Adventure of Erius 3

Castle Dorain blazes with torchlight and jeweled banners. Music spills through the hall as nobles in silk and velvet swirl over the polished floor, while guards watch from the walls and servants slip between them with trays and flagons.

Erius slips in among the crowd, small and black against the gold and white, his dagger hidden and his soot pouch tucked close. The great doors shut behind him with a deep boom, and no one seems to notice at first.

A fresh cheer answers from the tables and galleries. Some guests grin too broadly, some clap too slowly, and the guards along the dais keep their hands near their spears.

That last line draws a ripple through the hall. Near the side aisle, a guard stiffens and angles his helm toward Erius, as if something about the imp has finally caught his eye.

Erius lifts two small fingers, and the air around the guard shivers like heat over a candle.

The guard’s hard stare loosens. His spear dips. He blinks at the hall as if the banners have become strangers.

A thread of soot-black haze curls past his helm, and his attention slips sideways, away from Erius and into nothing.

He frowns at empty space, squinting at a noble’s sleeve, then turns his shoulder to Erius as if the imp were only another shadow in the crowd.

The aisle opens. Behind the guard, the feast keeps singing and clinking, blind to the spell hanging over one confused sentinel.

Erius stays pressed to the dark and lets the hall’s noise wash over him. Beneath the music, beneath the roast-smoke and candlewax, a sour thread answers his senses.

The taint is old, buried in the stone under the throne dais, thickest where the royal line sits and where the goblets are filled.

It does not flare like a fresh curse. It smolders, patient and patient, as if it has been fed here for years.

The guard’s wandering gaze drifts past Erius again, and he gestures vaguely toward the wrong end of the hall, buying the imp a wider pocket of shadow.

Above the clatter of cups, the princess’s smile holds too still. Somewhere under the feast, the hidden stain keeps breathing, and the next toast is already being poured.

Erius lets the spell take him in one smooth breath. His outline ripples, shrinks, and settles into a tall mortal shape with polished clothes and an easy courtly bearing.

The impish shadow vanishes from the edge of the aisle. In its place stands a fancy guest, all clean lines and composed posture, just another ornament of the feast.

A thin trace of soot clings to the new cuffs, then flakes away like ash in a draft. The strange pressure under the dais remains, unseen but present.

The guard turns fully aside, embarrassed and harmless for the moment, while the princess keeps her lifted smile fixed on the hall.

A courtly pause follows, just long enough for her smile to sharpen and soften again. The toast is not yet poured, and the room keeps breathing around it.

Her gaze lingers on Erius a heartbeat too long, curious rather than wary. Somewhere beneath the feast, that dark pressure continues to wait, quiet as held breath.

Erius steps with the court’s pace, leaving the shadowed edge for the space nearest the dais. The polished floor swallows his footfalls, and no one stops him.

He obeys at once, settling just below the throne platform with a neat guest’s posture. The air here feels oddly dense, as if the hall is holding its breath for him.

A thin, dark shimmer stirs at the dais edge when Erius arrives, then settles back into stillness. A narrow seam in the carved step catches his eye, just visible from where he stands.