Dark Monarch &The Unbound.

The man was unloading when the head of security stepped in, eyeing him suspiciously. "What exactly are you doing?"

"They requested balloons," the man replied casually.

After a quick inspection, the security officer's gaze landed on the tanks beside him. "And what are those for?"

"It's just air—I need it to fill the balloons," the man explained.

Still unconvinced, the security officer signaled for another guard to keep watch as the man did his work. There were three gas tanks—Blue, Red, and Green. The man began inflating the balloons one by one.

Am I really supposed to stand here until he's done with all of them? the guard thought, shifting his weight impatiently.

Meanwhile, in another part of the building, Steven entered a quiet room, shutting the door behind him. He pulled out a typewriter and began typing a letter. For the sender's name, he simply wrote: Anonymous.

Above, the Red, Blue, and Green balloons clustered against the ceiling, forming a thick, colorful layer across the entire hall. They swayed slightly with each draft that passed through, a floating sea of silent watchers.

"When do I get paid?" the balloon man asked, crossing his arms.

"That's not my department," the guard responded flatly.

Without another word, he escorted the man out.

Steven approached Owen, his expression unreadable. "Any progress with the investigation?" he inquired.

Owen exhaled slowly. "Seraphina's death wasn't random—it was personal. Someone out there has a grudge against me."

"Do you have any suspects?" Steven asked, watching him closely.

"I don't…" Owen began but hesitated. His gaze darkened with thought. "No… it couldn't be her. She's too much of a fool to pull off something like that."

Steven, however, wasn't convinced. "Don't underestimate her," he warned. "She may lack intelligence, but that doesn't mean she lacks intent. People like that—when they get desperate enough—are willing to let someone smarter do the thinking for them."

A wooden cart creaked to a halt, and a heavyset woman stumbled out. Rolls of flesh bulged against the seams of a lavish golden gown that had clearly been tailored for someone slimmer, the fabric stretched awkwardly over her form. Her greasy black hair was pulled into a tangled bun, strands sticking to her sweaty, flushed face. The stench of cheap wine clung to her like a second skin, turning the air sour around her.

She swayed unsteadily, her eyes half-lidded with intoxication. Turning to her guard, she slurred, "If anyone… and I mean anyone... looks at me the wrong way, you… you rip their damn throat out, got it?" Her breath was thick with alcohol, and spittle flew as she spoke.

As she staggered forward, other leaders paused to greet her, their expressions polite but their thoughts sharp with contempt.

She smells like a brewery left to rot, one of them sneered internally.

That dress is clinging on for dear life—someone should put it out of its misery, another mused, barely concealing a smirk.

Disgraceful. If she had any ounce of self-respect, she'd at least try to act the part of a leader, yet another thought, eyes narrowing in disgust.

Still oblivious to the silent insults, the woman hiccupped loudly and laughed to herself, completely unaware of the disdain festering around her.

The grand hall shimmered with golden candlelight, the air thick with the hum of conversation and the clinking of fine glassware. The party had begun—a lavish display of wealth and power, where alliances were strengthened, and grudges simmered beneath polite smiles.

At the center of the chaos stood Jane, her overfilled goblet sloshing wine onto the floor as she staggered toward a group of men. Her heavy gown, still fighting against her form, swayed awkwardly with her steps.

She extended a chubby, bejeweled hand toward a nobleman nearby. "Come now, darling," she purred, her words thick with drink. "Dance with me."

The man cleared his throat, stepping back as if dodging an arrow. "Ah, I—my leg! Old injury. Terribly unfortunate, I'm afraid." He forced a weak smile before slipping into the crowd.

Undeterred, Jane turned to another man. "You then! Surely you wouldn't deny a lady a dance?"

The second man chuckled nervously, shaking his head. "Oh, I wish I could, but my wife would never forgive me." He gestured vaguely, though his wife was nowhere to be seen.

Jane scowled, spinning toward yet another man, her patience thinning. "And you? What's your excuse?"

The third man took a hasty sip of his drink, then held up his glass. "Oh dear, I seem to be out of wine. I must go refill it at once!" He turned and disappeared into the crowd as fast as his feet could carry him.

Jane huffed, her breath reeked of sour alcohol, but before she could lash out, a faint noise echoed from the castle's highest tower.

Above them all, the balloon man stood at a high vantage point, his gaze fixed on the castle below. The party carried on beneath him, unaware. He took a slow breath, his lips curling into a whisper.

"Three… two… one."

A deafening blast erupted in the sky—a massive explosion of purple energy tearing through the air like a thunderous beast. The sheer force shook the castle walls, rattling chandeliers and shattering glass. The night sky was momentarily swallowed by the violent surge of color, illuminating the entire city in an eerie glow.

Within seconds, a knight burst forward, racing to Allen's side. Without hesitation, he raised a towering shield, its enchanted surface absorbing the impact of the blast. The ground beneath them trembled, but the knight stood firm.

The leaders turned their heads, casting glances over their shoulders. Yet, unlike the rest of the panicked guests, they did not flinch. Their expressions remained unreadable, their bodies still, as if they had expected this all along.

Among the chaos, Owen did not move. His eyes were locked forward, his mind working faster than his body could react.

Then—just as suddenly as it began—the fire dissipated.

Through the thinning smoke and fading embers, dark figures began descending from the sky. They wore flowing black cloaks, their faces concealed beneath deep hoods. Silent. Unwavering. Their presence was like a creeping shadow, swallowing the light that dared to touch them.

They had arrived.