The steady, productive rhythm of life at the manor had begun to mend the deep wound in Riven's heart. With Barron's constant company and the demands of estate management, the memory of Vaelorian had finally begun to fade into a manageable ache. What they were, the thoughts of the older boy, safely tucked away.
However, that illusion was shattered one cold afternoon in the Duke's main study. Riven was reviewing the year's wool tax, Barron leaning over his shoulder arguing for a "strategic investment in better sheep," when a commotion started outside. The house page, looking terrified, announced the arrival of an Imperial Courier.
A small, official party entered the room—formal, stiff, and radiating the authority of the Capital. The lead courier presented Riven with a single, heavy, wax-sealed envelope.
Riven took the invitation. The paper was thick, expensive, and bore the unmistakable, intricate seal of the Emperor. The very sight of the seal—the symbol of the Empire and, by extension, the man who had betrayed him—made a cold knot tighten in his stomach.
He broke the wax with a snap and unfolded the letter. It was a formal, flowery invitation to the Grand Celebration for Prince Vaelorian's upcoming twenty-first birthday. He skimmed the pompous language and scoffed.
"Look at this trash," Riven said, tossing the main card to Barron. "Why would they even bother inviting country nobles to go and witness their spectacle. They're looking for one more audience for the Prince's parade, aren't they?"
Barron caught it but immediately noticed a second, smaller card tucked into the envelope. He read the message, and the cheerful light in his eyes vanished.
"Riven, this isn't just a generic invite. You need to read this."
Riven took the second card—a it was a personal note from his father, Duke Ashbourne, delivered by the same courier.
Riven read the cold, words aloud, his voice tight with building fury: "The family has received the Imperial Invitation.This is a matter of duty, not choice.You, Riven, son
of Ashbourne, will represent Duke Ashbourne as the Head of the family at the Grand Celebration. Ensure you are suitably prepared. Your father."
Riven crumpled the note in his hand. The paper protested with a sharp, angry crackle.
"It seems my father wants to remind the court that he still has a powerful bid, even if his son threw away the Knight commission," Riven bit out, frustration radiating off him in waves. "He hasn't spoken to me since I got home, but he'll use me as his puppet now. How convenient."
"You can't go," Barron insisted, planting his hands on the desk. "Not after everything. The Prince will be there with his fiancée, Princess Lyra. What are you going to do, Riven? Stand there and watch them dance? This isn't right."
Riven ran a hand through his hair, his eyes burning with a mixture of helplessness and rage. "I have to. It's a formal, direct order from the head of the house. I can't refuse the Duke's command without starting a full-scale family dispute, and I won't give him the satisfaction to declare me reckless or incompetent. It's an obligation, Barron. The price of this bloody title. I have to attend."
He stared at the crushed note in his fist. "This is the last place on earth I want to be, trust me. I spent months building a wall around my heart, and my own father just bought a front seat ticket for me to jump right back into the fire."
Barron nodded, his expression resolute. "Then I'm going with you. You're the Duke's son, you need a suitable escort, and I am, technically, your retainer, training or not. Plus, someone needs to make sure you don't actually stab the Prince with a fork at dinner."
Riven managed a weary, grateful smile. "You are truly a terrible influence, Barron, and yet, the only good thing in my life right now. Very well. Let's start the preparations, shall we?We're going to the Crown Prince's Grand Birthday Celebration after all."
The Imperial Invitation, far from being an honor, was a summons to the very inferno Riven had risked his heart and his future to escape.