The Play-Toy Of Three Lycan Kings-Chapter 358: Banquet

SAGE

The woman in the mirror wasn’t a stranger—she was a contradiction.

Me naked. Me unhidden. Unmasked.

No wig. No lens. No pretenses. Just my own reflection, the kind that would even make the gods hesitate.

My skin gleamed like warm honey beneath the soft candlelight, smooth and unblemished, with a faint shimmer where the light kissed it. My body was a sculptor’s rebellion—curves where delicacy should’ve been, strength where fragility was expected.

My hair, white as moonlight, fell in a loose cascade to my waist, fine strands threaded with streaks of gold instead of black. It shimmered with every movement, alive almost, like it remembered the hands that once blessed it—or cursed it.

And then there were my eyes.

Gold, with flecks of silver and blue swirling like galaxies caught in an endless storm. I held their gaze for too long, as if daring them to blink first. "A freak of the gods," I murmured, the corner of my mouth curling upward in bitter amusement. "Their little masterpiece of irony."

I rubbed my palms together slowly, letting the familiar thrill slither through me. "Time to play some games," I whispered. "New board, same goal. Revenge always tastes better served with gold plates and royal wine."

You think all your powers were given for this?

El’s voice was a hiss in my mind, sharp and disdainful. For mere revenge?

"Mere?" The word ripped through my lips like lightning. My reflection’s eyes flared brighter, gold bleeding into molten fire.

"You call what they did to me mere?" I snarled. "You think this is some childish tantrum, El?"

Silence. Then a quiet exhale, almost human. You’re losing yourself.

"Then maybe that’s exactly what I need to win."

My voice shook the candles, making their flames dance. I cursed her—softly, viciously—before turning away. "Shut up," I spat, "and stay that way."

El went quiet, though I could feel her sulking in the depths of my consciousness, waiting for the next chance to speak. She always did.

I stood straighter, pulling the calm back around me like silk. It was time to dress. Time to become the version of myself the world expected—the charming witch, the royal darling bitch, the enigma in heels.

I started with music—soft humming, low and ancient. A song of beauty and transformation, old as the first dawn. One I had discovered, by intense meditation, three years ago. It had just dropped in my spirit.

The melody hummed through my bones, weaving magic into the air. It caressed the room, brushing against my skin as if eager to help.

The gown floated toward me from where it hung. Midnight blue—deep enough to drink light, soft enough to slip through fingers.

The fabric shimmered faintly as I ran my hands down its length. Fine embroidery, silver threads tracing constellations across the bodice, and the skirt—a waterfall of layered silk that whispered with every movement.

I stepped into it reverently, humming still, feeling it mold to me like second skin. With a thought, the seams adjusted, hugging my waist tighter, flaring just right at the hips. Magic rippled through the weave, perfecting every inch.

Then the shoes. Crystal heels, delicate but sturdy. I slipped them on, watching how the gown pooled just enough to hide and reveal them as I moved.

I turned to the mirror again, humming softly, pinning up my white-and-gold hair. The strands resisted, playful as always, until I murmured a charm and they settled into a high twist that left just a few tendrils loose.

Then came the wig—dark, lustrous, human. I set it carefully over my crown, sealing it in place with a soft whisper of power so it would hold no matter what the night brought.

Next, the lenses. I blinked as they slid into place, dulling the molten gold of my gaze to warm brown. Harmless.

One by one, the rest followed—earrings of sapphire and silver that caught the light when I turned my head; bracelets that jingled like whispers of magic; a necklace that Raul gifted me last year.

I dabbed perfume along my wrists and throat—amber and smoke and crushed jasmine. The scent of secrets.

When I was done, I snapped my fingers. A thin shimmer spread across my reflection like starlight spilled over water. Glamour. A final touch.

The woman in the mirror smiled back—wicked, flawless, dangerous.

"Perfect," I murmured, grabbing my purse.

Isla was waiting in the sitting room, tapping her heel impatiently against the rug. She turned when I entered, and her eyes widened before she gave a long, appreciative whistle.

"Gods, Sage," she breathed. "If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to make the kings fall at your feet tonight."

I raised a brow, but she wasn’t wrong to think it. Her own outfit was stunning—a soft rose-gold gown that shimmered like dawn, cinched at the waist with an embroidered belt. Her hair was coiled into a perfect bun, with tendrils framing her face. She looked radiant, and she knew it.

"I’m sure they’ll all be drooling," she added with a grin.

"Good," I said simply.

She blinked. "Good?"

"Let them drool. It’ll make the fall easier to stomach."

Isla laughed. "Still the poet." She reached for her clutch and motioned toward the door. "Ready, your highness of mischief?"

I gave her a look that made her giggle again, but she opened the door nonetheless.

Outside, the air smelled of night and blooming roses. Our driver—a tall, silent man dressed in royal black—stood by the car, bowing slightly as he opened the door for us. A small emblem on his shoulder marked him as one of the royal court’s own.

"VIP treatment," Isla murmured, sliding into the car beside me.

I didn’t answer. My fingers tapped rhythmically on my thigh as the car glided down the lantern-lit path toward the palace. My mind was elsewhere—tracing, rearranging, refining every move of my plan.

Each gesture tonight would matter. Each word, each smile, each illusion of grace and warmth.

They thought they were honoring me. Rewarding me.

They had no idea.

Isla chattered on about how nice it was that the royals had softened, how they seemed to respect me now. I smiled faintly, but my thoughts were dark.

Respect? No. They were trying to keep me close—close enough to measure, to manipulate, to make sure I didn’t ask for their kingdom.

If only they knew that I didn’t want their crown. I wanted to burn the throne it sat on.

The car slowed as we approached the palace gates. Two guards stepped forward, eyes scanning before waving us through.

When we stepped out, another guard was waiting. "Lady Sage. Lady Isla. This way, please."

We followed him through marble corridors that gleamed like ice. Isla was still whispering beside me, pointing out how the guards straightened as we passed, how people bowed slightly in acknowledgment.

I said nothing still.

We kept walking. I knew these halls well—or thought I did. But tonight, the guard took a different turn, leading us away from the grand ballroom I had expected. My brows furrowed slightly as we stepped through a glass archway and out into the gardens.

"Where are we going?" Isla whispered.

The guard said nothing, only gestured ahead.

I followed his hand—and froze for a heartbeat.

There, in the middle of the moon-washed garden, stood a tent. Or rather, a canopy—white and gold, its silken drapes glowing softly under hundreds of floating lights. Tables gleamed beneath it, but there couldn’t have been space for more than twenty people.

That was it?

That was the banquet?