The ridge felt different once Orin, Rhea, Tarin, and Joran returned. The halls that had seemed too quiet suddenly carried the weight of familiar voices. For Kael, the days that followed blurred between the grind of training and the unusual pressure of preparation.

  Every morning Daren still woke him before sunrise, forcing him through the same punishing drills: the candle, the sword, the eye. But when the sun climbed high, the training field gave way to the great hall where tailors, stewards, and servants swarmed him like hornets.

  Cloth was draped over his shoulders, pinned, cut, then replaced with finer fabric. Boots were polished, belts adjusted, collars tugged tight around his throat until he thought he would choke.

  “This isn’t me,” Kael muttered one afternoon, staring at his reflection in a tall bronze mirror. The young man staring back wore a coat of dark blue trimmed in silver, fitted tight to his frame. His hair, normally unruly, had been brushed back until he barely recognized himself. “I look like someone else.”

  “You look like the heir you must be,” Daren answered from behind, his tone sharp as a blade. “The ridges will judge you by what they see before they ever hear you speak. Do not let them see a boy who spent his days in dirt. Let them see one who belongs in their halls.”

  Kael clenched his jaw. He would rather wield a sword than wear it on his hip as an ornament. But he said nothing more. He had learned long ago that arguing with Daren only ended one way.

  On the second day of preparations, the others were summoned for their own fittings. Orin endured the process in silence, allowing the tailors to adjust his shoulders and tighten his belt. He looked every bit the commander he had trained to be, his broad frame carrying the weight of formal armor lined with embroidered cloth.

  Tarin, however, groaned through every minute. “Do they mean for me to breathe in this? I swear if I eat even one bite at this gala, the seams will burst.”

  The tailor rolled his eyes, tugging at Tarin’s sleeve. “Stand still, or it will hang crooked.”

  Kael snorted from across the hall. “For once, hold still, Tarin. You might even look like a lord if you stop squirming.”

  " Not my style,” Tarin shot back, but he obeyed all the same.

  Rhea’s turn drew silence from them all. She stood with her chin high as the maids draped a gown of deep green across her shoulders. The fabric caught the light with a subtle sheen, and the laces at her waist gave her a commanding, elegant shape. Yet her eyes remained sharp, unsoftened by silk.

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  Joran muttered under his breath, tugging at the collar of his fitted coat. “This is nonsense. A sword at my side does more than any polished boot.”

  Kael grinned and stepped forward, clapping him on the shoulder. “If I have to suffer through this, so do you. Here—” He adjusted Joran’s collar, tugged his belt straighter, then turned to Tarin. “And you—stand tall. At least pretend you belong in a hall instead of a tavern.”

  Tarin swatted his hand away, but his grin betrayed him.

  “And you, Orin,” Kael said, walking around his taller friend with mock seriousness. “I think they forgot to polish your boots. Can’t have the great Orin Veynar scuffing the floor.”

  Orin gave him a long, unimpressed look, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

  Kael finally stopped in front of Rhea. For a moment he simply looked at her, the gown fitting her like it had been made for no one else. She raised an eyebrow.

  “Well?”

  Kael smirked faintly. “I almost don’t recognize you. You look… dangerous. In a different way.”

  Her lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “Good.”

  The room filled with laughter, and for the first time since the letter had arrived, Kael felt some of the weight on his shoulders ease.

  The last day before departure was spent in drills not of the sword but of manner. Daren had them seated at a long table, servants setting down platters and cups as if they were already in the gala.

  “When they speak, you listen,” Daren instructed. “Do not cut across a lord’s words. When they test you—and they will—answer with weight, not with heat.”

  Kael fidgeted with his cup. “ Aren't I also a Lord or I’m not allowed to speak my mind?”

  “yes I was addressing the others and yes You are allowed to speak with purpose,” Daren corrected. “Every word carries weight. If you waste them, they will dismiss you as a boy.”

  Kael muttered, “Hmm kind of Better to be dismissed than paraded.”

  But he repeated the lesson. He could memorize sword forms; he could memorize this.

  By nightfall, their trunks were packed—coats, boots, cloaks for the road, and a small chest of gifts Ridgehall would present at the gathering.

  Dawn broke clear on the day of departure. The air was sharp and cool, the kind of morning that whispered of change. Horses waited in the courtyard, their tack gleaming, the Ridgehall banners fixed to their saddles.

  Kael stood with his companions as servants secured the last straps. He wore his traveling cloak over the formal coat, though even with the weight of cloth he felt exposed.

  “You’ve never looked so clean,” Tarin teased as he swung into the saddle.

  Kael gave him a shove. “Careful, or I’ll throw you in the river before we reach the gates.”

  Rhea adjusted her gloves with quiet precision. Orin tightened the strap of his gauntlet, his focus steady. Joran muttered about the uselessness of polished leather, though he checked his sword twice before mounting.

  Daren stood nearby, watching them with arms crossed. His voice carried across the courtyard. “Remember why you go. Not to be seen as boys and girls in fine cloth, but as heirs and blades of Ridgehall. The ridges will judge you—but let them see strength.”

  Kael nodded once, mounting his horse. He didn’t like it, but he understood. Training was one thing. Facing the world was another.

  The road to the gala wound through, valleys still heavy with mist. For hours they rode in silence, hooves thudding against packed dirt, the occasional bird taking flight from the trees.

  Kael’s thoughts wandered between drills and the coming hall. He wondered how many lords would watch him, how many would whisper of his father, how many would test him. His stomach twisted, but he kept his gaze forward.

  By midday, the mist had lifted, and the city came into view.

  The gala view sprawled across the plain, its walls tall and pale, banners of three houses flying from its towers. The sound of bells carried faintly across the wind, and beyond the gates, rooftops stretched like a sea of stone and wood.

  Kael slowed his horse, staring. This was no ridge, no fortress tucked between cliffs. This was a heart where power gathered and spilled out across the land.

  He drew a slow breath, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword. “So this is the gala . Never thought I would attend one someday .”

  Daren’s voice cut through the silence from behind. “yes . This is where you will show them who you are.”

  The company rode on, the gates leading to the gala looming larger with each step.