The comms crackled in Oliver’s ear, the faint distortion of encrypted frequencies blending with the hum of the station.

  “Four in position.”

  “Midas in position.”

  Oliver didn’t reply immediately. He moved through the corridor with measured steps.

  'No civilians, no cameras… at least none that I can see.' He made sure of that before speaking.

  “Atlas en route.”

  There was a pause. Then Four’s voice cut through, incredulous. “En route? What the hell do you mean by ‘in route’? You were supposed to be there already.”

  Midas’s tone followed, sharp and clipped. “He’s right. You’re off-schedule, Governor.”

  Oliver smirked faintly, though there was no humor in it. “They changed the location,” he said, his voice low. “Better yet, the Great Houses have been moved. Separate from the rest.”

  A beat of silence followed, and then Four muttered, “Perfect. That won’t complicate things at all.”

  Oliver ignored him, his pace quickening as the corridor curved ahead into a broader passage. The sounds of the station grew louder, joined now by a distant, rhythmic roar of thousands of voices blending into one.

  He was approaching Sector 20.

  If Sector 15 was the heart of commerce, Sector 20 was its energy. A colossal structure that served as Tros’s stadium. A place where blood, glory, and spectacle intertwined. It had hosted battles, tournaments, and concerts across the years, but today, it belonged to the wedding.

  It was the stage for the union of Nico [Nameless] and Louise Dardanus.

  Oliver emerged from the corridor into an open concourse, and the scale of the event hit him.

  The stadium loomed ahead, a titanic ring of steel and stone, its open roof revealing the artificial sky above. Holo-banners shimmered in the air, each one displaying the crest of House Dardanus. The sound was deafening: cheers, music, the rhythmic chant of thousands celebrating what they believed was the dawn of a new era.

  Everywhere he looked, there were people.

  Merchants, soldiers, nobles, citizens. Every tier of Tros society had gathered. Even those who couldn’t make it inside watched from the streets, where massive holo-screens broadcast the ceremony in real time. The entire station had become one living organism, its attention fixed on a single event.

  As Oliver approached the security checkpoint, a Dardanus soldier stepped forward. “One moment, sir. I’ll need to verify your identity.”

  The soldier raised his gauntlet as a pulse of blue light washed over Oliver, followed by a sharp beep.

  Then the soldier froze. His posture straightened instantly, his voice faltering. “A—Atlas, sir… my apologies.” He swallowed hard, the faint tremor in his tone betraying his nerves. “This entrance is for Houses only. Great Houses have a separate access point.”

  He pointed toward a side corridor, still stammering. “It’s through there, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Oliver said, giving a curt nod before continuing past him.

  As he walked away, the soldier’s voice could still be heard. “What the hell?! Who let a Great House representative walk in unescorted through the common entrance?”

  Oliver ignored it. It hadn’t been deliberate; the sheer scale of the event made navigation a nightmare. Tens of thousands of guests, soldiers, and attendants filled the station’s corridors, all drawn by the same spectacle.

  Following the soldier’s directions, Oliver moved through a quieter entrance, where the noise of the crowd faded into distant echoes.

  Finally, the corridor opened into the main venue.

  The sight that greeted him was breathtaking.

  A vast expanse of artificial grass stretched out before him. Polished granite stones formed a path that led to a raised platform at the center—a podium of pale stone where the ceremony would take place.

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  Rows of emerald-green chairs lined the space, forming a half-circle around the platform. Each seat bore the insignia of a Great House. Their representatives were gathered—adorned in silks, armor, and ceremonial robes.

  Oliver stepped onto the path. He walked slowly but deliberately.

  He could feel the eyes on him.

  Every turn of a head, every whispered exchange followed him as he made his way toward his seat. Some gazes were calculating, assessing him as one might a rival. Others held open disdain, the kind reserved for those who didn’t belong. And a few, just a few, were curious.

  But one gaze burned brighter than all the others.

  Katherine York.

  She sat among the delegation of House York, her posture regal, her expression carved from ice. Her eyes locked onto him the moment he entered, sharp and unrelenting. She bore a mixture of anger, suspicion, and something more complex that he couldn’t quite name.

  'Why is she so pissed at me?' Oliver forced himself not to look away. He couldn’t afford to.

  Then, as he finally took his seat, another presence drew his attention.

  Across the aisle, in the seat reserved for House Lot, sat Admiral Orton—broad-shouldered, his uniform immaculate, his expression unreadable.

  The seat that should have belonged to Mordred Lot.

  Orton caught his glance and smiled faintly. The kind of smile that carried no warmth, only challenge.

  At the far end of the immaculate synthetic lawn, the grandstands rose like a wall of shimmering alloy and glass, reaching toward the curved horizon of Tros Station’s inner shell. Thousands of seats stretched across its surface. Tables and banners bearing the crests of every Great and Lesser House in the Empire dotted the structure.

  Above it all, a swarm of drones glided silently through the air. They moved, capturing every angle, every gesture, every flicker of emotion for the millions watching.

  Oliver adjusted his posture, settling into the green velvet chair assigned to him. He barely moved his lips as he spoke into his comm.

  “In position.”

  “Finally,” came Four’s voice, faint but clear through the channel. “I’m starting my infiltration. I’ve reached the lower decks. Moving toward the Storage Hub now.”

  Oliver gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment, his gaze drifting over the expanse before him. The ceremony had yet to begin, but the atmosphere was already heavy with expectation.

  He’d seen weddings before, but this was something else entirely.

  There was no priest, no ceremonial officiant. No flowers, no elaborate procession.

  At the center of the vast granite platform stood Cicero Dardanus and his wife, the current heads of the House. They were dressed in dark robes of black and green, elegant but unadorned. In front of them stood a small podium.

  Around the platform, the music swelled. The sound resonated through the open chamber, its tones rich and deep.

  Then, as the final note faded, a shift passed through the crowd like an electric current. Conversations stopped. The drones repositioned. Every head turned toward the main path of mirrored stone leading to the central stage.

  Oliver narrowed his eyes, focusing.

  At the far end of the aisle, Nico Dardanus and Louise Dardanus appeared, their hands entwined.

  Nico stood at the center of it all, his white jacket gleaming like starlight, every line of his posture deliberate, formal. Beside him, Louise Dardanus wore a short wedding gown of the same pure shade.

  'Is this normal?' Oliver wondered, sitting among the Great Houses, his gaze fixed on the couple. 'Or is this just what happens when the ultra-rich get married?'

  The ceremony began the moment Nico and Louise stood before the bride’s parents.

  Cicero’s voice carried through the stadium.

  “This is a unique moment,” he began, his tone calm but resonant. “Not only for Louise and Nico, but for all of us. This marks their passage, not just into marriage, but into leadership.”

  Every word struck with precision, his cadence slow and deliberate, as though he were addressing not just those in attendance, but the entire Empire watching through the live holostreams.

  “When you leave this ceremony,” Cicero continued, “you will take on the responsibilities that come with your names. You will be accountable not only for your family, but for the people of Tros and for all who depend on us across the Empire. That is the true burden of the Senate: to bear the lives of others upon your own shoulders.”

  Oliver leaned back slightly, his eyes locked on Nico. The speech was ceremonial, rehearsed. Nico’s expression was not.

  The young man’s face glowed with emotion, his smile wide, his eyes wet with tears. Louise mirrored him, her gaze soft, her hands trembling slightly as she held his.

  But there was something else, something that tugged at the edges of Oliver’s attention.

  Nico’s cheeks were hollowed. His frame, though hidden beneath the immaculate suit, looked thinner.

  'He’s reaching the start of the curse,' Oliver realized. 'Faster than I thought.'

  His heart tightened. 'He still has time. A year, maybe less. I have to end this before then.'

  The weight of that thought pressed down on him, drowning out Cicero’s words and the soft murmur of the crowd. The ceremony faded into background noise as his mind raced ahead to what needed to be done.

  He barely noticed when Cicero reached for the small case beside him and withdrew two rings.

  “With these,” Cicero declared, holding them for all to see, “I symbolize your union. The completion of your bond.”

  He placed them in the hands of the bride and groom.

  “Long live House Dardanus,” he said, his voice booming across the chamber. “Long live Louise and Nico Dardanus!”

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