Two days had passed since their return from the cave. The castle moved through its morning rhythm, yet nothing felt ordinary. Eva walked its halls with quiet vigilance, noting the glances that lingered too long, the murmurs that fell silent when she neared. Whispers of her bruises. Of the prince. Of what might have transpired behind closed doors.
No one dared speak openly, but the undercurrent was clear: Lucarion's reputation gave weight to their darkest speculations. Eva heard, measured, and stored every word. She would not cower. She would not appear broken.
By the third day, the unease around her had settled into resolve. It was time to meet him on even ground.
The door to his study stood ajar. Lucarion sat within, still as a statue, the measured calm of command in every line. When she entered, he looked up — eyes of amethyst and gold catching the morning light.
"You have been quiet since our return," he said, his voice smooth, the faintest question beneath it.
"I have been watching," she replied, closing the door behind her. "The court whispers. It would serve us both to be seen — to hold supper, perhaps, or a gathering."
He regarded her a moment before replying. "You have come to terms with your fate, then. That is well."
Her pulse stirred at the word. Fate. She had not embraced it, but she no longer resisted it either. "I won't stumble through ignorance. Tell me — when will the wedding be? And what is expected of me?"
He rose, his shadow stretching long across the floor. "The announcement will come soon. There will be an engagement celebration — a ball, with the court in attendance. The ceremony will follow, when the time is deemed right."
She inclined her head. "Before then, we must make appearances. Entertain guests. I do not know who to invite, or how these matters are handled here — you must provide the guests."
Lucarion's expression barely shifted. "It will be arranged."
"Good," she said, tone composed. "Then we understand one another."
She turned to leave, but his voice halted her.
"Lucy has been found."
A brief tremor of relief passed through her, quickly contained. "Then I shall see to her soon," she said, the mask returning.
He nodded once, silent, his gaze following her as she left.
The castle moved quietly in the late afternoon as Eva prepared for the evening. The dinner would be intimate—seven guests. The steward waited in the library, ledger open.
"Who will be attending?" she asked, voice calm.
"Kael, your Lord Commander. Selene and Darian, your sister and brother. Lord Valen and Lady Isolde, their companions. And Lord and Lady Therin, old friends of His Highness," he replied.
Eva nodded. "Arrange the table with care — Kael nearest His Grace. The siblings opposite, companions beside them. Therins where they may observe yet remain engaged. Candles, quiet strings, restraint in the service — elegance, not display."
The steward bowed, already taking notes.
The dining chamber welcomed them with warmth — low firelight, gleaming silver, the murmur of strings from the alcove. Eva entered on Lucarion's arm, every step deliberate. Conversation paused as faces turned toward her: seven in all, each revealing more than words ever would.
Kael's gaze met hers first — steady, unflinching, the look of a man who knew the whole of it and would neither pity nor betray her. Selene followed, regal and poised, her beauty as deliberate as her disdain; the faint curve of her lips dismissed Eva without a word. Beside her, Lady Isolde smiled — a blade disguised as courtesy, eyes glinting with quiet cruelty.
Darian's curiosity was open, almost disarming; his grin belonged to someone who found danger entertaining. Lord Valen's regard was cooler, measured — an assessment, not a judgment, as if weighing her mind against rumor. Lord Therin inclined his head with diplomatic precision, his expression carved smooth as stone. And last, Lady Therin — her gaze lingered, unreadable, not cold nor kind, watching with a stillness that unsettled.
Lucarion made introductions. "My sister, Selene. My brother, Darian. Lord Valen. Lady Isolde. Lord and Lady Therin. And my second in command Kael, whom you have met."
Eva inclined her head, offering composure instead of warmth. A few murmured courtesies followed — Selene's curtsy too graceful to be sincere, Isolde's smile too wide to ignore the fangs behind it, Darian's grin too quick to be harmless, Valen's eyes too keen to be flirtatious. The Therins inclined their heads with solemn precision, while Kael gave a single, respectful nod.
The first courses came. Wine was poured. Conversation began with safe threads — travel, weather, the recent festival in the lower wards. Eva listened, answering when spoken to, her tone poised, betraying nothing.
It was Darian who shifted the current, leaning forward with a grin. "I hear," he said, raising his glass toward her, "that our lady used to command an army. A general in her homeland." His eyes glittered with curiosity, perhaps a touch too bold.
"I've always admired a woman who can wield a sword," Lord Valen interjected, grin mischievous.
"Oh, from foreign general to future consort — what a leap," Isolde drawled, wine glass in hand. "Bravo."
Selene's hand rested lightly on her friend's arm, smile falsely contrite. "Don't be cruel, Isolde. She meant no offense, my lady."
Eva's lips curved slightly, expression cool. "A sword, yes," she said lightly. "But if you want the truth — my heart belongs to the battle-axe. Precision in a sword, finality in an axe."
"How violent," Isolde whispered. Selene nudged her with an elbow.
Lord Therin leaned forward, thoughtful. "And do you plan to keep at your training, Lady Eva? It would be a shame for such skill to fade unused."
Eva met his gaze, steady, ignoring the sidelong glances from Isolde and Selene. "No. I am not permitted to wield weapons here. But I do give counsel when His Grace requests it." She paused slightly, measured. "And we practice fencing."
Across the table, Darian's grin widened, delight in the image clear. Before he could press further, Lucarion's voice, even and measured, cut through the air.
"Those new supply routes, Kael," he said, shifting his gaze to his second in command though the remark carried to all. "Drawn with her advice. Her counsel stands where most would falter."
Kael inclined his head, faint acknowledgment, while Lord Valen chuckled low. "Impressive. I should like to spar with you myself one day, Lady Eva. To see if the stories are true."
Eva tilted her head, unshaken. "Careful what you wish for, my lord. I do not spar to flatter egos."
Laughter and sidelong glances layered across the table, alliances unspoken. Eva sat steady, hands relaxed on her glass, letting words ripple past.
As the final course was cleared, a gentle murmur of approval spread. Lucarion rose. "Shall we continue in the music room? The evening is young, and the company deserves more than conversation."
Eva followed, keeping pace. Guests murmured polite assent, and the small procession wound through candle-lit corridors, footsteps soft on polished stone. A harp's faint strains drifted ahead — a welcome prelude.
The room was warm, inviting. A grand piano caught the firelight at the far end. Darian leaned toward Selene. "Play us something, won't you, sister?" Selene glanced at Isolde, who nodded. The air shifted — expectation mingling with observation. Eva found herself slightly apart.
Lady Therin stepped closer as Selene's fingers coaxed a low melody, Isolde's voice rising to meet it.
"My lady," she said, tone smooth but weighted, "you've borne yourself with admirable composure tonight. Few could step into such a table without faltering."
Eva inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the words without presumption.
Lady Therin's eyes lingered, keen beneath soft warmth. "Lucarion does not give his trust lightly. He listens to you — I saw it even before he named your counsel. That alone will draw envy sharper than blades." She sipped her wine, gaze steady. "Tell me… will you keep that trust? His favor must be guarded, even at cost."
"You're a good friend, Lady Therin," Eva said, inclining her head with composure. "I am charged to serve His Grace faithfully, and I intend to honor the role entrusted to me. I have no other course here, no ties beyond those he allows. I shall fulfill my duty — and, as a woman of faith, obey the will that placed me by his side."
Lady Therin's gaze flicked toward Lucarion, catching the sharp intensity of his stare — he had not looked away all evening. She knew that look; or rather, she knew she had never seen it before. For all the centuries she had known him, Lucarion's regard had been measured, distant — untouched by longing. Yet now, something had shifted.
She returned her attention to Eva, her voice quiet, edged with gentle curiosity. "Duty and faith are admirable. But he watches you so closely tonight… would I be mistaken to think your pairing might include some measure of affection?"
Eva pressed her lips into a faint smile, not needing to meet his gaze to imagine its sharpness. "Do not mistake scrutiny for care, my lady. It is nothing but hard, cold scrutiny," she said, lifting her glass to her lips.
Lady Therin's eyes softened, a small, knowing smile brushing her lips. "You may call me Vera," she murmured, touching Eva's shoulder lightly in quiet support.
She lingered for a heartbeat, studying the girl. Young, resolute, quietly shy beneath her armor of composure — a subtle, almost endearing tremor that made her vigilance all the more human. Vera could see how easily Eva misread him, mistaking caution for indifference, distance for disinterest. Time would teach her. Lucarion was a being forged by millennia, his mind a fortress carved from solitude, survival, and the relentless weight of centuries; yet beneath that impenetrable stone, a heart still burned with a depth and intensity so rare it could consume those who drew near. To reach even the edges of it demanded patience, courage, and a soul capable of bearing his vastness.
Vera felt a stab of despair twist through her. The first soul to stir even the faintest, most fragile longing in Lucarion's boundless heart might vanish from the world before she could glimpse the surface of him, while he would carry the memory of sweetness that never fully bloomed.
How cruel that a spark so exquisite, so achingly alive, was also so delicate, tethered to a life destined to fade. And when it was gone, centuries of solitude would stretch on, heavier, colder — leaving behind a heart immense, and heartbreakingly, unbearably, empty.
How I wish she could have the time to meet him fully.