Candlelight danced across jeweled goblets, laughter curled around whispered secrets, and the air hung thick with the scent of spiced wine and ambition. Princess Elyria had endured a dozen such gatherings this season, each one a parade of simpering lords and preening diplomats—all vying for her father's favor, all eyeing her like a prize to be claimed.
And then he walked in.
Averan of Velhara moved like a man who had no need to announce himself. His doublet was deep indigo, stitched with silver threads that caught the light like distant stars. No gaudy rings weighed down his fingers; no sword hung at his hip. Only a single pendant rested against his collarbone—a black opal that swallowed the light and gave nothing back.
Elyria's spine straightened without her permission.
Across the room, her father, King Orvain, noticed too. His fingers tightened around his cup. This was the merchant whose name had slipped into every noble's conversation. The man who fed entire villages without demanding gratitude, who traded in gemstones that made the royal vaults look dull.
And who had, until tonight, refused every invitation to court.
Servants paused as he passed, unsure if they were meant to bow. Courtiers stilled mid-laugh, their words catching in their throats. The music faltered, only for a breath, before continuing as though nothing had shifted. But something had.
Averan greeted no one at first. He moved with quiet intention toward the host, a minor baron whose estate sprawled like a jeweled scar along Velhara's western hills. Courteous words were exchanged. A gift of cut emeralds, refined into flawless globes, was presented without flourish. Then Averan turned, his eyes scanning the hall, pausing only once on the daughter of the king.
Their eyes met like flint striking stone.
Elyria looked away first, her cheeks flushed with something she would not name. She whispered something to her handmaid, who promptly slipped away into the crowd. It was not her place to approach, but she would be noticed again.
Later that evening, Averan remained composed, politely declining each noble attempt to draw him into shallow conversation. Instead, he spent most of the banquet speaking with the baron's stablemaster about the breeding of northern horses—a subject the gathered elites barely remembered existed.
Yet, it was in that quiet grace that Princess Elyria watched him most. No man had ever entered her father's court without yearning for proximity to power. But this one… this Averan… he seemed untouched by the hunger that ruled them all.
King Orvain summoned a steward to inquire discreetly about Averan's background. The report, though factual, was unsettling in its perfection: born of unknown descent, orphaned young, fortune made through gemstone trading and rare mineral finds. No known scandal. No trace of lineage. Only a meteoric rise, gilded in generosity and mystery.
"Keep eyes on him," the king muttered to his closest captain. "No man climbs that high without a ladder."
Meanwhile, in the heart of the hall, Averan gently refused a third offer of wine, choosing instead a goblet of cold water.
From her seat beside her father, King Orvain, Elyria studied him with a heart she no longer recognized. She was used to admiration. She was the jewel of Velhara—flawless, educated, desired. But Averan hadn't spared her more than a passing glance.
That glance haunted her.
Days passed, but the merchant did not return. His absence made the silence louder. Elyria found herself wandering the gardens, questioning her worth. Then, in secret, she ordered her maidens to discover where he lived. A marble villa near the city's southern edge—modest from the outside, but visited daily by nobles, merchants, and even foreign ambassadors.
The king's curiosity morphed into obsession. He summoned spies, consulted sages, and even invited a dream seer to his court. Each returned with only vague insight. Averan traded rare gems with precision and ease. He gave lavishly to the poor, but refused gifts in return. His name now hovered over court conversations like perfume in summer air—intoxicating, impossible to ignore.
One night, Elyria arrived uninvited at his villa.
Averan welcomed her with kindness, but not warmth. They spoke of trade, of poetry, of the rise and fall of kingdoms. He offered her wine but did not drink himself. She stayed only an hour, but in that hour, she unraveled. Never had she felt so simultaneously seen and invisible. And still, he did not reach for her.
After that, her desperation deepened.
Elyria began dressing with more purpose. Her gowns, once subtle, became daring. Her dances are more graceful, her laughter more generous. But Averan remained distant. He would smile when spoken to, nod in acknowledgment, but give nothing more.
The nobles noticed.
Soon, Averan's villa became a pilgrimage site for desperate lords and curious women. They arrived with questions masked as flattery. "What stone is this?" "How did you find such gold?" "What wisdom lies behind your eyes?" And Averan answered, always with the calm detachment of a scholar teaching children.
But no one pierced the veil.
And the more he withheld, the more Velhara ached for him.
King Orvain began to fret. "Is he bewitched? Or is it we who are bewitched by him?" he asked one evening. But no one dared answer.
Then came the rumor that Averan had refused not only the king's summons, but the private invitation of the royal princess herself. The court was scandalized. Elyria denied it, but the glint in her eyes betrayed the truth.
She had fallen—not for a suitor, but for a silence wrapped in silk and silver.
And Averan? He remained composed, always courteous, always distant.
For he knew the game. He had not come to beg for royalty's approval.
He had come to let royalty come to him.