The echo of the herald’s voice rolled through the great hall like the strike of a drum.

  “House Ericson!”

  The golden doors swung open once more. A breath of cool night air swept in, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and pine from the ridges beyond the city walls.

  All conversation stilled. Heads turned.

  Through the doorway stepped the heir of House Ericson.

  Eric moved with measured calm, his dark coat trimmed in muted silver, the crest of his house embroidered at his shoulder—a falcon in flight over three narrow peaks. The hall’s torchlight caught on the silver thread as he advanced, the light rippling across him like water over steel. Behind him, the remaining members of his house followed, their steps perfectly in rhythm, their faces composed. But it was clear to everyone watching that Eric was the heart of that procession—the one carrying the legacy forward.

  Kael’s breath caught.

  For a second, he forgot the weight of his coat, the murmur of nobles, the distant notes of string instruments that had been playing without pause since the evening began.

  That face—the calm poise, the eyes steady and unyielding—dragged him back through time.

  The courtyard. The cold. The betrayal.

  Eric’s voice whispering promises he never meant to keep.

  The sound of steel being drawn when friendship should have held instead.

  It wasn’t the same boy anymore, but the look in his eyes hadn’t changed. There was still that quiet assurance, that pride—only now it had been refined into something colder.

  Rhea noticed the tension first. “Kael,” she murmured under her breath, leaning toward him, “isn’t that—”

  “I know who it is,” Kael cut in softly. His tone was steady, but his fingers twitched against the edge of his chair.

  From the corner of the hall, Orin’s hand brushed the hilt of his dagger—not in threat, but reflex. “Didn’t think we’d see him here.”

  Neither did Kael. He hadn’t thought of Eric in years—hadn’t wanted to. Yet here he was, standing in the center of the hall like a ghost wearing silk and pride.

  Whispers rippled across the nobles’ rows. A few tilted their heads, exchanging subtle glances between the two heirs—Kael of Wicelind and Eric of Ericson. Once, their names had been spoken together with promise; now, only in memory and caution.

  The herald’s staff struck the marble floor twice. “House Ericson, bearers of the Northern Seal, pledged to unity under the Accord of Three Houses.”

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  Applause followed—measured, polite, but thin.

  Eric paused halfway down the hall and inclined his head to the assembly. For a moment, his gaze swept the crowd. It didn’t linger, not until it found Kael.

  The distance between them might as well have vanished.

  Their eyes met—brief, sharp, heavy.

  A flicker of something unreadable passed across Eric’s face. Recognition, yes. Maybe regret. Or defiance.

  Kael didn’t flinch, though every part of him wanted to. The memory of the old betrayal surged up from the quiet corners of his mind—his trust, broken like glass beneath a careless hand.

  The hall around them blurred into murmurs and movement.

  Rhea shifted, glancing between them. Tarin exhaled through his nose, arms crossed, muttering something that Kael didn’t quite hear. Joran stood still, his expression unreadable, though his eyes narrowed faintly toward Eric.

  The herald continued, his voice droning through the formalities, but Kael barely heard him.

  He felt Orin’s elbow press lightly against his arm, grounding him. “Don’t let him get to you,” Orin murmured.

  Kael forced a small nod. “He won’t.”

  But the tremor running through his chest said otherwise.

  Eric turned away, moving toward his place among the gathered houses. The tension loosened only when he disappeared behind a cluster of banners.

  A moment later, the Grand Marshal stepped forward. “With the arrival of House Ericson,” he announced, “the gathering stands complete. Let the gala of concord begin.”

  The hall erupted into applause. Torches flared brighter, and the band struck a vibrant note. Silver trays appeared as servants streamed in through side doors, carrying wine and gold-rimmed goblets.

  The nobles rose, mingling in elegant clusters, laughter returning to the air like a mask placed over the simmering silence that had preceded it.

  Kael sank back into his chair, his composure slowly returning.

  “Are you all right?” Rhea asked gently.

  He nodded, eyes still scanning the crowd. “Fine.”

  “You don’t look fine,” Tarin muttered.

  Kael’s mouth curved into a faint smirk. “You’ve always been a terrible liar detector.”

  That drew a short laugh from Joran. “He’s not wrong, though.”

  Kael didn’t answer. His mind was still locked on the figure now standing across the hall, surrounded by courtiers and lights.

  Eric hadn’t looked his way again, but Kael could feel the weight of his presence—like a storm waiting past the horizon.

  The speeches began soon after.

  The first was from the High Chamberlain, speaking of the importance of unity among the three houses, of strength through understanding. His words echoed through the hall, smooth and practiced, meant to soothe rather than inspire.

  Then came a toast from one of the elder lords—a thin, silver-haired man whose voice cracked with age but carried the same pride that had fueled Wicelind for generations. He spoke of legacy and duty, of heirs stepping into their rightful places.

  Kael barely heard him.

  His attention kept straying back to Eric. To the small, effortless gestures—the way he raised his glass, the way people leaned in when he spoke. The calm authority that had once been a shared thing between them.

  For years, Kael had trained to forget the shadow that betrayal left behind. But seeing Eric now, standing beneath the golden banners of his house, made him realize something he hadn’t wanted to admit: he had never truly buried that day.

  He still carried it. Every scar, every breath of anger.

  And now, it was standing in front of him.

  A sudden applause broke through his thoughts. The speech had ended. Servants began to pour wine into their glasses as the first course of the feast was laid out—platters of roasted game, fruits dusted with sugar, and gleaming silver bowls of spiced grains.

  Orin leaned back, letting out a low whistle. “At least they know how to feed us.”

  Tarin grinned faintly. “Finally, something worth waiting for.”

  Rhea elbowed him lightly. “Try not to make a scene before the real gala even starts.”

  Kael almost smiled at their banter. Almost.

  His gaze lifted one last time—past the banners, past the crowd—and found Eric again.

  Their eyes met once more, this time across the shimmer of candlelight and crystal.

  Neither looked away.

  The air between them seemed to still, even as the music swelled and laughter rose around them.

  Kael didn’t move, didn’t blink. He wanted Eric to see it—the calm, the quiet fire that had replaced the boy he once betrayed.

  Eric’s lips curved, just slightly. Not mockery, not warmth. Something in between.

  And then he turned away.

  Kael exhaled slowly.

  Rhea caught the motion and frowned. “You’re really not fine.”

  He shook his head. “No. But I will be.”

  The music changed—slower now, graceful. The announcer’s voice rose again above the crowd.

  “Let the Gala of Three Houses begin in earnest! Tonight, we honor the heirs of Wicelind, of Ardent, and of Ericson—the promise of our realm’s future!”

  Applause thundered through the marble hall.

  Kael lifted his glass, more out of habit than celebration. The weight of that single glance, that shared silence, lingered far longer than the sound of cheering.

  For the first time in years, he wasn’t just thinking about his training or his duty.

  He was thinking about Eric.

  And the unfinished reckoning between them.