Half the court has already rewritten the duel by the time the sun sets.
I didn't lose.
I yielded.
I let Kaelen win.
I humiliated him.
I cheated.
I was reckless.
They'll say anything, as long as it sounds like prophecy.
The palace halls are louder than usual. Candles burn longer. Pages linger near the corners with ears too wide and mouths too narrow. I know the shape of whispers even when I can't hear them. My name has always passed softly through this place—like an afterthought. Today, it scrapes.
I walk the long corridor that leads toward the inner atrium—just to be seen. Nobles drift past, pretending not to look. Pretending not to pause before speaking. One or two incline their heads slightly, as if they're trying to remember if I'm real.
I don't stop.
The tension follows like a trailing cloak. Not quite attention. Not quite fear. Something in between. Like a crowd watching for thunder after the flash.
At the eastern gallery, I pass Lady Asteria of House Drennel. She never used to speak to me.
"Prince Velasyr," she says, too loudly. "A most… memorable showing."
I stop just long enough to tilt my head. "I do my best."
Her smile twitches. "Clearly."
She says nothing else. But as I walk away, I feel the conversation gather behind me like a tide.
Maybe that was the king's purpose in calling me back—to give me a place in this court after all. A quiet seat at the edge of the table—meant to calm my desires and serve as a warning not to ask for more.
Now that my mother is gone. Now that I've been away for two years, just as he asked. Maybe he'll let me be his son, just once. That would do.
For now.
The corridor opens into the inner atrium—wide, domed, and echoing with the hum of nobles pretending to be at ease. The annual match feast is already underway. It's tradition.
Every year, after the ceremonial duels, the court gathers here to toast the warriors, flatter the king, and remind each other who they are. Velasyr Caelthorn, fourth son of Caladryn, bastard-born and belt-bruised, is not who they expected to be speaking about tonight.
Long tables curve around fountains carved in the shape of rearing steeds. Musicians play low, forgettable strings in the corner. Goblets clink, laughter rises, and servants move like shadows, bearing roasted quail and sugared wine.
I slow just before stepping fully into the light. It's instinct now—measuring where to place myself in a room where I'm either invisible or in the way.
Kaelen sits near the king's table, golden and grinning beneath a drape of laureled silk. Two noblewomen flank him, smiling too widely. He lifts his goblet to someone across the hall. He hasn't seen me yet.
At the center of the high table, the king speaks with the Chancellor. His fur-trimmed cloak spills over the back of his chair, the lion crest catching firelight. His hand rests on the table's edge—ringed, steady, and heavy with the weight of what he hasn't said.
He hasn't looked my way. Not once.
I move to the edge of the chamber, claiming a place near the second row. Not quite at the servant's end. Not quite among the nobles. A middle place. One I know too well.
A page appears beside me, blinking too fast. "Your Highness. Shall I bring wine?"
I nod.
He bows and scurries off, nearly spilling his tray.
When he returns, he holds the goblet out with both hands—gold-rimmed, the color of stormlight. I take it, but his fingers hesitate. There's a folded scrap tucked just beneath the rim.
Pale blue. Sealed with a pressed sigil—House Aerel, if I recognize it right.
Noble-born. Wealthy. Ambitious.
I open it slowly, angling the parchment to keep it from prying eyes.
You were never invisible to me.
—L
I don't have to look far to find her. Lady Lira Aerel sits two tables up. Silken hair coiled like seafoam, lips curved in satisfaction. She watches me like she's already composed the next move. I raise my goblet in her direction—just enough to be noticed. She dips her head. Not coy. Calculated.
The music shifts—brighter, faster. Someone stands to toast Kaelen. I raise my goblet, just late enough to make it noticeable.
That's when I hear him.
"Didn't know you liked bluebloods."
I glance left.
Thalen, the third prince, slides into the seat beside me, all sharp smile and narrowed eyes. No entourage. No need.
"Didn't know you watched who I liked," I say, voice even.
"I watch what stirs the court," he says, swirling his drink. "You're stirring, little brother."
He sips. Watches the toast unfold like it bores him. Then: "Lady Lira doesn't flirt without purpose."
I raise an eyebrow. "And what purpose do you think she has?"
"The same as anyone here. Marriage. Power. Legacy. You're more interesting now, which means more dangerous. She's trying to get ahead of that curve."
I say nothing. The wine tastes faintly of elderflower and frost. He watches me drink.
"Careful," Thalen adds, voice low now. "Kaelen may laugh it off. Father may ignore it. But if you start charming daughters with land and influence..."
He leans in, eyes bright with something too sharp to be affection.
"…someone might remind you what your blood doesn't buy."
I meet his stare. Steady. Tired.
"And what would you remind me of, Thalen?"
He tilts his goblet toward mine, a soft clink.
"That I like you better when you lose."
He downs the rest of his drink and stands in one fluid movement.
"Enjoy your moment," he says. "They never last long here."
And with that, he's gone—back into the candlelight, the music, the feast, as if he were never there.
I stay seated.
The music swells again, sweet and triumphant. Another toast—this one louder, more rehearsed. Kaelen waves it off with false modesty, his laurels slipping ever so slightly.
Then, the atrium doors open. A hush ripples down the table lines, quiet as an intake of breath.
First Prince Cyren strides in.
The heir. The crown. The future king of Caladryn.
His robe is cut in the style of the old kings—high-collared, storm-gray, with the lion sigil embroidered in black thread over his heart. He walks with the weight of inevitability, gravity favoring him.
He says nothing as he approaches the king's table. Just bows. The king rests a hand on Cyren's shoulder as he sits beside him. A word exchanged. The kind that doesn't need sound.
Cyren doesn't look around the room. He doesn't have to. Every eye is already on him.
Except mine.
I watch the way the king turns his head when Cyren leans in. How his expression shifts—barely—but enough to register something I haven't seen in years. Approval.
A servant refreshes my drink. I don't touch it.
I wonder, briefly, what would happen if I left.
But then a shadow moves beside me. A maid I don't recognize. Young. Eyes down. Voice low.
"His Majesty requests your presence in the throne room. After the banquet."
I turn, but she's already gone—swallowed by laughter, by music, by the clink of knives against polished plates.
The wine is warm by the time I lift it. The music swells, the toasts fade, and the feast folds into the usual theater—strategic glances, traded compliments, laughter lacquered with purpose. Plates empty. Goblets refill. More eyes find me now. Not to include. To calculate.
I sit through it. Through the endless chime of forks against silver. Through the moment, Kaelen's gaze flickers to mine across the room—not gloating, not quite. And the shadowed weight of Cyren seated beside the king, like a crown already fitted.
But beneath it all, something else stirs.
Hope.
A quiet one, but persistent.
The King summoned me. After two years away. After silence. After the fight. He saw me. Chose to see me.
Maybe this isn't just discipline. Maybe it's something more. A door, cracked open. A place at the table. Not for show—but for legacy.
I stay until the end.
Only when the last toast is made and the music stutters into silence do I rise, crossing the hall beneath the scrape of chairs and murmured farewells.
No one stops me. No one speaks. But more than a few watch as I walk in the direction the King just did.
I leave the glow of the atrium behind—down the long northern hall, where the torches burn cooler and the stone rises into arches that curve like waves held mid-crash. I pass no guards.
The deeper I go, the quieter it becomes. Then I reach the threshold. The doors stand tall—wood darker than midnight, banded in iron shaped like rising wind.
The Skyvault.
The king's throne room.
The place where Caladryn crowns its heirs. Buries its traitors. And names what it fears.
I place a hand against the cool metal. Breathe once. Then push.
The Skyvault is colder than I remember.
Vaulted ceilings arch into shadow, lost beyond the reach of torchlight. The floor beneath me is obsidian-dark, veined with silver like lightning frozen in stone. No windows. No wind. Just silence—and the hum of legacy pressed into every wall.
The throne waits at the far end. Carved from blackstone and lionbone, it rises like a storm's eye from the dais. And beside it, still as carved marble, stands Cyren.
His hands are clasped behind his back. His posture, perfect. His gaze, unreadable. He does not greet me. I do not bow.
The king sits.
He does not speak.
The silence stretches—long and taut, a string strung between us with too many years woven through it. I do not move. The sound of my breath feels loud in the stillness.
Finally, he lifts his head. His eyes, when they meet mine, are colder than the stone beneath my boots.
"You fought well," he says.
The words land like a blade without a point.
I say nothing.
He leans back on the throne. The robe shifts against the stone like drawn steel.
"Better than expected."
Still, I stay silent.
Cyren shifts slightly. A glance. Not sympathy. Not cruelty. Just observation.
The king continues.
"I allowed your return for a reason," he says. "I hoped solitude would temper your ambitions. Reshape them. Give you clarity." A pause. "Mourn her death."
He rises slowly, each motion deliberate. Not aged. Measured.
"And yet, you used your first day back to challenge what is already settled. To disturb the order of things."
"I did what was allowed," I say quietly. "I fought."
"You fought to be seen," he replies. "And were."
He steps down from the dais, his boots echoing on the stone.
"You may think this court's attention is a reward. But attention is not the same as place. And not all places are meant to be claimed."
He stops in front of me. Close enough that I can see the pale thread of silver at his temples. The Lioncrest ring glints on his hand.
"I gave you two years," he says. "You could've stayed where it was safe. Silent. Useful."
His voice lowers—not cruelly. Not angry. Just final.
"Do not mistake noise for legacy, Velasyr."
My name sounds foreign on his tongue.
He turns away, back toward Cyren. Then, seating himself once more in the throne's hollow, he adds: "I'll give you the chance to be useful."
I nod. Waiting.
Because this isn't a gift. It's a leash—threaded in silence and dressed as duty.