The day the Imperial Invitation arrived, the comfortable, healing rhythm of estate life Riven and Barron had established was shattered. The Grand Celebration for Prince Vaelorian's birthday wasn't just a party; it was a political arena, and Riven, as the Duke's heir, and Barron, as a newly commissioned Lord and Knight, had to be outfitted for battle.
Riven had spent months wearing the simple, sturdy clothes of a young Lord managing fields and forests. Now, the summons required him to reclaim the finery he'd abandoned.
"This is ridiculous," Riven muttered, standing stiffly while the manor's tailor, Silas, circled him, bristling with pins and tape measures. The study had been transformed into a fitting room draped in bolts of opulent fabrics. "I feel like a rare antique on display."
"Nonsense, My Lord, you're a very handsome young man." Silas corrected him, squinting at the drape of a heavy silver brocade. "This outfit is necessary. You are Duke Ashbourne's only child and heir. You must project strength, stability, and wealth. You must look utterly unattainable."
Barron, standing beside him, was equally under siege by tailors, but he was enjoying the process slightly more. He was being fitted for a variation of his official Knight Squad uniform that incorporated the colors of his own minor Lordship—a compromise between his new military post and his new noble title.
"At least I'm used to wearing something heavy," Barron joked, adjusting the collar of his jacket. "Though I'm still not sure this silk won't tear if I accidentally flex my muscles."
"You earned that uniform, Barron. You should wear it proudly," Riven replied, trying to hold still as Silas adjusted a shoulder pad. He chose clothing for himself that was opulent but dark—colors like midnight blue, deep forest green, and charcoal gray—to project indifference. "It certainly looks better on you than it ever would on me."
"And you, My Lord," Barron countered, studying Riven's reflection, "will look like a walking vault. This deep emerald velvet suits you. It says, 'I'm rich, I'm powerful, and I have absolutely no interest in your petty Palace drama.' We go as two established Lords, one managing his estate, the other serving the crown, both unaffected by the drama. You get it?"
Riven nodded, finding a measure of calm in the strategy. Barron was right. They were peers, both young men of title and lands, united by friendship. This wasn't a master and servant dynamic; it was an alliance forged by mutual respect.
The journey was long, taking three days in the Ashbourne family's best coach. Riven spent the first day in near-silence, brooding over the upcoming confrontation. Barron, ever the pragmatic one, attempted to reframe their mission.
"Look, I know this whole thing sucks but at least we have a clear objective," Barron said, leaning forward. "We have to go in there, look bored, look wealthy, look powerful and make absolutely no move that could be interpreted as a threat to those people. The goal is to appear unimpressed. We're just two Lords fulfilling a mandate from our respective houses. Easy pissy."
"It's not that easy, Barron. The moment I walk into that ballroom, I stop being just a Lord," Riven countered, his nerves frayed. "I'm me too. The Prince is going to look at me, and I'm going to look at him, and it's going to be a complete disaster."
"No, it won't be," Barron insisted, his voice firm. "You are Lord Riven, Heir of Duke Ashbourne. You are thriving without him. He is trapped in a marriage arrangement with a girl he's probably only met a couple of times. You've been running a region, and I've been learning to navigate my new life. We'll show him that you're doing better than ever. You don't need him."
Riven looked at him, absorbing his words. "He's going to see your uniform, the one he thought I'd be wearing too, and know exactly why I'm not wearing it." Riven whispered, the pain returning momentarily.
"Yes," Barron agreed softly. "He will. And he'll know he's the reason. But that's his burden, Riven, not yours. We go in, we make a polite showing, we don't speak to Vaelorian unless spoken to, and then we leave. We show those people that have been gossiping about us that we're doing better than expected."
As they finally approached the Capitol, the sheer scale of the city was overwhelming. The dense cluster of walls and glittering domes culminated in the massive, imposing structure of the Imperial Palace. The crowds thickened as they neared the palace gates, with carriages from every noble house in the empire queuing for entry. Riven watched the procession, his jaw tight.
"Here we go," he muttered, adjusting the collar of his expensive new coat.
Barron gripped his forearm reassuringly. "Remember the plan: Unassailable. Unimpressed. Unbothered. We stay together. And we get through this. I've got your back."
The guards waved the Ashbourne carriage through the outer gates. The carriage rolled onto the polished courtyard stones, heading toward the main entrance. Riven was back in the place he had sworn he would never return to, a reluctant player entering a dangerous game. His heart hammered a desperate, uneven rhythm against his ribs, but his face was perfectly, coldly composed.
Let the game of charades begin!