Riven lingered in the quiet corner near the massive draped window, feeling the weight of the evening settle deep into his bones. The grand celebration still roared around him—a deafening vortex of music, laughter, and the relentless dance of high-stakes social maneuvering. The glittering chandeliers cast a warm, flickering glow, but inside, Riven felt hollow, numb. He accepted a glass of wine from a passing servant, the cool glass steady in his trembling hand.
"Gods, I am so tired," he thought bitterly. "Tired of pretending, tired of fighting. All this pomp... it's just noise. A distraction from the real battles we're too afraid to face. I can't believe I fought so hard to live just to experience this bullshit."
"Are you okay?" Barron murmured softly beside him, taking a slow sip from his own glass and Riven shook his head. "Well," he added, breaking the silence gently, "I completely understand. What happened back there was dramatic. Good job maintaining your composure when you walked out on him."
Riven managed a faint, humorless smile. "Dramatic?" he thought. "That was an understatement of the century." He looked down at his wine, the dark liquid swirling sluggishly in the glass. "My composure is the only thing I have left at this point, Barron," he muttered, voice low and strained. "Let's just stay here, look like we're discussing something important, and wait until we can decently leave. I've had enough of this place."
"Because leaving early would look suspicious," he thought silently. "And I can't risk giving him—or anyone—a reason to come after my family's reputation."
The evening blurred into a slow, tedious dance of formalities. Nobles exchanged polite greetings, bowing and curtsying with practiced precision. The music slowed, the tempo easing into a more subdued rhythm, signaling the end of the night. The crowd began to thin, high-ranking nobles drifting away with their entourages, their footsteps echoing softly in the vast halls.
Riven, feeling the faintest flicker of hope, sensed his own chance for escape. He was about to turn away, ready to slip into the shadows, when a shadow fell over him—cool, deliberate, almost predatory.
He looked up. Standing before him was Princess Lyra of the Sorverigen Empire. Her silver gown shimmered like moonlight, elegant and unyielding. Her expression was one of detached observation, as if she was cataloging every detail of him with clinical interest.
Riven immediately straightened, instinctively shifting into his most polished, polite posture. "Don't show weakness now." His voice was measured, carefully controlled.
"Your Royal Highness. A beautiful celebration."
Lyra's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. Her gaze lingered, sharp and assessing.
"Thank you, Lord Riven," she replied smoothly. She didn't bother with small talk, simply standing there with a quiet confidence that made him feel exposed. "I regret not having the chance to speak to you earlier. You and Vaelorian are old friends from the camp, are you not?"
Riven's stomach clenched. "Damned if I hadn't been trying to avoid this conversation all evening." His mind raced, searching for a safe response.
"Old friends?" He forced a tight, dismissive smile. "Your Highness, I don't know what you may have heard, but the Prince and I are not that close. We were merely roommates at the same camp for a time."
Lyra's lips curled into a slight smirk. Her eyes sparkled with amusement—amusement that felt far too sharp for comfort. She raised a delicate eyebrow and let out a soft, almost amused, low laugh that held no real humor, only a quiet, cutting amusement.
"Oh, Lord Riven, please relax," she said, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper that only he could hear. "Until this morning, I would have accepted those words. But now, I've seen Vaelorian with you, and he told me just enough." Her gaze pinched with a faint, triumphant smile. "I assure you, I am not going to come between you two. In fact, nothing would make me happier than for you to take him back from me."
Riven stared, stunned. The glass in his hand seemed suddenly insignificant. "What?" His mind scrambled, confusion battling with disbelief. "He told her?" His voice was hoarse with surprise.
"I beg your pardon, Your Highness? What exactly are you talking about?"
Lyra leaned in subtly, her expression calm but with an edge of quiet menace. Her voice was gentle, almost coaxing, as if speaking to a child.
"I am talking about the fact that I want a political alliance with Lumina, not a lovestruck fool of a husband. It would have been cute if he was in love with me but he's not. Vaelorian is doing his absolute best to make himself detestable to me—and trust me, he's succeeding brilliantly. He's doing it for you." Her eyes flicked toward Vaelorian, who was nearby, forcing a laugh near the Emperor, seemingly oblivious. "And I have no intention of marrying a man whose entire soul is standing in the corner looking like a magnificent, heart-broken poet."
She straightened, restoring her regal composure, but her words lingered, heavy with unspoken truths.
"He is miserable, Lord Riven. So are you." Her gaze made a pointed move toward Vaelorian, her voice softening just enough to carry a subtle warning. "He's risking his entire family's diplomatic leverage for you. You should talk to him." Her tone grew softer, almost coaxing. "And oh, do cut the guy some slack, alright? He's hurting just as much."
For a moment, Riven's mind was blank—stunned by the sudden intimacy, the unexpected honesty. His heart hammered against his chest as her words sank in. "He's suffering too." The thought echoed painfully.
She nodded faintly, a small, acknowledging gesture, and with that, Princess Lyra turned and walked away, her silver gown trailing behind her like moonlit water. Leaving Riven standing there, his carefully built wall of cold fury and detached composure trembling to its core—shaken by the subtle, piercing truth of her words, and the undeniable glimpse into Vaelorian's hidden anguish.