Upon returning from Inanna's quarters to his own at dawn, Buren was met by the Wasp, who stood poised by his door.

"Your servants admitted me," the Wasp remarked. Buren unlocked the door, and the man trailed behind him.

"I'm here for my rapier," the Wasp stated, ensuring the door was securely shut behind them. "In the arena, I'd trust no other weapon."

From a large cabinet in the corner, Buren accessed a concealed compartment. He retrieved the slender weapon, the very one that had taken Knight-Commander Norwood's life, and handed it to the Wasp.

"Fortunate they have a Son of the Forest in custody," the Wasp mused, securing the weapon to his side. "Otherwise, us rapier-wielding folk might have found ourselves in a precarious position."

He cast a probing glance at Buren. "Is the man they apprehended truly the assassin?"

Buren's gaze was unwavering. "He'll get what he deserves."

The Wasp studied him, awaiting further clarification. When none came, he nodded slowly, turning to depart. Yet, he hesitated at the threshold.

"You know," he began, drawing out the pause, "I can't fathom how you orchestrated that frame-up. But I suspect those unfortunate souls you delivered to the Faith were blindsided."

He shifted uneasily. "Makes me wonder if you're telling me the whole truth either. Especially after my weapon was used to kill a Knight-Commander."

Choosing his words with care, Buren replied, "You're too integral for my plan to sacrifice like that."

"I see," the Wasp murmured.

A palpable tension hung between them.

"Reassuring," the Wasp finally responded, though his confidence seemed somewhat feigned, before making his exit.

"Hopefully his doubts are not strong enough for him to try and disentangle himself from the plan," Buren mused. "Must better if he goes along willingly, using coercion is sure to turn him against me, at least in spirit."

As winter's embrace tightened, the city braced against the fierce winds that howled through its streets. The days dwindled, and a somber sky threatened snow, yet the anticipated white blanket remained absent. The land lay bare, exposed to winter's harshness.

The cold was piercing, cutting through layers and chilling souls. Beggars, their faces etched with hopelessness, sought warmth in numbers, often breaking into derelict buildings for shelter. These makeshift sanctuaries often became hazards, as fires ignited from the poorly constructed campfires they used to keep warm. Smoke billowed from the crumbling structures, tainting the already frigid air with the acrid scent of burning wood and charred debris. Yet, even amidst the danger and destruction, the beggars had little choice but to cling to these fleeting moments of respite.

Hunger, like an ever-present shadow, haunted the city. The Faith and the King's unyielding dominion stifled even the faintest murmurs of dissent.

Yet, within the walls of Buren's Eastend Castle, a stark contrast prevailed. The chambers were bathed in the warmth of blazing hearths, and the aroma of hearty meals wafted through the halls. Such luxuries would seem fantastical to the starving populace outside. Buren ensured their food stock was meticulously monitored, preventing even the slightest unauthorized appropriation.

Buren's bond with Inanna had flourished, becoming a beacon of solace amidst the tumultuous demands of his station. Their once hesitant connection had deepened, offering both a rare reprieve from the world's burdens.

Flynn, initially disconcerted by the budding intimacy between the two, had gradually adjusted. His initial unease had transformed into acceptance, and the trio found a harmonious rhythm in their daily interactions.

The castle's ambiance had lightened considerably with the Inquisitors' departure, the once-pervasive tension evaporating like dew at dawn. Yet, Buren's vigilance never waned. He suspected that many of his servants doubled as informants for the King and other power players. Through astute observation and discreet surveillance, he'd identified several potential spies.

Instead of direct confrontation, Buren opted for subterfuge. He deliberately left misleading notes in conspicuous places, a ploy to confound and mislead potential adversaries. This intricate dance of deception added a layer of intrigue to the castle's daily proceedings, a constant reminder of the ever-present political games.

One morning, as Buren, Inanna, and Flynn gathered for a hearty breakfast, a servant presented an ornate invitation. Buren unfurled it, revealing an invite to a grand ball in the King's honor.

Flynn scoffed, "A grandiose celebration while the city languishes? It's utterly tone-deaf."

Inanna, pragmatically, countered, "Regardless of its propriety, declining a royal summons isn't an option."

Flynn, peering at the invitation, snorted, "'In honor of the King's limitless wisdom, unwavering compassion, and robust virility'? Surely, they jest. That sickly sack of lard probably can't even get out of bed anymore."

That had caught Buren's attention as well. Duriel hadn't been seen out in public for a while, and rumors circulated wildly of his present state, some going so far as to speculate that he was already dead and the kingdom was directed by a group of his highest servants that kept knowledge of his passing from spreading to gain power for themselves.

Inanna suddenly clapped her hands together, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "No matter who's behind it, it's still a royal ball!" she sang cheerfully. "Instead of brooding, we should be getting ready!"

She paused, a frown marring her features. "But where will I find a suitable dress on such short notice?"

Buren, puzzled, asked, "What happened to all your old dresses?"

Inanna sighed dramatically. "Buren, they're either out of fashion or I've already been seen wearing them at least once. I can't possibly wear the same dress to another event."

Though Buren struggled to grasp the nuances of fashion, he feigned understanding. "I see," he murmured, nodding sagely.

Flynn chuckled at their exchange, amused by Buren's attempt to grasp the intricacies of fashion.

Inanna playfully swatted Buren's arm. "You don't understand at all, do you? But never mind that. I'll find a dress somehow, and we'll make the best of it. After all, it's not every day that we're invited to a royal ball!"

Her gaze then appraised the two men critically. "And what of your attire? Surely, you don't intend to wear... that?"

Buren glanced at his modest ensemble, then back to Inanna, his expression questioning.

She waved her hand dismissively, "No, no, Buren, I know what you're thinking, and the answer is absolutely not. Those clothes will not do for a royal ball."

Inanna's gaze shifted to Flynn, her eyes alight with inspiration. "Flynn, I've envisioned you in the garb of Nammu-Thum's warrior trainees. You'll be magnificent!"

Flynn, caught up in her infectious enthusiasm, replied with a grin, "That sounds amazing! I can't wait to see it."

Inanna's energy seemed boundless as she sprang from her seat. "Servants, gather my handmaids and aides in my chambers at once! We have a busy day ahead, scouring the city for the perfect attire."

She turned to Buren and Flynn, her tone playfully authoritative, "It's clear that the task falls to me to ensure you two don't make fools of yourselves in front of the entire court."

As she breezed towards her chambers, she paused to plant a fleeting kiss on Buren's cheek. " I can't wait, my love!" she called, her voice tinged with excitement.

Buren touched his cheek where she had kissed him, bemused but charmed by her enthusiasm. Inanna's fervor was a force of nature, and he admired her relentless drive. With her at the helm of their preparations, he was confident they'd make a memorable entrance at the ball.

He glanced at Flynn, catching a fleeting look of envy. It seemed the young man still harbored lingering sentiments. However, Flynn quickly masked his emotions, meeting Buren's gaze with practiced ease.

"Rare to see her so excited about anything in this altitude, so close to the sea level, " Flynn said. "She really seems to be finally settling in."

Buren nodded in agreement.

Flynn, with a hint of apprehension, inquired, "Do you have any inkling of what Nammu-Thum's warrior trainees wear?"

Buren's lips curled into a knowing smirk. "You'll see."

The evening of the ball saw Flynn scrutinizing his reflection, a mix of awe and uncertainty evident in his eyes. The brightly colored pants hugged his legs, while a wide cloth belt cinched around his stomach. Leather bands encircled his arms, while his torso remained largely exposed, save for the gleaming gold ornaments that swayed with his every move. A grand turban crowned his head, and a mask shielded his eyes, granting a touch of mystery.

"I never imagined I'd don such attire," Flynn mused, adjusting the cloth belt. "At least the mask offers some discretion."

Inanna approached, her eyes dancing with delight. "You wear it well," she complimented. "But remember, posture is key. Stand tall, exude confidence."

Guiding him gently, she molded his stance, ensuring he embodied the regal bearing befitting his ensemble. Flynn took a deep breath and did his best to adopt the posture Inanna had shown him.

From a distance, Buren observed, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched Flynn transition from hesitance to acceptance.

His attention then shifted to Inanna. Eschewing her traditional Antediluvian attire, she'd chosen a local ensemble that accentuated her allure. The midnight-blue gown she donned flowed gracefully, its silver embroidery catching the light with every movement. The dress hugged her form, cascading into a graceful train. A sheer shawl draped over her shoulders, adding an ethereal touch.

Her raven locks were artfully arranged, with stray tendrils framing her face. Sapphire earrings, mirroring the depth of her eyes, dangled elegantly. The soft glow of candlelight illuminated her porcelain skin, enhancing her radiant beauty.

Inanna's typical demeanor had given way to a rare, effervescent joy. As she twirled, her laughter echoed, filling the chamber with its melodic charm. Buren's heart swelled with affection, captivated by the sight of her unbridled happiness.

As Buren's gaze lingered on Inanna, he was struck by the profound realization that she was a paragon of beauty, rivaling the enchantresses of the most beguiling tales. Her poise and elegance were unparalleled, and a swell of pride and humility washed over him. How had he once been so oblivious to her allure? Their dynamic had transformed so profoundly that, where once he had evaded her, he now found himself increasingly drawn to her presence. Perhaps it was love, he pondered, watching her animatedly instruct Flynn in the ways of an Antediluvian warrior trainee. A voice at the back of his head warned that such a connection was weakness, but the sense was faint and distant, when that same voice had used to be overbearing and directed much of his efforts. Gradually, he had begun to neglect its advice more and more, at least when it came to Inanna.

Catching his lingering gaze, Inanna struck a playful pose, her lips curving into a teasing smile. "It's fortunate you clean up well," she quipped. "It wouldn't do for the pupil to outshine the master."

Buren's attire, meticulously chosen by Inanna, was a testament to his stature. He wore a deep blue doublet, its silver embroidery emphasizing his imposing physique. Ornate silver buttons, each bearing the Eastend crest, secured the garment. Beneath, a pristine white silk shirt boasted a high collar and voluminous sleeves, their cuffs graced with delicate lace.

Tailored black velvet breeches hugged his form, leading to polished leather boots adorned with subtle silver buckles. A black leather belt, its buckle a work of art, encircled his waist, from which hung a jeweled dagger—a blend of ornamentation and utility.

A sumptuous half-cape of deep blue velvet, lined with silver silk, draped over his right shoulder, fastened by a lavish silver brooch. This cape flowed gracefully over his metallic arm, lending an aura of enigma and distinction.

The meticulous care of his servants ensured that every jewel and piece of silver gleamed brilliantly. The Gauntlet still outshone them, without having any work done, as all dirt seemed to slide of it so it never lost its deep luster that became apparent in certain types of lighting. Daylight would reflect off it like any other piece of metal, but in fainter light the reflection took on an ethereal quality, and the surface of the arm would seem to ripple if looked at from up close.

Flynn, noting the sun's descent, suggested, "Shouldn't we depart soon? The ball commences at sundown."

Inanna waved him off. "It's unbecoming for those of our stature to arrive too early," she said, her tone patronizing. "Yet, tardiness would be a slight to the King."

She placed a delicate finger on her chin, contemplating the matter. "We must make our entrance precisely on time, avoiding the indignity of waiting in line," she declared confidently.

Flynn's bewildered gaze sought Buren's, hoping for clarity. Buren, empathizing with Flynn's confusion, offered a resigned shrug, signaling his deference to Inanna's expertise.

"One more thing," she said, and distributed small vials of clear liquid to all of them. "Make sure to put a drop of it into all food and drink you're offered before consuming it, and don't take anything of your own accord."

Flynn's brows furrowed. "What is it?"

"A staple among Nammu-Thum's nobility," she elucidated. "A magical reagent. If it encounters common assassination poisons, it reacts, producing smoke."

Flynn's eyes widened. "Are we at risk of being poisoned?"

"No matter how much I think about it, it just doesn't make sense that Duriel would invite us," she said, and gestured to Buren as she continued: "I mean, he hates your guts. He has given you an invitation to the center of his power, were his troops amass and no one will disobey his orders, so we have to prepare for the worst."

Buren's brow furrowed in contemplation.

"Indeed," he brooded, the once-muted voice in his mind now resounding more loudly. "Perhaps I've grown too complacent."

"But what about the Treaty?" Flynn objected. "He's done for if he gets caught."

"If he is as sick as the rumors say," Inanna said, "he just might be in the point where all he wants is to take as many people as he can down with him."

Inanna provided them with several additional pointers they would not have considered on their own. Once briefed, they set off. During their carriage ride to the Central Citadel, Buren found himself captivated by Inanna's demeanor. How could she exude such serenity and anticipation, even when suspecting potential threats? Her upbringing in Apex Mountain must have been unparalleled.

Upon their arrival, a handful of nobles awaited entry, with guards meticulously inspecting each attendee.

"Good to see the King hasn't lost his paranoia," Flynn remarked.

As Inanna gracefully descended from the carriage, Buren extended his hand, which she accepted with a soft touch. Then, assertively linking arms with both Buren and Flynn, she confidently bypassed the waiting line.

" Hands off, castoff," she ordered a guard who moved to intercept. " Don't you know who I am?"

The guard hesitated, his gaze locking onto the Gauntlet. Buren, seeking to avoid confrontation, handed over his ornamental dagger, and they proceeded.

"You both have much to learn about asserting your status," Inanna chided. " Underlings like them should be brushed aside like bothersome branches when walking a forest path, regardless who their master is."

Navigating the Citadel's grand corridors, the trio admired the lavish adornments. Historical tapestries graced the walls, while gleaming marble floors mirrored the brilliance of overhead chandeliers. The ambiance was a blend of fragrant blooms and the distant hum of chatter and music, intensifying as they neared the ballroom.

Yet, beneath the splendor, Buren discerned the King's pervasive suspicion. Guards, vigilant and armed, stood at intervals, their gaze ever watchful. Defensive structures, barricades, and fortified doorways were strategically placed, prepared for potential threats.

Flynn's eyes darted warily, while Inanna seemed undeterred by the mingling of opulence and defense. Buren, for his part, committed the numbers and locations of the guards and fortifications to memory, in case the attack Inanna surmised might happen was more overt than poisoning and they would have to fight their way out.

Flynn remarked, "The portraits have changed."

Following Flynn's gaze, Buren noted the walls adorned solely with images of Duriel—some heroic, others indulgent.

"King Devon and his ancestors once graced these walls," Flynn elucidated. " Now, it's all Duriel from different angles, and none of them too flattering if you ask me."

Buren's jaw tightened. The erasure of the legacy of the last true king, in his view, was a bitter pill. They approached the ballroom's entrance.

The herald, poised at the doorway, cleared his throat, announcing, "Buren, Marquis of Coldwood, accompanied by Lady Inanna of Apex Mountain, and their...jester."

"Squire!" Flynn hissed sharply.

"Hah!" the herald said, but his face turned instantly serious when he realized it hadn't been a joke.

"And their squire," he added weakly.

The assembly's gaze shifted from Buren's metallic arm, to the radiant Inanna, and finally to Flynn's unconventional attire. Friendly faces were scarce. Inanna led them to mingle with some of the nobles she was familiar with, but they were reluctant to be seen with them and made excuses before withdrawing.

"It appears they view you as a ticking time bomb," Inanna observed with a hint of mischief. "How delightful!"

Buren shrugged, like he often did when she spoke sarcastically.

"I'm being serious," she continued, her tone grave. "They're well aware of Duriel's animosity towards you. They recognize that he perceives anyone with even a hint of influence as a threat. Thus, in their eyes, your power must rival the King's, for if he truly wished to challenge you, he would have already."

"Violating the Treaty would be a grave mistake on his part," Buren mused.

"True, but Duriel has never been renowned for his strategic prowess."

"His Majesty, King Duriel!"

A hush enveloped the ballroom as the herald's voice echoed, signaling the King's entrance. Every noble present adjusted their stance, ensuring their demeanor radiated utmost respect. Many adopted a semi-bow, eyes demurely lowered.

As King Duriel strode into the room, Buren could hardly believe his eyes. The change in his appearance was nothing short of astounding, for the man who now stood before them bore little resemblance to the ailing, alcoholic monarch he had last encountered. Gone was the sallow complexion and trembling hands, the sagging gut and drooping face that had once marked Duriel as a man on the brink of ruin.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

In his place stood a tall, proud figure, every inch the embodiment of a powerful and capable ruler. His face was chiseled and strong, his eyes bright and cunning as they surveyed the assembled guests. Toned muscles now filled out his regal attire, and he moved with a grace and power that commanded respect.

Whispers of astonishment fluttered among the attendees. Buren, Flynn, and Inanna exchanged glances, their faces mirroring mutual surprise.

"Is this the same Duriel you once had to haul from his carriage?" Flynn murmured.

Buren pondered the same. Such a transformation was both awe-inspiring and deeply disconcerting.

As the King reached the center of the ballroom, the room slowly returned to life, with hushed conversations starting to fill the air once again. Buren's eyes didn't leave the King, and he noticed a man he had never seen before following in his wake. The man was draped in long, dark crimson robes, a hood obscuring his face and casting his eyes in impenetrable shadow. There was something deeply unsettling about the way he moved, as if his body contained extra joints or his limbs bent at angles that defied human anatomy. His gait seemed unnatural, almost serpentine, and sent a shiver down Buren's spine as he watched the mysterious figure glide across the room.

The man wore a round red pendant at his neck, which seemed to pulse with a subtle, sinister energy. A variety of talismans dangled from his belt, their intricate designs and strange symbols hinting at a power and knowledge that lay beyond the realm of ordinary understanding. The very air around him seemed to grow colder and heavier, as if his very presence was warping the atmosphere itself.

He strained his eyes to make out the details on his pendant, and realized the pulsation did not originate from it, but his Gauntlet. He reached his metal arm towards the man experimentally, and got a definite reaction: the metal limb rang like a chime, although he was sure the sound was only audible to him. When he turned his attention from the Gauntlet back to the robed man, he realized the man was staring at him. His eyes seemed to shine with red malice from within the shadows, his face gaunt, like skin pulled taut over a skull. The man's eyes the darted to Inanna, and he squinted as if looking much further than he actually was. Then he grinned with malicious glee and turned away.

Inanna, sensing Buren's unease, cornered a diminutive noble adorned in purple velvet. "Who is that man accompanying the King?" she inquired, her voice edged with concern. "His presence is... unsettling."

"Ask someone else, I don't know," the man complained and tried to go past her, but she stepped repeatedly in front of him. Buren came to stand by her side, and with Flynn coming to shoulder her on the other side, the man realized the futility of his trying to escape.

"The longer you dally, the longer everyone is going to think you conversed with us," she said.

The man sighed, casting anxious glances around. Buren, too, subtly surveyed the room. While no one overtly stared, he sensed the undercurrent of attention from nearby nobles, their conversations stalling and their ears subtly straining towards them.

" He's some new advisor, I don't even know his name," the noble whispered hurriedly. "Rumors suggest he's from Scythea, while others believe he hails from a more distant, nameless land."

"And his role with the King?" she pressed.

"Advice, perhaps?" the noble replied, frustration evident. "I truly have no further insight. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd rather not lose my head over this."

They allowed him to scuttle away, his footsteps echoing as he descended the staircase.

"That's a mage if I've ever seen one," Inanna remarked, nodding subtly towards the advisor.

Flynn nodded in agreement. "He doesn't resemble any of the Enarei Toksaris I've encountered."

"The Enareis of the Flower Moon aren't the sole magical order around," Inanna explained. "They're merely one of the ancient orders, powerful enough that even the Antediluvian ashipu tread carefully around them."

"Any idea what order he could belong to?" Flynn asked.

"It's best not to make assumptions with mages," she cautioned. "Such presumptions often lead to fatal errors."

Flynn looked at her, admiration evident. "How do you possess such knowledge?"

She smirked. "In courtly games, knowledge is the ultimate weapon. As one not born to privilege, I've had to work twice as hard for every advantage. I've made a habit of knowing."

Flynn let out an impressed whistle.

"Duriel's miraculous recovery and the sudden appearance of this mage cannot be mere coincidence," Flynn declared, his tone resolute.

"But what does it mean—"

His words were cut short by the herald's booming voice. "The King will now address you!"

As Duriel ascended the dais, a hush fell over the assembly. He began, his voice resonating with authority. "My esteemed subjects, I'm aware of the whispers concerning my health. . Let me assure you that any weakness I have displayed has been due to the machinations of malignant outside influences and conspirators. Those responsible have been dealt with, and the remaining members of their treacherous cabal will be hunted down and brought to justice."

His gaze, filled with menace, swept the room, ensuring his veiled threat was understood—no one was safe, and any perceived slight or failure could result in accusations of conspiracy and dire consequences. The tension in the room was palpable, and Buren could see the fear in the eyes of the gathered nobles.

Duriel, reveling in the room's apprehension, continued. "A new era dawns. My reign will overshadow all predecessors, and its grandeur will be immortalized for generations." He clenched his fist. "I demand your unwavering allegiance. In these turbulent times, any dissent will be viewed as treason. We must unite, casting aside personal ambitions for the greater good of our kingdom."

His eyes locked onto Buren, the message unmistakable. Buren returned the gaze, unyielding, refusing to be cowed by a monarch who had seemingly regained not only his former vigor but an enhanced cunning. After a tense moment, Duriel shifted his attention back to the crowd.

His voice intensified. "There was a time when some of you could haggle the Crown for favors, saying you would withhold your men and resources unless given some royal promise. Know that those times are now past. The Crown no longer asks, but commands, like you command your hand to grab something. You, and all that is yours, is now like the extension of my body."

Whispers of unease fluttered through the hall as the assembly grappled with the King's audacious declaration. The weight of trepidation was palpable; they were ensnared in Duriel's web, and extrication seemed a distant hope. Even those who once stood closest to the King now wore thinly veiled expressions of anxiety.

"None of this would have happened if not for me," Buren considered, thinking how he had furthered Duriel's goals to advance his own. All the warning signs had been there from the start, but he had considered the power-hungry egomaniac the lesser of two evils. Now, he was not so sure: if the tyrant went ahead with his threat, he could try to take away everything Buren had built so far and all his sacrifices would have been for nothing.

The King, radiating arrogance, continued, "Revel in tonight's festivities, knowing your burdens are behind you. You don't have to worry about your future, as it is wholly up to me. Pay no mind as to advance in society and how to feed your family: those decisions will lay solely on me. Your only duty is obedience."

Raising his glass, the room mirrored his gesture, with strained movements and forced smiles. Duriel drained his goblet in a single gulp, signaling for a refill, and reclined on his throne. As the musicians struck up a tune, a collective exhale of relief swept through the crowd, and hushed conversations resumed.

"He must have an ace up his sleeve," Inanna murmured. "What else could embolden him to assert such dominance?"

"Perhaps he's lost his sanity," Flynn countered. "The transformation of his physique might have unhinged his mind."

Inanna shook her head. "He seems too lucid for madness."

Buren, seizing a moment of distraction, positioned himself behind a pillar, ensuring an unobstructed view of the mysterious advisor. There was a peculiar feeling he had gotten when he first saw the man, and now that he concentrated on it, he could ascertain what it was:

A feeling of familiarity.

He was certain this was the first time they met, yet at the same time it wasn't. And there was more, like the man reminded him of something he had forgotten. Staring at the man unblinkingly, he focused on that feeling so deeply all surrounding sound faded away.

"What is it?" he thought, exerting his mind. "Where have we met before?"

He grit his teeth. "Feels like trying to piece together a dream from the dimly remembered fragments in the morning," he thought.

Then it hit him.

"The dreams!"

He did not remember seeing the man there, would his presence was unmistakable: he had been there, just at the edge of his vision, just watching. The Gauntlet reacted to him in the same way both here and when he was dreaming.

The hooded figure, sensing Buren's scrutiny, offered a chilling smile, his face stretching unnaturally, eyes remaining ensconced in shadow.

A sudden commotion snapped Buren from his introspection. King Duriel, dancing with a courtesan, had become aggressive. Her pleas for gentleness were met with a snarl as Duriel flung her aside. The music faltered, the conductor's panic evident as he urged the musicians to regain their rhythm.

Duriel's voice, cold and contemptuous, rang out. "Incompetent wretch! Guards, escort her to the barracks. If she cannot amuse me, let her amuse the guards!" The distraught woman was swiftly apprehended, her pleading eyes scanning the crowd for an ally, but finding only averted gazes.

The King's gaze settled on Inanna, his lips curling into a perverse grin. "You," he beckoned, his finger pointing directly at her, "approach and dance for me. Let's ascertain if you can offer the caliber of entertainment befitting a king."

Buren's instincts propelled him forward, ready to intercede, but Inanna's discreet gesture urged restraint. She gracefully curtsied, her voice unwavering, "As His Majesty wishes."

She glided towards Duriel, her movements fluid and poised. The King's eyes, predatory and challenging, locked onto Buren, as if taunting him to intervene.

"So this is his plan," Buren realized. "I intervene, and get pronounced a traitor, all of us killed. Or I stand by and let him do whatever he wishes to my betrothed, and he can prove to everyone that even the Bearer of the Gauntlet is too afraid to make a stand against him."

As Inanna reached Duriel, she extended her hand with regal elegance. Duriel ignored her hand and reached for her waist, his fingers poised as if to tear into her. She did not flinch.

But before his fingers could make contact, another hand seized his wrist. The room's atmosphere grew taut. Duriel, his face contorted with rage and anticipation, turned to confront the audacious interloper, only to find his mysterious advisor.

The hooded figure simply shook his head, his voice a low murmur, " Better leave this one be."

The King swallowed, his face growing flushed. "You wouldn't know our local dances anyway," he spat, attempting to salvage his dignity. Dismissively, he gestured at Inanna, "Begone, Antediluvian harlot."

With a huff, Duriel retreated, the crowd parting before his tempestuous exit. The enigmatic advisor and Inanna shared a lingering, inscrutable gaze, their whispered exchange lost amidst the ambient noise. Eventually, Inanna returned to Buren and Flynn's side.

Flynn, his brow furrowed, inquired, "What just happened?"

Inanna's gaze lingered on the advisor's retreating form. "I surmise he feared the repercussions from the nobles of Nammu-Thum should the King act inappropriately with me."

Flynn's eyes tracked Duriel's path. "Despite his newfound vigor, it seems there remain lines Duriel dares not cross."

Inanna nodded pensively, "For now. But his ambition knows no bounds. He will test those limits again."

Buren's attention remained riveted on the advisor. The man's eerie gait evoked memories of how everything seemed to twist around the nightmarish entities from his dreams. The parallels were undeniable, and Buren's pulse quickened as he grappled with the implications.

He mentally berated himself for having been complacent. Inanna's nightly solace had lulled him into a deceptive sense of safety, causing him to overlook the omens manifesting before him. The hooded advisor's malevolent aura was a threat he could no longer dismiss.

"I have been foolish to let my guard down," Buren thought, his jaw clenched with determination. "Whatever dark power this man possesses, I must find a way to confront it before he gains the upper hand."

Amidst the ongoing revelry, Buren's thoughts whirred, strategizing how best to unveil the truth about the sinister advisor and neutralize the looming menace.

Mulling over Inanna's explanation about the advisors intervention, he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. A seed of suspicion had begun to grow within him, casting doubt on all the recent events that had unfolded. Was it really him who had made these decisions, or had something – or someone – been affecting his reasoning?

Recent lapses in his judgment had become too frequent to dismiss as mere happenstance. Buren's thoughts circled back to the hooded advisor, pondering if this ominous figure might be orchestrating the bewildering shifts in his decisions.

Yet, even amidst these suspicions, Buren adeptly masked his turmoil from Inanna. He observed her with renewed scrutiny, seeking any hint of her involvement in the shadowy schemes he now feared. But her luminous eyes, ever sincere, betrayed no deceit.

Still, Buren couldn't shake the nagging doubt that gnawed at the edges of his mind. 'What if I've been manipulated somehow?' he wondered, his heart heavy with the weight of uncertainty. "Can I truly trust Inanna and those around me, or am I falling into a carefully laid trap?"

Buren recognized the need for discretion. If his doubts bore truth, revealing his hand prematurely could be perilous. He resolved to gather evidence discreetly, feigning trust and allegiance. The path ahead was treacherous, but Buren was resolute in his quest for truth, to shield himself and his comrades from lurking threats.

Reflecting on his time with Inanna, he noted a correlation between her soothing presence and the onset of his erratic behavior. The link was undeniable, intensifying his suspicions.

"How is it possible for her to calm my restless mind like that?" he wondered. "The visions are surely a product of the Gauntlet's immense power, so how can she simply override them with comforting words and gentle touch? Is it truly as simple as that, or is there something more at play here? And what about how used to despise her only a short time ago? My emotions don't usually change so quickly and completely."

The prospect of Inanna wielding some esoteric power further stoked his apprehensions. "Could she be using some hidden power to manipulate my thoughts and emotions?' he speculated, his heart growing heavier with each passing moment. "Or perhaps she's under the influence of someone else – someone who's using her to control me?"

Buren knew he needed answers, but he also realized that confronting Inanna outright might be too dangerous. Instead, he would have to be subtle in his investigations, gathering information while maintaining his facade of trust and affection.

The mere notion of Inanna's potential duplicity wounded him. Their bond had deepened, and the thought of its foundation being treachery was heartrending. Yet, he couldn't let sentimentality cloud his discernment. The gravity of the situation demanded clarity and vigilance. He had allowed himself the luxury of indulging his emotions in favor of his judgment for too long: it was time to put things back in order.

Duriel's bellow reverberated through the ballroom, jolting the attendees. "What ails you all? Dance! Revel in my celebration!" The assembly hastily resumed dancing, their movements stiff and forced as they tried to appease their volatile host.

Buren proffered his metallic hand to Inanna, beckoning her to join him. She hesitated momentarily, delicately declining his gauntleted grasp. "Forgive me, Buren, but its touch... it's unsettling," she murmured. Buren couldn't help but question if there was more to her reluctance.

As they danced, the pair effortlessly outshone their counterparts, their synergy evident amidst the stilted movements of the others. Yet, beneath the surface, Buren's emotions roiled.

Inanna's nearness awakened a deep longing within him, a desire to be close to her and to share in the connection they had built. Yet at the same time, the seed of suspicion that had taken root in his mind was growing, widening the chasm between them. He could feel the rift forming, and it pained him.

As they danced, Buren struggled to reconcile his conflicting emotions. His heart ached with longing, but his mind was a storm of doubt and mistrust. He found himself torn between the passionate embrace of the woman he had come to cherish, and the chilling realization that she might not be who he thought she was.

With every graceful step and turn, Buren endeavored to maintain the facade of an effortless dance. Yet beneath the surface, his heart was laden with the weight of burgeoning suspicions and the dread that their budding relationship might be founded on deception.

As the dance concluded, Buren refrained from joining the next, allowing Inanna her own moment on the floor. He retreated to the periphery, seeking a brief respite to collect his thoughts. A servant approached, proffering a glass of wine. After testing it with the antidote Inanna had provided earlier, and finding it untainted, he took a guarded sip, attempting to relish the flavor while remaining alert.

A shadowy figure, an Inquisitor concealed behind a mask, discreetly sidled up to him. "The situation teeters on the brink, Buren," the Inquisitor murmured. "Duriel's erratic behavior is becoming too conspicuous for the Faith to ignore, despite our past profitable arrangements."

Buren's eyes remained fixed on the swirling dancers, his visage revealing nothing as he absorbed the Inquisitor's caution. A tempest was on the horizon, and he had to brace himself for its fury. But as he watched Inanna dance gracefully among the guests, his heart remained conflicted, torn between the need he felt for her and the growing suspicion that threatened to tear them apart. He would have a hard time concentrating on problems of the outside realm when such trouble brewed at home.

The ballroom's ambiance grew progressively strained. The attendees, sensing Duriel's escalating ire, feigned merriment. Yet their laughter sounded forced, and their dance steps grew increasingly rigid. Whispered anxieties permeated the room.

Duriel's patience finally snapped. With a thunderous decree, he commanded the assembly to depart. The guests hastened to obey, eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere.

Buren and his entourage lingered, departing only after most had left. As they exited, Buren's gaze lingered on the menacing silhouettes of Duriel and his hooded advisor, epitomizing the foreboding that now overshadowed his existence.

Outside the palace, Buren ruminated on the evening's events. While no overt threats had materialized, the insidious seeds of mistrust sown between him and Inanna felt more corrosive. He mused that a blatant assault might have been easier to confront than this stealthy adversary eroding all he cherished.

That night, solitude enveloped Buren in his chamber. A soft knock heralded Inanna, adorned in a diaphanous nightgown. She inquired if he'd accompany her to her quarters, but he demurred. When she offered to remain with him, he declined again.

"I'm unwell," he feigned, hoping to sound genuine. "I wouldn't wish to ail you."

Inanna's gaze lingered, searching his eyes, but she eventually nodded. "Rest, and I hope you feel better soon," she whispered, departing.

As Buren closed and locked the door behind her, he couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt, in addition to a bodily craving he felt for her, which he had taken to be burgeoning love and lust, but was now beginning to doubt might be something else entirely, something that was not benign and born of his own heart, but something more sinister and alien. He sat down on the edge of his bed, his mind racing. To uncover the truth and find answers, he knew he would have to confront his nightmares once more. Steeling himself for the challenges that lay ahead, he prepared to face the darkness alone, uncertain of what revelations awaited him.

As Buren slipped into the dream, his mind and senses were immediately assaulted by the overwhelming, incomprehensible presence of monolithic entities that the human mind could scarcely process. It felt like a hurricane of raw energy mixed with the delirium of fever, battering against the fragile walls of his sanity.

"The respite I've had from these nightly ordeals must have weakened any tolerance I had built for them," he considered as the experience threatened to swallow him whole and chew up his sanity.

He raised the Gauntlet, covering his eyes with it, and it seemed to provide him with a measure of protection, shielding him from the full brunt of the onslaught. Buren fought to maintain control, both physically and mentally, as he struggled to withstand the unrelenting storm.

Gradually, the strain abated, although it still felt as if his head was caught in a studded vice. As his surroundings came into focus, Buren found himself standing on a stone field suspended in darkness. Around him, stones covered in unfamiliar, glowing carvings appeared to float, casting eerie shadows that danced and writhed like living things. The atmosphere was heavy with malevolence and the air seemed to hum with a haunting, discordant melody.

His efforts had awarded him more lucidity than he had ever displayed in this realm, and the place and situation became more solid and real, like it grew close enough to touch and smell. His senses were bombarded by the nightmarish landscape: there was a faint, otherworldly scent in the air—if there really was air— like mix of ozone and something far more ancient and alien. The very ground beneath his feet seemed to pulse with an unsettling rhythm, sending tremors up through his body. Buren fought to maintain his composure, pushing away the creeping tendrils of fear and confusion that threatened to consume him. Focusing his eyes was difficult, and he realized it was not because there was something wrong in his vision: the surroundings themselves twisted, like he was looking through a clear vial of water which bent the light and caused things on the other side to appear bent and altered.

Every fiber of his being screamed to flee this realm of chaos and madness. However, he was tethered by the need for answers. With the Gauntlet's power as his beacon, Buren ventured deeper into the surreal abyss.

As he traversed this landscape, Buren felt the world's distortions tug at his very form. His limbs elongated and contorted, seemingly manipulated by unseen hands. Yet, no pain accompanied these grotesque transformations. He reasoned that the dream's realm operated beyond the confines of physical reality, perhaps even warping the very dimensions of space.

His journey was erratic; at times, he seemed to tread without progress, and at others, he'd span vast distances in a mere step. The stones' glowing inscriptions pulsed erratically, casting bizarre, stretching shadows that seemed eager to ensnare him. The atmosphere grew increasingly oppressive, and the omnipresent hum threatened to drown his thoughts.

Yet, Buren's spirit remained indomitable. He had ventured too deep to retreat.

Amidst the incomprehensible landscape, Buren felt as though he was caught in an unyielding tempest, with unseen forces vying to control his every move. Yet, guided by the Gauntlet's power, he sensed the presence of the hooded advisor, the enigmatic mage from the waking world. This intuition beckoned him to pursue the elusive figure, even as the dream's realm sought to disorient him.

With unwavering determination, Buren pressed forward, the Gauntlet acting as his guiding star amidst the chaos. Each step was a testament to his will, a battle against the landscape's treacherous distortions.

The stones' luminous glyphs danced in the void, their light painting a shifting tapestry of shadows. The air grew stifling, bearing down on him with tangible force, while the ever-present hum intensified.

Yet, Buren's resolve was unyielding. He was driven by the need to confront the hooded advisor, the very source of the doubts and suspicions that plagued him. Empowered by the Gauntlet, he navigated this perilous realm, drawing inexorably closer to the shadowy figure that haunted his dreams.

Suddenly, the hooded advisor's voice pierced the tumult, dripping with derision. "You are a fool to tread here," he taunted, his voice reverberating from every direction, disorienting and unsettling.

Buren strained to pinpoint the source of the voice, but the advisor remained an elusive specter, always just beyond his direct line of sight, a shadow dancing on the edge of perception.

"You believe you can defy me?" the advisor's voice shifted, mocking Buren's vain attempts to locate him. "You tread waters too deep, Bearer of the Gauntlet. This realm is governed by powers beyond your ken, and you are but a mere moth ensnared in my web."

The malevolence in the advisor's words intensified the pressure around Buren's head. He braced himself, and the Gauntlet flared brightly, as if responding to Buren's determination to stand his ground.

"I will not be cowed by your threats," Buren retorted, his voice echoing with defiance. "I came here looking for answers, and I'll wring them from your corpse if I have to."

The advisor's laughter was a chilling chorus from all around. "You are but a puppet before my masters. With the might they've bestowed upon me, you stand no chance."

Yet, Buren pressed on, the ground shifting and contorting beneath him, his body feeling as if it were being pulled apart. He held the Gauntlet before him, trusting it to guide his way.

"Why not end this charade now?" he challenged.

"You are but a speck, hardly worth my effort at this juncture," the advisor responded dismissively. "A giant cares not for the ant beneath its heel."

"I beg to differ," Buren countered, pushing forward. "Your alliance with Duriel, the power you claim — it all points to a scheme against me. If you truly held such dominion, why not strike me down directly?"

When there was no answer apart from a sound like metal wasps buzzing angrily, he shouted: "It's because I'm too strong for both you and your masters to attack directly!"

"Your delusions matter not," the advisor spat, his voice seething with rage, confirming Buren's suspicions.

"You're still as blind as you've ever been, stumbling aimlessly ahead. You can not understand the opponent you face: you can not even look in their direction, as they are beyond human concepts like direction and time."

"Maybe I can't, at least not yet," Buren answered with a steady voice. With a quick motion, he thrust out the Gauntlet and closed its fingers. They squeezed around something which was hidden from his eyes, since the limb appeared to disappear in midair, like it had bent behind an invisible corner. But the sense of the Gauntlet—he could not say how to describe the perception—told him exactly what he held.

He pulled his catch closer, and his arm reappeared, holding the advisor by the throat.

"You may hide amongst shadows, but you cannot escape my grasp," Buren growled. "Your masters may elude my comprehension, but you—" he tightened his grip, the advisor's struggles proving futile against the Gauntlet's might, "—are but flesh and blood. You made a mistake of showing yourself. All you have done is give me a tangible opponent, something I can really dig my nails into."

Drawing the advisor close, their faces mere inches apart, Buren whispered, "This may be your masters' domain, but out there, in the real world, it's all my hunting ground. And I've got your scent."

A scream rent the air, and everything flashed with an indescribable color, and the dimension shook. Buren hurtled through a vast expanse of he was not sure what. Space? Time? Awareness? All he could tell he traversed a great distance, spinning wildly.

He landed heavily in his bed, back in his quarters. His pillows went flying across the air, his mattress bursting apart so the room was showered with feathers.

"What a dream!" he thought. "Unlike any of the nightmares I've had prior to this."

Regaining his bearings, he sat up, still reeling from the vividness of the dream. He glanced at the Gauntlet and noticed a dark stain marring its claws.

"Blood."

But it wasn't his.

Seems like a brought a souvenir from my trip to dreamlands," he reflected with a smirk.

Then he chuckled to himself.

"I get the feeling the advisor is in for a crude awakening. Out there, you may command forces I don't understand, but let's see how you fare with a severed jugular in this world."