The Marches hummed with focused activity. Riven and Barron had spent the weeks since the annulment consumed by their new, dual strategy, successfully securing the crucial Northern Garrison supply contract. Their commitment to service was undeniable, and the official letters confirmed their duties as Emperor's Knights—Riven's reinstated, Barron's confirmed—arrived shortly after.
Just days before they were due to report to the Imperial Palace, a familiar, welcome figure arrived at the Ashbourne manor: Willow. She rode in looking impeccably organized, her kit precisely packed.
"Well, look at the two hardest-working Lords in Lumina," Willow greeted them, dismounting with a graceful ease. "I figured I'd come early so we could travel to the Capital together. You know, to keep you both from accidentally signing away your titles for a discounted wine."
Riven laughed, pulling her into a quick hug. "Willow, you're a sight for sore eyes. I've missed you so much! Also, we really could use your sharp mind."
"More importantly," Barron added, beaming, "you can keep Riven from punching someone in the face if they inevitably try to assign us to the laundry duties."
"They wouldn't dare assign us to laundry duty," Riven promised. "I have important Knight's duties and a royal game to win."
The trios began their journey, but before they could turn east toward the Capital, Barron insisted on a quick detour. "We're going west first. I haven't really been home since leaving camp. My family needs a proper visit, and I need to introduce them to the two most powerful and now officially knighted people in my life. I wish Anya and Mira Lune were here"
"Me too!" Riven and Willow echoed together.
And so, the three friends—the Duke's heir, the newly minted Knight-Lord, and the brilliant, warrior daughter of a Baron—made their way to Argentums, where House Durnhall, Barron's family estate is.
Barron's family in Argentums, were still adjusting to their new station of nobility. They had been common folk only a few generations ago, rising through sheer military merit. The house, while large, felt more like a fortress than a manor, and Barron's parents—sturdy, no-nonsense people—were proud but slightly overwhelmed by the etiquette of their new noble station.
Barron's mother embraced him fiercely upon arrival. "Finally! A proper visit! We thought Lord Riven would keep you forever." She then turned a kind, slightly anxious smile to Riven. "Welcome to our home, Lord Riven. And Lady Willow. Please forgive the dust; we're still figuring out where all the extra servants are supposed to sleep."
Riven, now used to the suffocating formality of the Ashbourne estate, found the honesty and warmth of Mama Durnhall refreshing. He and Willow spent two days there, genuinely enjoying the straightforward hospitality. Barron's father, a man focused on defense and strategies, spent hours with Riven discussing how the new supply contract could benefit local militias.
It was clear that Barron's family was adjusting well to their nobility—not by adopting airs, but by focusing on the duty and practical benefit their title afforded the region. They were strong, grounded, and provided a necessary contrast to the Palace's decadence. The brief stay grounded the three friends before they headed back into the volatile world of imperial court.
On the third morning, the three knights mounted their horses, the Imperial summons now foremost in their minds.
"Right," Willow said, adjusting the reins. "A detour was lovely. Now, Riven, remember the goal:Lord Riven of House Ashbourne is competent Knight, loyal, and essential to the Crown. No more childish games."
Riven nodded, a determined look on his face. He felt the weight of his new duties—potential consort, heir to his house, and now the emperor's Knight—but he welcomed it.
"No more childish games. Just productivity. Let's go secure our future."
With that, the three friends turned their horses eastward, beginning their final journey back to the Imperial Palace. They were no longer trainees at the camp, but key players in a massive royal game, ready to join the Prince.
The journey ended as all roads in Lumina did for the noble class: at the colossal, intimidating gates of the Imperial Palace. The sight of the vast, white stone walls and gilded domes never failed to remind Riven of the suffocating politics he was now willingly re-entering.
They rode their horses through the immense courtyards, their presence officially noted by the Imperial Guards. They were no longer the ragged trainees of the empire camp, but formal, high-ranking guests. Riven and Barron wore their new Knight's uniforms with quiet confidence; Riven, in particular, felt the heavy, tailored wool as armor for the royal and political battle ahead.
The three were escorted to the newly renovated Knights' Quarters, an exclusive section of the Palace dedicated to high-ranking military and household knights.
"Well, this is an upgrade from the camp rooms." Barron noted, tossing his saddlebag onto a large, canopied bed. The rooms were spacious, richly furnished, and offered views of the manicured Imperial gardens.
Riven placed his own luggage down, feeling the familiar, unwelcome tightness in his chest. "It's still a cage, Barron. Just a much fancier one." He walked to the window, staring out at the geometric perfection of the hedges. "Remember why we're here. We're not here for comfort; we're here to prove ourselves."
Willow, practical as ever, began laying out her tools on a nearby desk. "And to secure your position beside the Prince. Your job, Riven, is to be the epitome of competence. No more furious outbursts, and certainly no more kicking the Prince where the sun doesn't shine."
"I am a Knight of the Empire now," Riven said, adjusting the heavy silver brooch of his uniform. "I will be impeccably professional."
A knock came at the door, and a young, overly eager page entered with a message. "Lord Riven? His Royal Highness, Prince Vaelorian, requests your presence in his private gardens immediately. He asks that you wear your full formal uniform."
Riven exchanged a dry, knowing look with Barron. "He really wants to see you in the outfit," Barron whispered with a grin. The guy is completely taken with you."
"Of course, he is. It's either that or he's just horny." Riven whispered back with a sigh, a small smile playing on his lips despite himself. "Tell His Royal Highness that I will attend to him immediately."
Riven headed to the mirror, smoothing the fabric of his dark blue uniform and silver detailing. He saw the proud, determined man he had become—a knight, a lord, and now, the Political anchor for the future Emperor. He was ready to face the Prince and the Palace, but this time, he was on equal footing.
"Wish me luck," Riven said, grabbing his gloves.
"Luck, and self-control," Willow advised with a grin. "The Emperor will be watching."
Riven nodded, a surge of adrenaline hitting him. The battle for his love and his future had officially begun.
The walk to Vaelorian's private gardens was brief and purely for show. Riven, impeccably dressed in his new Knight's uniform, found Vaelorian waiting by an ornate marble fountain. The Prince was dressed in a simple, expensive lounging tunic, looking deliberately casual—the image of a Prince more concerned with aesthetics than duty.
"Lord Riven! Thanks for coming on such short notice," Vaelorian said, his voice carrying just enough to the surrounding palace staff to sound like a royal command. He stepped closer, offering a formal, polite nod that was stiff and utterly unconvincing. "Your uniform is… precisely as impressive as I thought it would be."
"Your Highness," Riven replied with a crisp, low bow, maintaining a professional distance. "I report for duty."
Vaelorian looked past Riven, ensuring they had been observed. "Splendid. Welcome to the imperial Palace. May the elders look kindly upon you. That will be all, then. You are dismissed." He waited until the last of the pages had disappeared around a corner, and the air of formality instantly evaporated.
"Phew! The duty part is over," Vaelorian whispered, his eyes filled with mischief and longing. He grabbed Riven's hand, pulling him out of sight behind a high, fragrant jasmine trellis. "Now for the important part of your service."
Vaelorian didn't lead Riven back to his official receiving rooms. Instead, he led him through a series of hidden doors and corridors—a secret maze Riven remembered from their his first mission—until they reached Vaelorian's sleeping chambers.
The room was a sanctuary, quiet and opulent, with heavy velvet curtains drawn against the afternoon light. It smelled faintly of sandalwood and expensive ink.
"I haven't stopped thinking about you since I left last time," Vaelorian confessed, turning to face Riven. His eyes, usually masked by indifference, were soft and entirely focused. "Also, I'm still wearing a bruise from our 'reunion,' you know. I could've healed it but I didn't want to."
Riven laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Good. It's a healthy reminder of past mistakes." He reached out and gently traced the golden embroidery on Vaelorian's tunic. "But seeing you… actually free… it's worth the uniform, worth the stress."
"Then show me," Vaelorian whispered, stepping forward and pulling Riven into his arms. The formality of the uniform—the heavy wool, the polished silver—was a momentary barrier that was quickly abandoned.
Riven tore open the fastenings of his new Knight's uniform, letting the material fall to the floor. The uniform, which had represented duty and loyalty, was discarded, leaving only the man Vaelorian loved.
Their lovemaking was sweet and slow, a profound contrast to the frantic passion of their first reunion. It wasn't about fierce need or urgent apology; it was about reaffirmation and safety. Vaelorian took his time, pouring tenderness into every touch, savoring the feeling of Riven's skin beneath his hands—a reality he'd fought so hard to reclaim.
They spoke little, communicating instead through gentle touches and hungry kisses. It was an exercise in being, not fighting—a brief, perfect respite from the political war they were waging.
Afterward, they lay wrapped in the heavy silken sheets, bathed in the gold light filtering through the curtains. Riven rested his head on Vaelorian's shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of the Prince's heart.
"You really do look incredible in that uniform, though," Vaelorian murmured contentedly, tracing a pattern on Riven's chest. "It's a shame we had to get you out of it."
Riven smiled, leaning up to kiss Vaelorian's forehead. "Just focus on securing your throne, Your Highness. I'll wear whatever you want, whenever you want."
Vaelorian closed his eyes, holding Riven tight. In this room, they were just Riven and Vaelorian, no Prince, no Knight, and no impending Imperial scrutiny. They were home.