The chandeliers cast a golden glow over the Great Hall of Cliffspire Citadel, their light glinting off polished marble and gilded finery. The scent of wine and seared venison mingled with the breeze drifting in from the terrace, where nobles and dignitaries murmured in quiet conversation. The weight of the evening settled upon Eramis like a cloak woven from expectation. The wine flowed freely, laughter ringing sharper as the edges of ceremony blurred into indulgence. The music dulled into a slow, deliberate waltz carrying through the grand hall. Across the polished marble floor, nobles drifted toward their partners with effortless grace, stepping into the rhythm of expectation. Eramis had barely set his goblet down before a familiar hand slipped into his.

  “You’ve avoided me long enough, your Grace” Evelyne murmured, her tone light but expectant. He turned to find her already smiling, a glint in her hazel eyes that told him she’d given him no choice in the matter.

  “You make it sound as though I was trying,” he replied.

  “You were,” she countered, drawing him onto the dance floor with a confidence that left no room for argument. “And it was a terrible attempt.”

  He let out a short breath, part sigh and part laugh, as he took her hand properly, his other settling at her waist. This was familiar. They had always known how to move around each other and as the first notes of the waltz swelled, they stepped into motion. Evelyne moved flawlessly, confident in a way that only came with years of knowing exactly where she belonged. She had been trained for this, just as he had, but where he had tolerated the lessons, she had perfected them.

  “You’re tense,” she observed, tilting her head slightly.

  “I’m always tense,” Eramis murmured.

  “Not with me.”

  His grip at her waist firmed slightly as he guided them into a slow turn, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You give yourself a great deal of credit.”

  “And you never give yourself enough,” she quipped, her smile deepening.

  He huffed a quiet laugh. “You’ve been speaking to my mother.”

  “Perhaps,” she admitted. “Or perhaps I just know you.”

  Eramis turned them again, this time leading into a more intricate step, forcing her to follow. She did so with ease.

  Her eyes studied his face for a moment before she spoke again. “You’re thinking about something.”

  He exhaled . “I think quite often, Evelyne.”

  “Yes, but this is the brooding kind.”

  “I don’t brood.”

  She gave him a look.

  He sighed. “Fine. Maybe a little.”

  A smile curled at the corner of her lips. “Ellirae?”

  Eramis didn’t answer immediately, but she saw the shift in his expression. He guided her into another step, keeping his voice measured.

  “She’s never been away from Cliffspire like this.”

  Evelyne’s expression softened. “Neither have you.”

  The words settled between them and the music swelled as if to fill the silence.

  “You’ll see her again, Eramis,” Evelyne murmured.

  He let out a breath. “I know.”

  “Then why do you look like you’re preparing for her funeral?”

  He shot her a sharp look, but she only smiled.

  “Perhaps I just don’t like change,” he said finally.

  Evelyne hummed. “Then you’re going to hate the next few years.”

  A low chuckle escaped him, and for the first time that evening, some of the weight eased from his shoulders.

  The final notes of the waltz faded, and their steps slowed into stillness. The court saw exactly what it had always expected to see.

  Eramis released her hand, not as if letting go, but as if it were only natural.

  Evelyne smiled at him—not because it was expected, but because she meant it.

  “Not so terrible, was it?” she murmured.

  He smirked. “I suppose I’ll survive.”

  "You were always a better dancer then you let on.”

  Eramis exhaled, smirking. "Don’t let that get around."

  "I wouldn’t dream of it."

  For a moment, they simply stood there, the music fading into the hum of conversation around them. Then, she gave him a small nod. "Go on, then. I think you’ve earned a moment to yourself."

  "How generous of you." He inclined his head in quiet farewell, then stepped back, weaving through the shifting figures of the court as he made his way toward the terrace. He felt her gaze on him, following his path until at last, the music and the murmuring crowd swallowed her whole.

  The moment Edric caught sight of him, his grin widened. "Ah, at last, the crown prince escapes the clutches of propriety." He lifted his goblet in a mock salute. "I was beginning to wonder if I'd be swallowed whole by Lady Morrayne's pleasantries."

  "Morrayne does not waste pleasantries," Eramis countered, coming to stand beside them. "She uses them like a man uses a dagger—pointed, precise, and only when necessary."

  Edric chuckled, taking a leisurely sip of his wine. "Well said. I should be more careful, then. She nearly convinced me I was charming a moment ago. You wouldn't wish to lose me to the court, would you, Eramis?"

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  "You’d set fire to the court within a fortnight," Roderic muttered, shaking his head. "If the Queen didn't have you hanged first."

  Edric pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "You wound me, Lord Dane. And here I thought I had your admiration."

  "I admire your sword arm," Roderic admitted, taking a slow drink from his goblet. "Your restraint, however? That remains to be seen."

  Eramis smirked, his gaze shifting between the two men. For all their differences, they were among the few in court he could trust. Edric, with his reckless charm, played the fool often enough that few remembered he was a seasoned naval commander, sharper than he let on. Roderic, ever the soldier, was the opposite, deliberate, disciplined, and humorless to all but those he considered worth the effort.

  "You both seem in fine spirits tonight," Eramis observed, crossing his arms. "Unusual, considering we just endured Wynn’s musings on fate and inevitability."

  Roderic scoffed. "Wynn enjoys hearing himself speak, but his warnings hold weight. Your sister’s departure shifts the balance in ways some of us are not comfortable with."

  Edric, for once, did not jest. "I don't like it either," he admitted. "I respect Ellirae, but sending her away to play at Magi is madness. Alvaren needs its princess at court, not cloistered in some distant sanctum."

  Eramis exhaled slowly, feeling the familiar edge of frustration creep in. He had thought the same a thousand times over, but their mother had made her decision. Ellirae would go to Eryndor, just as duty dictated.

  "Would you prefer she remain here and become a pawn for the council?" Eramis asked, keeping his voice even. "They’d have her wed before the year was out, bound in chains neither of you would be able to break."

  "Better a crown than whatever fate awaits her there," Roderic murmured darkly, swirling the wine in his cup. "At least here, we can protect her."

  "From what?" Edric laughed, eyes narrowing. "The Magi? Or the likes of Veymar Bannon?” At the mention of the Chancellor, all three of them fell briefly silent.

  Eramis flexed his fingers against his forearm. "Whatever she faces, she is stronger than they think. Stronger than even we think."

  His gaze drifted across the hall watching Ellirae among the gathered nobles, moving with practiced ease through the currents of conversation. A polite nod here, a carefully measured smile there, never lingering too long in one place, never offering more than was necessary. Even now, she carried herself with grace. But Eramis knew the weight beneath that poise, the weight of expectation, of sacrifice. She would go to Eryndor not because she wished to, but because she must.

  Edric followed his gaze and sighed, rubbing a hand through his dark, wind-tossed hair. "Strong, yes. But even the strongest can be broken in the wrong hands. And the Magi…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "I’ve spent enough time in the eastern ports to hear the stories. The things they learn, the things they become... I don’t envy her, Eramis. Not one bit."

  "Then let us hope she remembers who she is," Eramis said quietly. "Because if she does, there is no force in this world that will break her."

  Roderic studied him for a long moment before grunting his reluctant agreement. "She has the Queen’s will in her. That much is certain." He took another slow sip of wine. "But you what about you Eramis? You will remain here in a court filled with men who would rather see you shackled to politics than wielding a sword. That concerns me more than whatever Ellirae faces in Eryndor."

  Eramis let out a short, humorless laugh. "You think I don’t know that?" He gestured vaguely to the hall, where Lady Morrayne was still engaged in quiet conversation with Duke Wynn. "Every man at this table plays a different game, Roderic. My mother understands it. Better than anyone, but even she cannot control them all. Not forever."

  Edric tapped the rim of his goblet against the stone balustrade. "And where do you stand in all of this? You’re neither king nor councilor, neither warlord nor diplomat. Tell me, Eramis, what is it you do?"

  Eramis smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I wait."

  "For what?" Roderic asked, his voice edged with curiosity.

  Eramis glanced around the hall once more. His mother’s calm, unyielding presence at the high table. Selene Morrayne’s ever-watchful gaze. Veymar Bannon’s quiet calculations. The High Council, a nest of vipers waiting for the moment he overstepped.

  "For the tide to turn," he said simply. "And when it does, I intend to be ready."

  Edric’s grin returned, sharp and knowing. "Well, when you decide to seize the helm, do let me know. It’s been some time since I’ve had a proper storm to sail into."

  "Just make sure you don’t capsize before then," Roderic muttered, draining his cup. Eramis exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of their words settle into his bones.

  The night carried on, music swelling once more, the dance of power continuing beneath the veneer of celebration. The feast had settled into its rhythm, goblets refilled, conversations woven between bites of seared venison and fresh oysters. The weight of Wynn’s speech still lingered in the air, though it had been swallowed by the revelry, reduced to a backdrop of murmured analysis among the more politically inclined.

  Eramis swirled the wine in his goblet, watching as his mother remained silent, her gaze unreadable. She had not yet spoken, not when Wynn declared Ellirae an inevitability, not when the court toasted her like a commodity to be bartered and reclaimed. She had simply watched. Measured. Waited.

  And then, without preamble, the Queen rose.

  The change was immediate. Conversations stilled, laughter dimmed, and every noble at the high table straightened instinctively, as if caught in the moment between tide and storm.

  "I have watched my daughter grow into a woman of rare strength, of rare wisdom," Ellarisa began, her lips curved in the faintest hint of a smile, her voice, smooth as tempered steel, carrying effortlessly across the Great Hall. "And though it is a mother’s duty to see the greatness in her child, I have never needed to search for it in Ellirae. It has been evident in every step she has taken, every choice she has made, and every battle she has fought, whether seen or unseen."

  Eramis felt a shift in the room, a quiet breath as the assembled nobility leaned in.

  "When she was a child," Queen Ellarisa continued, her pale blue eyes resting on Ellirae, "she would follow me into my war councils, too young to understand the weight of what was being discussed but too determined to be sent away. She listened. She learned. And she asked questions that no child should have known to ask. Not because she sought power, but because she sought understanding. That is the heart of my daughter. Not ambition, nor vanity, but a mind unwilling to accept the world as it is, when she knows it can be something more."

  A murmur passed through the gathered nobles, subtle but undeniable.

  "Ellirae is not leaving to fulfill the wishes of others," the Queen continued, her voice unwavering. "She is not departing because duty demands it. She goes because she has been chosen to walk a path that will demand more of her than any of us can truly understand. And that, above all else, is what sets her apart."

  The words hung in the air like the final note of a song, poised in that delicate space between admiration and inevitability. Eramis watched as his mother let the silence settle before continuing, her fingers still resting lightly against the stem of her goblet.

  "It is no easy thing to stand upon the precipice of change and step forward willingly," Ellarisa said, her gaze steady on Ellirae. "Many among us have faced crossroads in our lives, decisions that shaped the course of our fates. We tell ourselves that we chose wisely, that we bore the weight of consequence with grace. But I wonder, how many of us truly embraced the unknown? How many of us would have had the courage to walk Ellirae has?"

  A ripple passed through the gathered lords and ladies, not of dissent, but of contemplation. The weight of the moment pressed sharp against his ribs.

  "And so," Ellarisa finally said, lifting her goblet slightly, "I ask you all to raise a glass, not to a princess, nor to an heir of this kingdom, but to Ellirae. To the woman she is, and to the woman she will become."

  A moment of silence lingered, as if bound by some unspoken command, the hall echoed with the response.

  "To Ellirae!"

  Crystal rang against crystal, the warmth of voices mingling in the vast chamber, but Eramis did not join in the toast. Instead, he studied his mother. Beside him, Edric Greythorne took a deep sip of his wine and muttered under his breath, “Well, she certainly made Wynn sound like an uninspired merchant tallying accounts.”

  Eramis smirked. “She usually does.”

  The court around them swelled with renewed energy, laughter, clinking goblets, the slow unraveling of ceremony into revelry. The transition was inevitable. Across the room, Ellirae moved through the shifting tide of nobles, slipping past golden-clad figures and half-empty goblets.

  She looked untouchable. Unshaken. But Eramis knew better.

  He and his sister had learned long ago that armor was not only wrought in steel, but in the careful arrangement of words, the deliberate stillness of posture, and the unwavering mask of composure wore before the world.