For a long moment, the ballroom was steeped in silence, broken only by the faint rustle of silk and the distant notes of the orchestra faltering mid-tune.
The First Prince, once whispered to be half-mad from his own pheromones, stood before them—composed, calm, his golden eyes gleaming under the chandelier's light.
Nobles began murmuring in waves, hushed but relentless.
"Impossible… they said his condition was beyond saving."
"He's walking as if nothing happened."
"Who cured him?"
"I heard a new face entered the palace recently… a herbalist, perhaps?"
The Queen Consort's fan fluttered once, slow and deliberate. Her expression didn't change, but the stillness around her faction was sharp enough to cut glass.
Beside her, the Second Prince, Caelum, forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Brother," he said smoothly, stepping forward with a polite bow. "It's good to see you standing strong. The court has been worried."
His tone was courteous—his words, a blade.
Worried, as though Alaric had been a burden.
Standing strong, as though this recovery were a fluke.
But Alaric only tilted his head slightly, a faint curve at his lips. "Your concern is appreciated, Caelum. I imagine commanding an army was far easier than managing palace gossip."
A few nobles smothered their laughter behind their goblets. The Queen Consort's fan stilled mid-motion.
Caelum's smile tightened. "Gossip or not, one can't deny the truth. For years, the palace has feared your condition might worsen."
"And yet," Alaric said calmly, voice like velvet drawn across steel, "the palace still stands. I'm sure it would've fallen long ago if it depended on fear alone."
A ripple of suppressed amusement spread through the room.
Even some of the Queen's faction failed to hide their smirks, sensing the subtle shift in power.
Caelum's composure strained for a moment. "You seem to have recovered miraculously, Brother. Perhaps I should inquire who was so bold as to treat you?"
Alaric's gaze flicked to him, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting his mouth. "No need. I'd hate to burden your curiosity with something you couldn't understand."
The words were polite. The sting behind them was not.
"Careful, Brother," Caelum said, his tone cooling. "Such arrogance doesn't suit the throne."
"And neither does envy," Alaric replied softly.
The air between them crackled—so sharp it seemed even the chandeliers flickered in discomfort. The King, seated above, watched the exchange with calm authority, saying nothing. His eyes, however, lingered on Alaric—measuring, thoughtful, faintly proud.
That silence said enough.
Nobles began to move.
Like moths to a flame, they drifted—slowly, deliberately—toward Alaric's side.
The Duke of Ferrand, one of the vocal supporter of the kings's faction, raised his glass toward the First Prince. "Your Highness, it gladdens the court to see you restored. The realm is steadier when its heir stands strong."
Others followed.
"The gods favor you, Prince Alaric."
"May your health continue to bless the crown."
Even a few who once whispered of his downfall now bent low, voices syrup-sweet with newfound reverence.
Across the hall, the Queen Consort's smile froze into porcelain perfection.
Her nails pressed against the fan's lacquered ribs, faintly cracking the paint.
Caelum's fists clenched behind his back. Every congratulation toward his brother echoed like insult.
He could feel the attention slipping—the subtle shift of eyes, the fading warmth of the nobles who once courted his favor.
One of the Queen's allies, Marquis Velmont, leaned close and murmured, "Your Highness, say the word. We can steer this back—"
But Caelum's pride burned too hot for counsel.
"Brother," he called again, forcing a gracious smile. "Since you're well enough to attend, perhaps you'll honor Father with a toast?"
A calculated move. If Alaric faltered—even for a second—the illusion of recovery would shatter.
But Alaric's gaze flicked toward the servants. "Wine," he said softly.
A glass was brought forward.
He took it with unhurried grace, raised it toward the dais, and said,
"To the King—who taught us that even broken swords can still draw blood."
The King's brows lifted faintly. The room went utterly still. Then the King chuckled—deep and genuine.
"Well said, my son."
Laughter rippled through the hall. The tension snapped, but only for a moment.
Caelum's jaw tightened. The Queen Consort's knuckles whitened.
And as the music resumed, nobles swirled like bright fish toward the golden center of power—around Prince Alaric, whose quiet, poised smile had turned into the calm of a man who knew he'd just reclaimed something precious.
The Queen's faction stayed still, too proud to follow. But silence, in politics, was the loudest defeat of all.
Above them all, from his throne, King Edric raised his cup once more—his gaze drifting from Caelum's tensed shoulders to Alaric's calm face.
Yes, he thought quietly. The wrong son has been favored for far too long.
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