The hall had only just begun to settle from the echoes of Elias' poem when a firm voice, measured yet carrying undeniable weight, broke through the murmurs.
"You always did have a taste for the dramatic, Elias," Prime Elder Garfunkel's tone was neutral, but the pause that followed carried more meaning than his words. His deep-set eyes locked onto his nephew with something between scrutiny and patience, his posture unchanged, as if he had seen this scene play out before. "But timing is a delicate thing. And words, once spoken, are not so easily reclaimed."
Elias faltered slightly, his usual bravado dimming under the old emperor's gaze. He glanced toward Samuel, who remained composed, neither reinforcing nor diffusing the moment, simply watching. The weight of the silence that followed was not lost on the room.
A few nobles exchanged glances, some with faint smirks of amusement, others with quiet approval. Among the younger attendees, particularly those from mixed-blood families, there was a notable shift—rolled eyes, subtle whispers. None spoke outright, but the tension threaded through the gathering, weaving itself into the soft hum of conversation that had yet to resume.
"The empire stands on the strength of its foundation," Garfunkel continued, his voice even, almost reflective. "And some foundations… should not be so easily altered."
The words were spoken lightly, almost conversationally, but their meaning was unmistakable. His views had not changed with time, nor had his belief in the necessity of keeping the empire's traditions unshaken. Though his reign had ended, his influence remained in the lingering glances of those who still clung to the past.
Before the silence could stretch too far, Woden's voice cut through, tempered and firm, though lacking the sharp edges of direct contradiction. "This is a day of celebration. A moment to honor what is, not debate what has been."
The shift was subtle, but immediate. A ripple of agreement moved through the hall, some out of obligation, others out of genuine relief.
"We have gathered for the First Prince's naming ceremony," Woden continued, casting a brief glance toward the foreign dignitaries, their expressions carefully neutral, though their eyes betrayed keen observation. "Let's not forget that our guests have come to witness an imperial tradition, not an imperial discourse."
Around the room, reactions varied—some nods of agreement, a few narrowed eyes from those who disapproved of the shift in power, and the occasional skeptical glance from those who had been waiting for conflict to unfold. A few quiet murmurs stirred beneath the surface, restrained but present. In gatherings such as these, silence was rarely empty.
Samuel stepped forward then, effortlessly redirecting the momentum. "Prime Elder Garfunkel," he addressed formally, a title that carried both respect and finality, "the wisdom of those who came before us has shaped the empire we stand in today. It is only fitting that you bestow the blessing of our ancestors upon the First Prince."
There was a pause. Not long, but just enough for those attuned to the subtleties of power to recognize the underlying shift. The conversation, the tension, the unspoken arguments—they had been neatly wrapped beneath duty and tradition, leaving no room for further discord.
Garfunkel's gaze lingered on Samuel, unreadable, as if weighing the offer for more than just its surface meaning. Then, after a moment, he rose, his movements as controlled as ever.
Without further words, he stepped toward the ceremonial altar, bowing deeply to the engraved representations of the previous emperors. Woden and Cecilia followed, their movements precise and synchronized, a reflection of duty ingrained over generations.
Once the formalities of respect had been completed, Garfunkel turned, his eyes scanning the hall. "Bring the child and the mother."
Aliena stepped forward with her son in her arms, her expression calm yet unreadable. She moved with practiced grace, unaffected by the eyes that followed her every step. There was no mention of Alex's name yet—only tradition dictated when it would be spoken.
As she reached the ceremonial platform, a group of attendants emerged, carrying an ornate, shallow bathtub filled with shimmering water infused with rare enchanted herbs. As the light caught the mixture, it reflected an otherworldly glow, filling the room with an undeniable energy that sent a ripple through the gathered nobles.
The atmosphere shifted. What had been a ceremonial proceeding now carried an air of mystique, of something deeper. Some guests straightened slightly, while others exchanged glances. Anticipation, curiosity, and for some—concern.
Garfunkel did not speak immediately. Instead, he let the moment stretch, observing the crowd. His gaze lingered on key figures—those whose reactions mattered the most.
Finally, he spoke, his voice carrying across the hall. "For transparency and trust, I invite those among our esteemed guests to inspect the baptismal waters. Let none say that we conduct our rites in secrecy."
A silence followed before movement stirred among the dignitaries. One by one, figures of importance stepped forward:
'He'—his expression unreadable, yet his presence alone making some hold their breath.
A Dragon Prince—his piercing gaze betraying nothing but calculated intrigue.
An Elder from the Celestine Theocracy—his hands clasped in silent prayer before nodding.
The Basilisk Prime Mage—his eyes flickering with an unknown depth as he assessed the bath.
An Elder Ent—whose slow, deliberate movement carried the weight of centuries of wisdom.
The Garuda Princess—who glanced at the shimmering water with the detached curiosity of one accustomed to divine rituals.
Each of them employed their own unique method of verification. The Dragon Prince's pupils slitted briefly, his vision peeling past illusion and misdirection. The Elder from the Theocracy whispered a hymn under his breath, his fingers tracing the air as divine energy resonated against the bath's essence. The Basilisk Prime Mage allowed his enchanted gaze to sweep over the water, revealing layers unseen by ordinary eyes. The Elder Ent extended a single root-like finger into the mist, absorbing the energy through ancient means. The Garuda Princess spread her wings ever so slightly, attuning herself to the air currents that danced around the sacred space.
Lastly, 'He' simply stood there, his presence alone carrying an unspoken authority. A single glance, and whatever knowledge he sought, he found.
Seeing these individuals step forward, none in the hall dared voice objection. A silent understanding passed between the onlookers, acknowledging that there would be no doubts surrounding this ceremony.
Slowly, one by one, each of them nodded.
A subtle sigh of relief spread across the gathered nobles, ministers, and royalty. Shoulders eased, hands unclenched, tension ebbed—at least for now.
And soon, it would reveal what the First Prince truly was.