The night deepened.

  Candlelight shimmered against marble and glass, and laughter rippled like a current through the grand hall of Wicelind’s capital. Music swelled again — strings and flutes weaving through the hum of voices, bright enough to almost hide the tension beneath.

  Kael stood near one of the tall windows, his reflection fractured in the glass by the glow of torches outside. The air was heavy with the scent of wine, spice, and polished wood. Behind him, nobles danced and spoke of peace as though the past had never happened.

  “Smile a little,” Rhea murmured, appearing at his side with a cup of golden wine. “You look like you’re waiting for someone to challenge you.”

  Kael didn’t look away from the window. “Maybe I am.”

  She sighed softly. “You can’t fight him here.”

  “I know.”

  Rhea studied his face, then handed him the drink. “Then at least act like you’re enjoying the evening. The other houses are watching.”

  Kael finally took the cup, though he didn’t drink. His gaze shifted across the hall to where House Ericson had gathered — a cluster of silver and black among the gold and crimson of the others. Eric stood at the center, speaking to one of the older lords. His posture was straight, his movements careful. Controlled.

  He hadn’t looked Kael’s way since the doors opened. But that didn’t matter. Kael felt the distance between them — like a wound that had closed on the surface but still ached deep beneath the skin.

  Tarin and Orin approached from the crowd, both carrying small plates of food they’d clearly stolen from the servants’ trays.

  “Best thing about this gala?” Tarin said, gesturing with a fork. “No one stops you from eating as much as you want.”

  Rhea rolled her eyes. “You have no shame.”

  “None,” Tarin said proudly, taking another bite. “But you should try this roasted—”

  He stopped mid-sentence as a group of nobles passed by, their silken sleeves brushing close. They whispered behind fans, eyes darting between Kael and the silver crest of Ericson across the room.

  Orin glanced after them. “They’re already talking.”

  “Let them,” Kael said quietly. “They’ve been waiting for this since the invitations went out.”

  “Waiting for what?” Rhea asked.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Kael’s jaw tightened. “For me to look at him like this.”

  Silence settled over their group for a moment. The music softened — a slower rhythm now, almost mournful.

  Joran joined them a moment later, his steps quiet. “The nobles from Vikran are keeping close to Eric,” he said. “Not much interaction with the others. They’re holding their distance.”

  “They always do,” Rhea muttered.

  Joran looked at Kael. “Are you planning to speak with him tonight?”

  Kael turned his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Why would I?”

  “Because he’ll speak to you,” Joran replied simply.

  Kael didn’t answer.

  The song changed again — brighter this time. A servant passed with a tray of new drinks, and nobles began to move toward the open floor where the first dance of the gala was to begin.

  Kael’s cup was still full.

  Across the hall, Eric had finally moved away from his circle of lords. His coat caught the light with every step. He wasn’t smiling, but his expression was calm — unreadable, the same as it had been the night everything changed between them.

  He didn’t approach directly, only drifted closer as if by coincidence, each movement blending with the rhythm of the evening.

  When their paths finally crossed near the edge of the hall, the space around them seemed to quiet, though no one stopped to stare. The air between them felt sharper, colder.

  “Lord Kael,” Eric said first, voice low and steady.

  Kael turned toward him slowly. “Lord Ericson.”

  Eric’s mouth twitched faintly at the formality. “You’ve learned restraint. That’s new.”

  Kael met his gaze, unflinching. “And you’ve learned how to hide what you are.”

  For a moment, neither spoke. The music filled the silence between them, soft and distant.

  Eric tilted his head slightly. “We were both younger then.”

  “You betrayed me,” Kael said, the words quiet but edged with steel.

  Eric’s eyes flickered, but his calm didn’t break. “And yet, here we are — standing in the same hall, wearing the same colors of power. Perhaps the past wasn’t as final as you thought.”

  Kael’s fingers tightened around his cup. “Don’t mistake endurance for forgiveness.”

  Eric’s voice softened just enough for only Kael to hear. “You still hold onto anger like it’s armor. That’s why you’ll always carry his shadow instead of surpassing it.”

  Kael’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not him, Eric. You’ll never be my equal, no matter how many titles you inherit.”

  Something cold flashed in Eric’s expression — brief, then gone. “And you’re still chasing a ghost that no one remembers.”

  Before Kael could respond, Rhea appeared at his side, her tone light but firm. “My lord Ericson, the dance floor awaits. Or are you planning to start a duel instead?”

  Eric’s mouth curved faintly. “Not tonight, Lady Rhea.”

  He gave Kael one last measured look, then turned away, disappearing back into the crowd.

  Rhea watched him go, then turned to Kael. “You handled that well. You didn’t punch him.”

  Kael exhaled slowly. “I almost did.”

  She smirked. “Progress, then.”

  The next hour passed in a blur of music and motion. Nobles danced beneath chandeliers, laughter spilling like wine. The three houses mingled — each pretending unity while their eyes measured worth and weakness.

  Kael played his part — speaking with lords, exchanging formal smiles, listening to empty words about peace and alliance. But behind every polite phrase, he could feel the weight of comparison.

  The heir of Veyren, they whispered. The boy who trained in silence. The one who lost everything.

  And across the room — The lord of Ericson. The man who rose from ashes. The one who carries Vikran’s legacy.

  By the time the final speech began, the air in the hall felt thick enough to cut.

  The High Chamberlain stepped forward once more, raising his glass. “Tonight,” he declared, “marks not just the renewal of the Three Houses’ bond, but the promise that Wicelind itself shall endure through its heirs. May unity guide them — and strength preserve them.”

  Applause thundered through the hall. The final toast was made.

  As the night wound down, Kael found himself once more at the edge of the hall, watching the nobles depart in pairs and groups. The torches had burned lower, their light dimming against the marble.

  His companions gathered near him — Orin half-asleep, Tarin still holding food, Rhea adjusting her cloak, Joran standing silently as always.

  Orin yawned. “So that’s it? One night of speeches and pretending we like each other?”

  “That’s the point,” Rhea said. “Pretend long enough, and they start to believe it.”

  Kael looked one last time across the hall. Eric was there again, near the exit, speaking with an advisor. Their eyes met briefly — not with anger this time, but acknowledgment. A silent understanding that nothing between them was over.

  Then Eric turned and walked out beneath the great banners of Wicelind, his figure fading into the shadows beyond the torchlight.

  Kael watched until he was gone.

  Rhea touched his arm lightly. “Let’s go, Kael. The night’s done.”

  He nodded slowly. “Not yet,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “Not until the debt between us is.”

  They left the hall together, the echo of laughter fading behind them — and above, the moon of Wicelind hung cold and watchful, marking the end of the gala and the quiet beginning of what was still to come.