Morning arrived like a half-hearted apology — pale, damp, and already regretting itself. The manor buzzed with activity: servants darting about with trunks, stablehands arguing with horses that clearly hated royalty, and Grandfather's banners hanging limp in the drizzle as if even they'd lost the will to represent us.
I, meanwhile, was staring at my reflection and wondering if exhaustion could be considered fashionable. The candle had died sometime before dawn, leaving behind a mess of melted wax and a head full of dreams I'd rather not interpret.
A knock came — sharp, impatient. Only one person in the world could make a knock sound like a reprimand.
"Arlen," Serenya's voice cut through the door, clipped and commanding. "If you make us late for the Princess's ceremony, I'll feed you to your own horse."
"You said that last time," I called, buttoning my collar. "And he still bites."
The door opened anyway. Serenya didn't enter rooms; she took possession of them. Immaculate as ever, she wore traveling leathers polished enough to shame a mirror. Her hair was coiled neatly beneath a silver clasp, and her expression suggested she'd already lost patience with the entire bloodline.
"You look like a rumor that got out of hand," she said.
"I was aiming for mysterious."
"You landed on unwashed."
She crossed the room and fixed my collar herself, muttering something about 'public appearances' and 'basic dignity.' Serenya wasn't heir to House Vale — not officially — but she carried herself like the gods had forgotten to tell her that.
"The delegations from Mirrowood and the Stone Marches are already in Eredane," she said. "Elves and dwarfs, Arlen. Two races who can barely stand to be in the same room, and we're hosting them under one roof. Try to avoid lighting anything on fire."
"Your confidence in me is overwhelming."
"It's experience, not confidence."
By the time we reached the courtyard, the rain had turned the cobblestones slick and the servants miserable. Two carriages waited — one for the luggage, one for us, though I suspected the trunks might have been better company.
Master Grevan stood near the gate, hood drawn against the drizzle. His eyes flicked briefly to my hand — the one that still remembered last night's frost and faint, impossible light.
"Sleep well, my lord?"
"Well enough to resent being awake."
He gave one of his irritating half-smiles. "The best minds often do."
Before I could ask what that was supposed to mean, Serenya was already in the carriage, ledger open, quill scratching notes that looked more like battle plans. I climbed in after her.
"Comfortable?" she asked without looking up.
"I've been in prisons with more legroom."
"Then you'll feel right at home among nobles."
The wheels lurched, the carriage rolled forward, and House Vale began to disappear behind the mist. Fields gave way to forest, the sky bruised into pale steel, and the road stretched on like a promise I had no interest in keeping.
"You could at least pretend enthusiasm," Serenya said.
"For what? Watching diplomats argue over which fork is sacred?"
"For the Princess's ceremony. It's not just a celebration — it's politics."
"Ah, my favorite kind of party."
She sighed — a long, elegant sound of suffering. "If I can make the right impression, the Council might finally support my candidacy. I need you not to ruin that."
"Define ruin."
She gave me a look that could've withered marble.
I settled back, watching the rain stripe down the window. "You know, for someone chasing a crown, you're remarkably bad at smiling."
"And for someone doing nothing at all, you're remarkably good at talking."
Touché.
The carriage hit a rut, jostling hard enough to spill ink across her notes. Serenya swore softly — the kind of profanity refined women probably practiced in private. I bit back a laugh and glanced out the window again.
That was when I noticed the riders. Three of them, emerging through the fog ahead — cloaked, armed, too still to be ordinary guards.
Our driver slowed. The lead rider raised a hand, and the others fanned out.
"Lord Arlen Vale. Lady Serenya Vale." His voice carried that perfect balance of deference and command that only royal soldiers managed. "Your escort has been reassigned. By order of His Majesty."
Serenya straightened. "Reassigned? On whose authority?"
"His own," the man said. "There are… disturbances along the western roads."
The word disturbances lingered unpleasantly in the air.
"What kind of disturbances?" Serenya asked.
The rider hesitated. "The kind that move when the wind doesn't."
I felt it then — faint, deep, somewhere beneath my ribs. A hum. Like the one from my dream, buried and patient, waiting to be remembered.
"Wonderful," I said lightly. "Haunted roads. At least the ceremony won't be boring."
Serenya shot me a glare. "You think everything is a joke."
I met her eyes, the humor thinning just a little. "Only until it stops being one."
The carriage rolled on, fog curling around the wheels, the sound of hooves muffled like whispers. The rain had stopped, but the air smelled wrong — too still, too cold.
Somewhere, far to the west, something hummed. And this time, I didn't imagine it.
By the time the sun decided to grace us with its presence, the towers of Eredane were already breaking through the morning haze — slender spires and domes of silver-blue stone glinting like the teeth of some great, sleeping beast. The city never failed to impress, mostly because it looked like it had been designed by people who'd never heard the word budget.
Gold-tipped banners fluttered along the battlements, each bearing the royal crest: a white falcon wreathed in flame. The streets beyond the gate teemed with life — processions, heralds, and the sort of nobles who practiced humility by wearing fewer jewels than usual.
"Breathe, Arlen," Serenya said beside me, smoothing her gloves with practiced grace. "You look like a man attending his own execution."
"Wouldn't be my first."
She didn't dignify that with a reply.
As our carriage rolled closer, the gates yawned open and trumpets split the morning air. Somewhere, a priest was chanting a blessing that sounded suspiciously like try not to embarrass us.
I leaned toward the window as the capital unfolded in full view — a city too proud to sleep, too clever to rest. Stone bridges arched over rivers of light where enchanted lanterns drifted lazily. Market stalls glimmered with trinkets and relics "blessed by the Crown," which probably meant stolen last week.
Then the first foreign procession appeared.
The elves came from the east — riders upon pale horses with silver manes, their armor translucent as morning mist. Each bore a blade so thin it looked carved from moonlight. They moved through the crowds in absolute silence, their composure the kind that made everyone else feel mortal.
At their head rode Princess Lirael of the Mirrowood, daughter of the High Seer. Her beauty was the sort that refused to be complimented — all sharp lines and quiet sorrow, with eyes like frost over deep water. She wore no crown, only a slender circlet of woven glasswood that shimmered faintly with magic. Every step her horse took scattered faint petals of light upon the cobblestones.
The crowd bowed instinctively. Lirael didn't bow back. She acknowledged — the kind of gesture that told you she'd learned diplomacy from statues.
Then came the dwarfs from the north.
If the elves were moonlight, the dwarfs were thunder wrapped in steel. Twelve riders on armored rams, their cloaks heavy with dust and pride. Their arrival shook the stones themselves.
At their front rode Prince Brogar Stonehelm, heir of Irondeep. Broad as a fortress wall, with a beard braided in runic gold and eyes like cooled magma. His armor bore the scars of real battles, not ceremonial ones. When he dismounted, he kissed his gauntlet and pressed it to the ground — a gesture of respect to the kingdom's soil, not to its king.
The contrast between the elven grace and dwarven gravity was enough to make the humans in the crowd forget which side they envied more.
Serenya leaned close, her tone quiet but gleaming. "Three heirs of three realms under one roof. Imagine what could be accomplished if they truly worked together."
"Or destroyed," I murmured. "Depends on who starts drinking first."
The carriage stopped before the High Court — a marble behemoth that always looked to me like it was trying too hard to impress the gods. Guards saluted. Servants bowed. Serenya stepped down first, her poise radiating confidence. I followed, trying not to look like someone about to commit a political crime by accident.
"Lady Serenya Vale," the herald declared. "Lord Arlen Vale."
The courtyard shimmered with silks and banners. Laughter floated over the music, brittle and practiced. Nobles eyed each other with the polite venom of well-fed snakes.
"Smile," Serenya whispered. "At least pretend you belong here."
"I'm pretending so hard I might faint."
And then I saw her — Princess Elyndra, heir to the human throne. She stood beneath the sun-banner, radiant and dangerous, the kind of woman who could turn adoration into allegiance with a single look. The light of the stained windows crowned her in color, and for a moment, the whole room bent toward her without meaning to.
If the elves carried themselves like dreams carved in glass, and the dwarfs like storms given form, then the humans… well, we made up for it with noise.
The Great Hall of Solmaris shimmered beneath chandeliers hung like captured constellations. Musicians played their hearts out for people too important to listen. The scent of perfume, politics, and desperation hung thick in the air.
Father always said the Crown was a divine flame.Personally, I thought it looked more like a bonfire — the kind you warm yourself by, until someone decides you're kindling.
At the head of it all sat King Cael Elvannor III, the Sun Crowned. Regal, dignified, and visibly tired of pretending he didn't see the daggers behind every smile. His banner — a crowned sun rising over silver — draped the dais behind him. A perfect symbol, really. All brilliance, little warmth.
Serenya bowed flawlessly. I gave something halfway between a bow and a shrug.
The herald's voice thundered above the murmurs.
"Her Grace, Princess Lirael of the Eternal Glades, heir of the Elven Courts of Altharion —and His Highness, Prince Brogar Stoneheart, son of the Mountain King of Karv-Thuldar!"
The hall tilted toward reverence. Even the gossip paused.
The elf princess moved like moonlight given shape — tall, graceful, silver hair flowing like spun frost. Her gown shimmered between white and blue, as if torn from the night sky itself. She offered the king a serene bow that somehow felt like a blessing and a warning all at once. When she turned, her eyes brushed over the crowd — ancient, assessing, as though every soul here was a word in a language she already knew by heart.
The dwarf prince, by contrast, entered like thunder.Stocky, solid, and dressed in gold-trimmed armor, every step of his boots echoed like a drumbeat of defiance. His braided beard was bound with iron rings, each one engraved with runes that glowed faintly beneath the torchlight. He didn't bow — dwarves didn't — he nodded, deep and deliberate, a gesture of mutual respect. Or as close as his people got to it.
If the elves were poetry, the dwarves were war songs. And the humans? We were the audience pretending we understood the words.
I glanced toward Serenya. Her expression was calm, calculating. She understood this world — the unspoken language of glances, debts, and alliances. She was born for it. I was merely born into it. "Try to look impressed," Serenya murmured. "I am. I've never seen so many people pretend to like each other." She smothered a smile. "One day, you'll need them." "By then, they'll all be dead or plotting to kill me." "That's politics." "That's exhausting." Her sigh was patient. "You'd make a terrible king." "Fortunately, I'm a spectacular disappointment instead."
"Fortunately, I'm a spectacular disappointment instead."
Serenya rolled her eyes, the universal sign for I regret being related to you.
Around us, the Great Hall swelled with motion — banners, laughter, the shuffle of ambition disguised as grace. It was a menagerie of power, and every noble within it believed themselves the most dangerous beast in the room.
My eyes drifted — partly out of boredom, partly habit. You could tell a House's worth by how it performed loyalty.
Closest to the dais stood House Durnhart, the Shield of the North. Their lord, Sir Varic, looked carved from the same stone as his homeland — straight-backed, unblinking, and about as warm as permafrost. Their colors — grey and iron — hung from the pillars like stormclouds threatening to sue for peace. They didn't bend, didn't smile, didn't breathe unless given orders. Good soldiers. Terrible dinner guests.
Beside them gleamed the silks of House Virelion, the Voice of the Crown. Their matriarch, Lady Cerys, was mid-whisper — which, for her, meant mid-strategy. Every movement of her fan was an encoded message, every laugh an investment. They ruled the coasts, the ports, and half the royal marriages. Even their smiles smelled faintly of coin.
Further along the hall — shadows within shadows — lingered House Malvren, the Wardens of Whispers. Their heir, I think, or perhaps just another spy pretending to be one, leaned against a column, face half-hidden behind a silver mask. Malvren never showed their true numbers — or their true faces. They were the Crown's eyes and knives, provided the price was right.
Then came House Aurelthane, the Stewards of the Law. Robes instead of armor, quills instead of swords. They claimed to serve justice, but really, they served the endless joy of being right. Their lord, High Justicar Loras, watched the ceremony with the serene disapproval of a man attending a heresy trial.
And finally — House Valebryn.Our house. The lion beneath the crown. Oldest, proudest, loudest. The kind of family history that got turned into bedtime stories — right up until you lived it.
"Our Blood for the Crown," Father liked to say.Lately, I suspected the Crown had developed quite the taste for it.
Beyond the pillars, the lesser houses filled the spaces between power like mortar between stones. House Morvain — sailors playing at nobility, still smelling faintly of brine. House Caelwyn, knights who once bled beside us before their courage found safer patrons. House Esthrae, smiling too sweetly to mean it. Thornmere, ambitious enough to be dangerous, but not clever enough to realize it. And Bryalt, our old mountain kin, loyal because tradition left them no other choice.
At the edges of it all stood those who ruled without banners:The Argent Faith, whispering blessings that sounded like veiled threats.The Silver Ledger, counting coins faster than oaths.And the Circle of Binding, the king's arcane advisors — or his gaolers, depending on who you asked.
I exhaled softly. The hall glittered like a jewel, but I knew what jewels were: stones that only became valuable after enduring pressure.
"Still unimpressed?" Serenya murmured.
"Oh, entirely impressed," I said. "Just not surprised."
The ballroom was a sea of gold and glass. Music swelled from a dais where elven harps tangled with dwarven horns — two sounds that should never have worked together, yet somehow did. Chandeliers glowed like constellations caught indoors, and the air shimmered with perfume, sweat, and diplomacy.
Serenya, as always, looked carved from restraint. "Try to keep that mouth of yours in check," she murmured. "One misplaced word could spark a war between three realms."
I raised my goblet in mock salute. "Then let's hope my words don't slur."
She didn't laugh.I didn't expect her to.
The ceremony for Princess Lysera's coming of age was more spectacle than sanctity. Elves from the Western Glades glittered like starlight, their silver eyes unreadable. Across from them stood the dwarves of Deepmarch, broad-shouldered, every beard braided with gold — their prince, Thoren, stood at their front, his hand resting on a ceremonial axe that probably weighed more than me.
They were here not merely to celebrate but to see. To judge whether the human capital of Solmaris was still worth its word.
And me?I was there because Grandfather said my presence would "remind the court what uselessness looks like in fine clothes."
She gave me that look again — half pride, half warning — and drifted off to charm someone more useful. I lingered by the edge of the feast, where the music blurred into conversation and candlelight.
A servant pressed a goblet into my hand — silver, etched with vines."Compliments of the Crown," he said.
"Of course it is," I muttered, and took a sip.The wine was sweet, almost cloying, with something strange beneath the taste. A hum threaded through the air — faint but familiar, the same vibration I'd felt on the road.
The chandeliers began to tilt ever so slightly. Voices echoed too long, faces sharpened and dimmed by turns. Someone laughed near the dais — it sounded a mile away.
I blinked, trying to focus. The elf princess stood beneath one of the great banners, moonlight tangled in her hair. She looked almost translucent, like a dream half-forgotten. Our eyes met — or maybe I only imagined it.
"Arlen?" someone called, but the name came through water.The hum grew louder.
I turned, stumbled, reached for something that wasn't there — and the world folded in on itself.
When I woke, the light hurt. My head throbbed; my throat was sandpaper. For a moment, I didn't know where I was. The room wasn't mine — silk sheets, silver trim, the faint scent of jasmine and wine.
A rustle — movement beside me.
The elven princess stood near the bed, shoulders rigid, robe clutched tightly around her. Her eyes were wide, distant, the color of a frozen river.
"What have you done?" she whispered.
The words struck harder than any blow.
"I—" My voice cracked. My memory was a smear of sound and color. "I don't…"
But she was already gone, moving like a shadow fleeing dawn. The door slammed. The echo lingered, followed by shouts — guards, I realized dimly, their boots hammering against marble.
Then came Serenya's voice.
"Open this door — now!"
The hinges groaned, and the light of a dozen torches flooded in. My sister stood in the doorway, every inch the noble she'd been raised to be — except for her eyes. Those eyes were wildfire.
"What," she said, her voice cutting through the chaos, "did you do this time?" "Her anger flickered — just for a heartbeat — into something that looked like fear. Not for me, but for what this would mean.
I looked around — at the disheveled room, the crumpled sheets, the abandoned goblet on the floor — and felt the ground tilt beneath me again.
"I think…" My throat tightened. "I've made a terrible mistake."
Outside, the bells of Solmaris began to toll — slow, heavy, accusing.