiating her opening move.

  Oliver took a moment before answering, pretending to weigh his words. “I could show you,” he said, turning his head slightly toward Demi, “After all, I owe you an apology for beating you so badly.”

  Demi snorted, her sharp laugh cutting through the air. “Beating me? You got lucky once,” she grumbled, rolling her eyes.

  The tension broke, replaced by the easy rhythm of conversation. The three of them began to walk, blending into the flow of guests moving between the various levels of the transformed stadium.

  “En route,” Oliver murmured the phrase under his breath, keeping his tone low, almost lost beneath the noise of the celebration.

  “Come to the second floor,” Midas’s voice responded, calm and efficient. “End of the corridor. A private suite. Invitation sent to Marco.”

  “Father, come with us.” Oliver turned, confused at first by the sudden shift in Emilia's tone.

  But then he saw her, hand wrapped tightly around the arm of a man twice her age. The resemblance was unmistakable: the same eyes, the same air of quiet authority.

  The older man’s hair was cut short and neatly parted, streaked with silver. His ceremonial attire was military in design. High-collared, pressed to perfection, adorned with the insignia of House Vellor. His every movement radiated the kind of discipline that came from decades of command.

  “Lord Atlas,” he said evenly, bowing his head slightly in respect.

  'Shit,' Oliver thought, returning the bow with practiced precision. 'He wasn’t supposed to be here. No one else was supposed to be here.'

  “Lord Orion,” Oliver replied, forcing a polite smile. He had to drag the name from the depths of his memory. “It would be my honor to show you some of the mech designs I’ve been trading.”

  “Ah, yes. My daughter mentioned them,” Orion said, his voice steady, cultured, but curious. He fell into step beside Oliver as they began to walk.

  He spoke easily, his words flowing from formal pleasantries to sharp questions about production lines, armament logistics, and the management of Aquarius. His tone was cordial, but his eyes never stopped studying Oliver.

  Behind them, Demi and Emilia followed a few paces behind, their conversation hushed but animated.

  Then, from somewhere in the corridor ahead, voices cut through the background music.

  “How dare you?!”

  “You whore!”

  The words were sharp, echoing down the hall like a gunshot. A second later, the sound of a slap or something heavier cracked through the air.

  Everyone froze, but soon, following, they ran.

  Oliver and Orion reached the end of the corridor first, bursting through the doorway of a private suite. The scene inside hit them like a physical blow.

  Midas-3 was on the floor. His normally perfect composure was gone; his face was flushed, his skin bruised and turning a dangerous shade of violet. Yet even as he gasped for air, there was no panic in his eyes.

  Looming over him was a man in ceremonial white, embroidered with gold filigree; the uniform of the Ravell House. His hair was a gleaming shade of gold, his face twisted in rage. Both hands were clamped around Midas’s throat, squeezing with the strength of a man who had lost all reason.

  “You bastard! How dare you touch my woman!” he roared, his voice breaking with fury.

  Beside him stood a woman in a deep crimson gown, her lips painted to match. She was beautiful in a way that seemed almost weaponized, but her expression was one of horror. She tugged at his arm, her voice trembling.

  “Marco, stop! Please!”

  For a heartbeat, no one moved.

  The entire room seemed frozen, like a still frame.

  Oliver could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He took half a step forward, ready to act, when the sound came.

  A sharp, crystalline crack.

  It was subtle at first, like glass fracturing under pressure.

  Then the world detonated.

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