The grand hall of Winterbell Castle pulsed with quiet life—soft music, murmurs of nobles, the glint of polished silverware under chandelier light. The evening banquet had drawn in allies and dignitaries, a political necessity after recent skirmishes along the border.
Viscount Elior Venstra sat with practiced poise, though his fingers toyed idly with the rim of his goblet. His violet eyes—not as vivid as Flynn's, but striking nonetheless—were fixed on the prince from across the room.
Flynn sat at the head table, pale hair catching the glow like threads of moonlight. His expression was unreadable, regal. Controlled. But Elior had known him long enough to see the cracks.
His gaze flicked subtly to Duke Khalid, seated beside the prince.
Khalid, ever the shadow cloaked in noble charm. Black hair, golden eyes—too noble, too dangerous. A man who seemed to slip into every room like a secret.
Elior didn't trust him.
Not because of where Khalid came from, or the sudden rise to dukedom, but because of how Flynn changed around him.
The prince grew quieter, sharper. At times distant, even cold.
Elior's hand tightened slightly around his wine glass. He had tried to tell himself it was jealousy—how could it not be, when his heart quickened every time Flynn so much as smiled in his direction?
But it wasn't just that.
It was the way Flynn watched Khalid when he thought no one noticed. A gaze full of tension—not hatred, not admiration—something in between.
History.
But how could that be? Khalid hadn't even served Winterbell five years ago. The same time Flynn had emerged from near death after a fever that had nearly taken him.
That was when the change began. Flynn stopped attending the court with his usual lightness. His words turned measured. His gaze carried weight.
You came back different, Elior thought.
And now Khalid stood beside him like a favored blade, sharp and gleaming.
"I see your eyes never wander far from the prince."
Elior blinked, turning to find Lady Merisse watching him with a coy smile.
"You mistake vigilance for fondness," he said, voice smooth.
She laughed, soft and knowing. "Perhaps. But I'd be careful. Even the coldest fires leave burns."
Elior offered a polite smile, but his heart felt heavy.
He had loved Flynn in silence. Even now, he told himself it was loyalty that bound him to the prince.
But the truth?
He was afraid. Afraid that one day, Flynn would choose Khalid, not knowing—or perhaps knowing too well—the knife the duke once held in a past no one remembered.
Yet something inside Elior whispered that Flynn remembered more than he let on.
And if he knew the danger Khalid posed, why keep him close?
Unless...
"Unless he's not the prey," Elior whispered to himself. "But the predator."
The music resumed. Goblets clinked. The nobles laughed.
But across the room, the air between Flynn and Khalid felt like a string pulled taut—thin, gleaming, ready to snap.
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