Chapter 2) The Boy Beneath the Cloak
The day had passed in a blur of music, scents, and celebration. By sunset, the village of Rivelan shimmered with torchlight, laughter echoing off stone and timber as dancers spun in the square and the scent of roasted meats carried through the air like memory. But Caelum had long since disappeared from the crowd, the weight of too many eyes pressing against him until even the cobbled streets felt suffocating. He walked the quieter backroads now, where the festival noise faded into the distance and only the chirping of insects filled the space around him.
He didn't know why their stares had lingered.
He told himself it didn't matter. Princesses were trained to scan crowds, to notice everything, to gauge the temperament of a nation with a glance. It meant nothing that their eyes had paused on him. It meant less than nothing that his chest still felt tight from the moment.
Still, their faces stayed in his mind.
He remembered Elira's stare — sharp and discerning, like a blade testing his worth. Veina's was cooler, calculating. Rhiannon's had sparked like flint, bold and amused, while Selene's glance had felt like silk sliding over his skin. He didn't know what it meant, and he wasn't sure he wanted to.
He reached the edge of the village and sat beside a small well beneath an old willow tree. The quiet settled over him like a blanket. He pulled back his hood and ran a hand through his hair, fingers threading through gold strands tousled by the wind.
"Caelum."
The voice startled him.
He turned quickly. From the shadows near the path, a man stepped forward — tall, wiry, with a traveling cloak dusted from the road and a silver badge pinned at the chest. A messenger. His boots bore the mark of the royal courier guild.
"Are you Caelum of Rivelan?" the man asked.
He hesitated. "Yes."
The messenger stepped closer and extended a scroll sealed with violet wax — the sigil of Dorswyn. The Kingdom of Sloth.
"You are summoned to the governor's manor tomorrow morning. Your presence has been requested by Lady Syllette."
Caelum blinked. "The princess?"
The man didn't answer. He simply bowed, turned, and disappeared back into the trees without another word.
Caelum sat motionless for a long time after.
---
The governor's manor sat at the top of a long hill overlooking Rivelan, surrounded by high stone walls and iron gates. Normally, Caelum would have never approached such a place. He was not of noble birth, had no standing, no reason to be summoned by royalty. But now, as morning mist clung to the grass, he found himself walking up the gravel path, heart ticking loudly in his chest.
He wore his best — the same white linen shirt from the festival, washed and pressed, along with dark trousers and a simple vest. His hair was combed, though it refused to stay neat, and his boots had been polished with oil the night before. He didn't know what he was supposed to say. Or do. Or expect.
The guards at the gate didn't question him. They opened the doors at his name.
Inside, the manor was quiet — too quiet. Servants guided him through hallways of polished marble and tall arched windows, each one overlooking the gardens where peacocks moved like living jewels. Tapestries hung from every wall, embroidered with stories of Dorswyn's dreamlike legacy — long stretches of peace, soft rulers, lands of poetry and slow-growing wisdom.
They brought him to a lounge near the conservatory, filled with velvet cushions, oversized chairs, and the distant trill of songbirds behind glass. There he waited.
And waited.
He was nearly dozing off when a soft voice called his name.
"Caelum?"
He stood quickly, brushing his hands over his vest.
Princess Syllette stood in the doorway, wrapped in a flowing blue robe that looked more like a blanket than a royal garment. Her pale hair was loose, eyes half-lidded but calm. She looked at him not like a stranger, but like someone she'd known for a hundred years.
"I hope you don't mind mornings," she said, gliding into the room.
He bowed. "Not at all, Your Highness."
She smiled faintly, then curled herself into a velvet chair, her knees drawn up, arms resting over them lazily. "Please, sit. You're not here to impress me."
Caelum sat cautiously on the edge of a couch opposite her.
"I saw you yesterday," she said. "You were... different."
He didn't know how to respond.
"Not just handsome," she continued. "Though I suppose that's obvious. But there was something else. Stillness. Like the whole square was noise, and you weren't."
"That wasn't intentional," he said quietly.
She laughed — soft and slow. "I know. That's why it was real."
A pause stretched between them.
"I didn't call you here to interrogate you," she said after a while. "I was curious. That's all. We rarely meet anyone who isn't trying to impress us. Or hide from us. You did neither."
"I didn't know I was being watched," Caelum admitted.
"You were. By more than just me."
He looked up at her.
"You'll be seeing the others again," she added casually. "There's a banquet tonight. All the nobles and foreign guests are invited. And all the princesses will be expected to attend."
"I'm not a noble."
"No," she said. "But I requested your invitation. And Elira... she might have done the same. Possibly Rhiannon, though she wouldn't admit it."
Caelum stared at her. "Why?"
She yawned, covering her mouth politely. "You'll find out."
And with that, she rose. "You may go. I've satisfied my curiosity — for now."
---
The invitation arrived by messenger that afternoon — engraved, sealed, formal. Caelum stared at it like it might bite him.
"A banquet?" Taren said, laughing. "You, sitting beside princesses and dukes? You'll faint before the soup."
"I didn't ask for this."
"No, but you've been given it. Don't let it go to waste."
He borrowed a suit from the tailor's son — slightly too loose in the shoulders, but passable. Taren helped him tie the cravat, muttering about royal nonsense and starched collars. By the time evening fell, Caelum was ready, though nerves hummed under his skin like bees trapped beneath fabric.
The banquet hall was unlike anything he had seen.
Crystal chandeliers. Marble floors. Long rows of silver dishes and golden goblets. Music drifted from a trio of violinists at the far end, and the scent of roasted pheasant filled the air. Nobles in embroidered cloaks and jeweled gowns floated through the room like dancers in a dream.
Caelum stood near the entrance, unsure where to go, when a voice cut through the crowd.
"There you are."
He turned to see Princess Rhiannon striding toward him in a dark red gown, her copper hair twisted into a loose braid that fell over one shoulder. Her eyes burned with energy.
"You clean up well," she said, eyeing him up and down.
He bowed. "Thank you, Your Highness."
She made a face. "Don't call me that. It makes me feel ancient. Just Rhiannon."
Before he could answer, another voice joined them.
"Trying to claim him already?" Veina stood a few feet away, arms folded. Her green gown shimmered in the torchlight. "Subtle as always."
"Claim?" Caelum asked.
Veina tilted her head. "Relax. She's joking. Mostly."
"I'm not," Rhiannon grinned.
Then came Alinna, flanked by two advisors, her jewelry catching every light in the room. She said nothing to Caelum, but her eyes lingered longer than necessary before she turned away.
Then Maribelle appeared, offering him a pastry from her plate with a warm smile. "You looked nervous. This helps."
Syllette gave him a sleepy wave from her corner seat.
And Selene...
Selene walked past him like a shadow passing over silk. She did not stop. Did not speak. But as she passed, her fingers brushed lightly against his sleeve — barely noticeable, barely real. And yet, he felt it. A spark. A promise.
He wasn't sure how he survived the night.
He ate little. Spoke less. And yet everywhere he moved, eyes followed him — noblewomen whispering behind fans, knights glancing in confusion, ministers raising brows. Who was he? Why was he here?
And then came Elira.
She stood at the top of the hall near the dais, speaking with dignitaries, her posture immaculate. When she finally turned and spotted him, she didn't smile. She didn't wave. She only held his gaze — long, direct, piercing — and then nodded, barely perceptible.
Recognition.
It was all happening too fast.
After the banquet, Caelum slipped out into the courtyard garden. The stars above were cold and quiet, the sky vast and empty. He leaned against the stone wall, drawing in a slow breath.
Behind him, a voice spoke.
"You don't belong here."
He turned.
Elira stood in the shadows, arms crossed.
"Neither do I," she added after a pause.
Caelum raised an eyebrow. "You're a princess."
"And you're a mystery." She stepped closer. "That's rarer than a crown."
He didn't know how to respond.
She stared at him, thoughtful. "You'll have choices to make, Caelum. They'll pull you in different directions. Just remember: admiration is not affection. Attention is not loyalty."
Then she turned and walked away.
And Caelum, for the first time in his life, felt the threads of fate beginning to tighten around him.