The palace glimmered like a sea of light that evening. Gilded lanterns lined the marble corridors, chandeliers swayed with every ripple of music, and the scent of wine and roses lingered in the air. The King's birthday banquet—a celebration of unity—was, as always, a quiet battlefield wrapped in silk.
In the apothecary, however, the world was still.
Rin stood by the table, carefully labeling the vials he'd prepared when a sharp knock echoed against the door.
"Enter," he called, without looking up.
The door opened with a creak, and Prince Alaric stepped in, dressed in formal attire of black and deep gold, his hair brushed back, his every step quiet but commanding.
"Your Highness," Rin greeted, bowing slightly. "I wasn't informed you'd visit."
Alaric's gaze swept across the workroom before resting on him. "I came to see if you'd accompany me tonight."
Rin blinked, pausing mid-motion. "Accompany you, Your Highness?"
The prince's tone was light, but his eyes gleamed with that familiar, unreadable amusement. "As my partner. You've done much for me—more than most in this palace. It's only fitting you stand where others can see your worth."
Rin's brows twitched, but he kept his tone composed. "You jest, surely. A mere herbalist—one without title or scent—has no right to stand beside a prince."
Alaric tilted his head, smile faintly curving. "Rights are easily granted if I will them so."
"I must decline," Rin said smoothly, polite but cutting. "My place is among herbs, not nobility. Attention, Your Highness, has a way of turning fatal."
Alaric's golden eyes flickered briefly—amusement, then something else. "As you wish. But don't regret it when the court starts whispering my name again."
Rin only inclined his head, pretending not to feel the pull of those words.
When Alaric left, the door shut softly behind him, and Rin exhaled.
"Troublesome man," he muttered, returning to his work.
---
That night, the Royal Ballroom blazed to life. Nobles gathered in shimmering clusters, the orchestra's song filling the air with golden splendor. Courtiers laughed behind jeweled fans, and servants glided between them, carrying trays of wine.
At the dais, King Edric Valen sat enthroned, his expression carved in composure. His crown gleamed softly beneath the light, though the weight behind his gaze betrayed thought after thought.
Beside him, the Queen Consort smiled like serenity itself, every gesture precise, her faction of dukes and marquises clustered nearby—ready, watching.
"Will the First Prince appear?" someone whispered.
"I doubt it. They say his condition still worsens. The King would never risk the embarrassment."
"Then perhaps the Second will stand out all the more."
As though answering their speculation, the sound of trumpets echoed.
The herald's voice rang across the hall:
"Announcing His Highness, Second Prince Caelum Valen, —and his betrothed, Lord Mario of House Faron!"
Applause thundered.
The Second Prince strode in—silver armor polished to gleam beneath the light, his expression confident yet carefully humble. The nobles bowed low, the Queen Consort's lips lifting faintly with satisfaction.
"Your Majesty," Caelum said, kneeling before the throne. "The western front stands secure. I offer my victories to your name."
The King regarded his younger son in silence for a heartbeat too long. Then, his voice came—measured, firm, and distant.
"You've done well, Caelum. Your loyalty honors the crown."
Yet behind his composed tone, something colder stirred—an edge of calculation.
He's grown more ambitious,the King thought. And the Queen's hand is clearly seen in every gesture he makes.
His eyes softened only slightly as he motioned for his son to rise.
"You have served your duty," he said, a faint smile gracing his lips, though it never reached his eyes.
The nobles clapped again. The Queen Consort's fan fluttered open, hiding her smile. "His Majesty looks pleased," one lady whispered.
"Indeed," said another, not noticing how the King's fingers tapped absently against the armrest—an old habit when he was uneasy.
Wine was poured. Toasts were made. The court buzzed with comfort and confidence.
Until the next announcement shattered it.
The herald at the entrance froze mid-step, throat bobbing as he lifted the scroll again.
"Announcing—His Highness,First Prince Alaric Valen!"
A silence fell, sharp and sudden.
The Queen Consort's fan stilled mid-air. The Marquis beside her blinked, confusion flickering across his face.
Even the Second Prince turned slightly, disbelief passing through his expression.
The King's hand stopped tapping. For an instant, the mask of composure cracked—and something like relief, like pride, flickered through his gaze.
The great doors opened.
Through them stepped Alaric, clad in black and gold. His posture was calm, his eyes bright under the candlelight. Every step he took echoed softly across the marble floor.
Gasps whispered through the room.
"The First Prince?"
"Impossible—they said his health…"
"He looks perfectly fine…"
The King rose from his throne, his expression softening in a way the court had not seen in years. Finally,the corners of his eyes eased.
The Queen Consort's fingers tightened imperceptibly around her fan.
Alaric bowed. "Forgive my tardiness, Father. I wished to arrive when I was certain I could stand before you without shame."
"Then stand tall," the King said. "You've done well to return."
It was a brief exchange—but enough.
Enough for every noble to see where the King's true favor still rested.
And as Alaric lifted his head, golden eyes steady under the hall's endless light, the Queen Consort's perfect smile finally, quietly, cracked.