Chapter Text
The room wasn't filled with bright light, yet it wasn't entirely dark either. It was submerged in an uncertain twilight that kept his eyelids closed without weighing them down, and for a while, he couldn't tell if he was awake or still caught in a dream from which he struggled to emerge.
His body was slowly returning to him while his mind raced ahead, and this misalignment unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He remained motionless for a moment, listening to his own breath, as if he could discover his whereabouts just by the way the air entered his chest; it didn't burn, it didn't rasp, and it bore no desert sand.
He inhaled again, deeper this time, and the cool, clean air, scented with crushed herbs and water, confirmed what he wasn't yet ready to fully accept: he was no longer on the road. The thought came simply, but it didn't settle immediately, so he turned it over and over in his mind, searching for a mistake, an explanation closer to what he knew, but he found nothing.
Only then did he feel the unnatural softness beneath his shoulders, and he frowned slightly. The bandage, wrapped tightly around his abdomen, was secure, without pulling, and the pain was still there, but changed: it no longer bit, it no longer burned; it only throbbed, dull and bearable, like a still-vivid memory of what it had been.
He hadn’t died.
He tried to move his hand, and his fingers responded, though slower than he would have liked. That delay, however slight, irritated him more than the pain itself.
He moved his hand toward his side and immediately found the bandage. Clean, it felt too clean, and that made him frown slightly. He didn't remember leaving it that way. He kept his palm pressed there for a moment, as if trying to ensure the wound was truly his, that he hadn't woken up in someone else’s body after all the madness he’d been through.
It was.
He swallowed, surprised to discover that his throat didn't sting, that there was no taste of blood, and that the fever had vanished completely as if someone had carefully wiped it away, leaving nothing behind.
Instead, his stomach tightened suddenly with the clarity of a real need.
Hunger.
Saliva pooled under his tongue so quickly that he was forced to swallow at once. It made no sense. The last time he remembered, he could barely keep water down, and now his body seemed to have decided, without asking him, that everything was alright.
He had probably slept for a long time.
Or—
The thought crossed his mind with enough clarity to make him stay motionless for an extra second.
Maybe he actually had died.
"No," he finally murmured, rejecting the idea more out of habit than conviction.
He opened his eyes. The ceiling wasn't torn canvas, and that realization froze him. The stone was smooth, painted with golden lines that caught the light and held it there, as if refusing to let it go.
He wasn't in an inn.
Nor in a tent.
He rose slowly onto his elbow, then into a sitting position, and the world seemed to tilt along with him. For a moment, he didn't know if he had moved or if the room had moved first. He braced his palm against the mattress and remained there until the dizziness passed.
He breathed deeply, once, then again, until everything settled. He lowered his feet to the floor, and the chill of the stone rose through his soles, anchoring him faster than he cared to admit. He stood up, still mindful of his balance, and his hand instinctively slid toward his hip.
He stopped.
He tried again, more firmly this time, as if the first time could have been a mere mistake, but he found nothing. His fingers lingered there for a moment, pressing against the empty space, and his breath caught before he even realized it.
No.
He moved his hand higher, then lower. No belt, no sheath. Not even the small dagger he always kept within reach. For a second, he remained motionless, then his jaw clenched.
The sword.
Not his. Never fully his, only carried in place of the one who no longer could, borne forward without truly belonging to him. Entrusted, not earned. He lost it. Not just from his hand, but from a deeper place, where no bandage could reach.
He inhaled sharply, with a desperate thirst, as if trying to fill the void with air. It didn't work. Ser Arlan hadn't given it to him only for it to be lost in a stranger's bed.
His gaze swept across the room, more observant now. The tunic he wore was fine, clean, tailored for indoors. Someone had undressed him, cleaned him, and treated him with a care that had nothing in common with what he was used to.
And yet, they had left him without his sword. He didn't like that at all. For a moment, his hunger paled before the unease, then it returned, insistent, almost annoying. He pressed his lips together.
"Fine," he murmured again.
If he was a prisoner, he was a poorly guarded one. If he was a guest, someone had forgotten to tell him. In either case, he had no intention of sitting around and waiting. He had to find his sword.
The rest could wait.
He stood still for a moment, his eyes searching for a sign, any clue that might tell him if someone had been there before. Nothing had changed. It remained just as orderly, just as quiet, and that silence was beginning to weigh on him more than any noise ever could.
He turned toward the door.
He didn't remember hearing it open or close, but there it was, simple in comparison to the rest of the room, as if it didn't quite belong to the same place. He approached it without haste, more mindful of his steps than he normally would have been, not out of fear, but out of a caution he couldn't fully explain.
He reached for the handle and hesitated for a split second, not because he expected anything in particular, but because, once opened, he could no longer pretend not to know where he was. He exhaled slowly and pushed the door, which opened without a sound.
The hallway beyond it was long and high, lit by narrow openings through which the light fell in precise stripes across the polished floor. The air was cooler here, more vast. It carried scents foreign to the road: herbs, oils, slowly burning wood, and somewhere, very faint, the sound of moving water could be heard.
Duncan remained in the doorway for a moment, without stepping out immediately. There was no one there, or at least, he saw no one. He knit his brows slightly, then stepped out.
The door closed softly behind him, and for a moment, that barely perceptible sound felt more final than it should have. He took a few steps, trying to keep his stride steady, but every movement reminded him that he hadn’t fully recovered. His muscles were still heavy, and the wound throbbed, a dull, present ache, but under control.
The hallway seemed almost empty. Every so often, a silhouette would pass in the distance and vanish behind an archway, without looking at him, without stopping him. No one seemed hurried or curious. And, without knowing exactly why, that unsettled him even more.
The corridor gradually widened, transforming into a high gallery where the light fell differently: warmer, more direct, caught on surfaces that seemed made to hold it in place. The walls were no longer simple, but covered with heavy fabrics and carved panels, and the stone had lost its earlier neutral chill, gaining an imposing presence. His footsteps echoed more clearly here.
He slowed down without meaning to. Not out of fear, or at least, not entirely, but out of an attentiveness that had come to him too naturally, as if the place demanded it without speaking.
His gaze slid over the walls, over details he didn’t fully understand but recognized as important: golden lines traced with a precision that left no room for error, symbols whose ostentatious repetition told him they weren’t there for decoration, shapes that suggested movement even when fixed in stone.
The stags.
He noticed them only after a few steps, but once seen, they could no longer be ignored. They appeared everywhere: on fabrics, in reliefs, in details almost hidden, as if they didn't need to be seen directly to be present. One dominated the far wall, reared up on two hooves, caught in a moment of tension that seemed as though it would never end. Its antlers branched out in thin lines of gold, ramified, almost too delicate for its size, yet impossible to ignore.
Duncan slowed even more.
He had seen it on shields and seals, in mud and blood, carried into battle or raised to be defended. There, it meant something clear: belonging, rank, a promise.
Here, it was something else. It wasn't being carried. It wasn't being defended. It seemed… settled, as if their presence was understood rather than displayed.
Stags had no business in the desert. The thought came simply, almost childishly, and lingered longer than it should have. He turned it over and over, then set it aside with a clenched jaw, irritated by his own inability to connect the dots.
Maybe he was no longer in the desert. The idea took hold more stubbornly than it ought to.
He shifted his gaze further, but not entirely. A part of his attention remained snagged by those shapes, by lines that seemed to repeat beyond what he could see directly, as if the place possessed an order he did not yet understand.
And he didn't like that.
He wiped his palm against his tunic again, more discreetly this time, and almost gave a short smile when he realized he was making the same gesture without meaning to. The fabric was still too fine, too clean, and the contrast with himself became increasingly evident as he moved forward.
The gallery continued ahead, but something in the air changed slightly, not in temperature, but in presence. Sounds were fewer here, more controlled, and the silence no longer seemed merely maintained; it felt occupied.
Duncan slowed down almost imperceptibly. He didn’t stop, but his gait was no longer the same.
The air grew denser as he moved forward, charged with something that didn't belong to the stone or the room. It wasn't just the scent of herbs or slowly burning oils. It was something else, warmer, closer, slipping through the others without masking them.
He inhaled without realizing it. And he recognized it immediately. He stopped for a fraction of a second, more out of reflex than intent. He knit his brows slightly.
Alpha.
It wasn't the first he had sensed, nor was it the strongest. But it was different. It wasn’t an assault on the senses, but a constant presence, one that didn't seek to conquer the space, but inhabited it by right. He shifted his weight slightly, irritated by his own body's reaction. It didn't matter. It shouldn't have mattered.
He inhaled again, more carefully this time, as if wanting to confirm something he already knew. The sensation settled more clearly, not stronger, but harder to ignore. He clenched his jaw.
He didn’t understand why people made such a fuss about things like this. Scents, titles, unspoken rules. It all seemed more complicated than it needed to be.
A man was just a man. That was all.
And yet, his breathing adjusted itself without asking him. He realized only afterward that he had slowed down. He stopped for a moment, just long enough to gather his thoughts, then lifted his chin slightly and resumed his pace, firmer than before, as if refusing to let that thing, whatever it was, dictate his rhythm. It was nothing, just a scent. And he had no intention of letting it mean more than that.
Before he could move any further, a murmur of voices made him slow down.
There weren't many, two, maybe three, low, controlled, unhurried. It didn't sound like a conversation between busy people, but rather of those who had no need to raise their voices to be heard.
Duncan didn't stop entirely, yet he didn't step directly into the light either. He lingered for a moment in the shadow of the archway, just long enough to discern the outlines without being seen. The words reached him in fragments.
He recognized the language, or almost. The sounds were drawn out differently, rounded where he didn't expect them and clipped where they should have flowed, and the meaning escaped him just as he thought he had grasped it.
He understood enough to know that he should understand more, and that irritated him.
"— I don't think it's necessary." The voice that replied was no louder than the others, yet it cut through the air more clearly, effortless, unhurried.
The rest of the sentence escaped him. He caught only fragments: "later"... "not yet"... "it is not—" and then the meaning unraveled again before he could piece it together.
He knit his brows slightly. He could have moved closer. He would likely have understood better. The thought crossed his mind so simply that he almost took a step.
He didn't.
Something in the way they stood, or perhaps the way the others didn't speak over that man, stayed his movement. It was nothing obvious, nothing that demanded attention, and yet attention gathered there without being asked.
He saw only the shadow; he was leaning slightly, without rigidity, without visible effort, as if the space didn't need to be occupied, only recognized. Duncan realized this before he wanted to.
Alpha.
The same smell.
The scent now tied itself clearly to the presence, to the voice, to the space around him. He clenched his jaw slightly. It didn't matter. There was no reason for it to matter.
And yet, he stayed there a moment longer than necessary, listening without fully understanding, trying to catch the meaning amidst the sounds that constantly eluded him. He felt his irritation rising.
For a split second, he was tempted to move forward, just one step, enough to hear more clearly, to piece things together. He didn't. It wasn't his business. He prepared to leave. It was then that he had the distinct sensation of being watched.
There was no gesture, no sound, only a subtle shift in the air, as if someone’s attention had fixed upon him without moving an inch. He tensed slightly, without realizing it. He didn't look up immediately.
He remained exactly where he was for a moment, as if he had every right to be there, even if he wasn't sure it was true. His breathing adjusted on its own, becoming slower, more careful. He felt it. Not just the gaze. The presence.
Only then did he lift his gaze, not enough to meet the other’s directly, but just enough to confirm what he already knew.
It was him. He needed nothing more.
He shifted his weight and turned his gaze away, as if the decision had been made from the start. It wasn't his business.
He walked away without haste, but as his steps carried him further, he felt something lingering behind, not a sound, not a movement, but an attention that hadn't fully dissipated. And, without realizing when he had made the choice, he slightly quickened his pace.
The corridor he had chosen narrowed gradually, and the air lost that controlled chill, becoming harsher, more familiar. The scent of smoke and baked bread grew clearer with every step, mingled with noises that were no longer held in check: voices, footsteps, metal striking metal.
A door appeared to the side, simpler than the others, without gold or carvings, positioned as if it weren't meant to draw any attention. Duncan didn't hesitate. He pushed it open, and the light hit him full on.
He stepped out into a wide courtyard, where the air was warmer and more alive than indoors. People moved from one side to another with baskets, sacks, vessels. Someone shouted something in the distance; someone else laughed. The noise wasn't organized, yet it wasn't chaotic either, it was ordinary life, work carried on without being noticed.
Duncan slowed for a moment, letting himself be caught in the rhythm of the place. No one stopped him.
A woman passed by him with a tray, barely even brushing him with her gaze. A man stepped around him without apology, too preoccupied with his own path to notice anything else.
His shoulders relaxed slightly. If he wasn't being followed and no one was demanding explanations, then he wasn't a prisoner. Or, at least, not an important one. He adjusted his stride and let himself be carried by the flow of people, following their direction without appearing to seek it. He barely managed to take more than a few steps.
"Hey, you!" The voice came from the side.
Duncan turned his head instinctively, but he didn't get a chance to answer. A hand gripped his wrist and pulled him forward with a decisiveness that left no room for argument.
A young woman, her hair pinned up carelessly and sleeves rolled up, glanced at him for just a second, long enough to give him a cursory evaluation. "Where did you disappear to? We've been looking for you for—" the rest of her words were lost in the lilt of her accent.
Duncan blinked, trying to piece the sentence together. "No—" he began.
Not now," she interrupted, already turning and pulling him along. "If we don't bring—" something about the tray, about time—he didn't quite catch it—"we'll be in trouble."
"I'm not—" he tried again, raising his voice slightly, but she didn't slow down.
She hauled him through the crowd, and his words were lost in the din of the courtyard, swallowed by voices and footsteps before they could reach anyone who would listen. He clenched his jaw slightly. It wasn't complicated. He wasn't one of them. That should have been enough. It didn't seem to be.
They reached a shadier area where the heat was denser and the air heavier. Tables were covered with platters, bread, steaming meat, and people moved faster here, everyone with something in their hands, everyone hurried without appearing disorganized.
The girl let go of him only to grab a large tray, loaded to the brim, and shoved it into his arms. The weight caught him by surprise.
"Hold this," she said, already turning toward someone else. "Take it to the big room. Quickly."
Duncan stood motionless for a moment, the tray in his hands. "I am no servant," he said, more to himself than to her. No one listened. Two other people passed him, each carrying a tray, heading in the same direction. One of them shot him a brief glance.
"Move" he said.
Duncan looked down at the tray, then back ahead. He could have set it down. He probably should have. He didn't. He adjusted his grip on the edge and followed the others. His wound pulled his body slightly to one side, and the tray tilted just enough to make him tighten his fingers and hold his breath for a split second.
He steadied himself immediately. He said nothing; there was no point. He just had to deliver the tray, set it down, and then leave. That was all. The sooner it was over, the better.
The corridor opened into a space that resembled nothing he had ever seen before, and Duncan slowed down without realizing it, as if the place ahead of him demanded it without saying a word.
The stairs rose wide, bathed in a warm light that didn't come from a single source, but from dozens of small flames placed in metal and glass vessels along the edges, each of them burning quietly, unhurriedly, as if time were being held still just for them. The light wasn't sharp, it didn't blind; instead, it gathered in soft layers over the stone, over the fabrics, over the forms that took shape only when you stopped to truly look at them.
But it wasn't the light that stopped him.
It was the flowers.
They were everywhere, spilling along the balustrades, allowed to tumble over the steps, gathered in corners and then scattered again, as if no one had tried to keep them in order, yet someone had nonetheless considered their every placement. Deep red, burnt orange, warm yellow, colors so dense they seemed to breathe, intertwined with the green of leaves that held nothing decorative in them, only a silent, lingering life.
Duncan remained at the base of the stairs longer than necessary, the tray pressing into his palms and his gaze instinctively lowered, searching for a safe place to step. He found none.
Petals covered the stone in ways that couldn't be entirely avoided, and the thought that he might crush them under his weight made him hesitate for a fraction of a second too long. He lifted his foot slightly without setting it down immediately, as if waiting for the floor to change on its own.
It didn’t change.
He inhaled, and the scent hit him again, sweeter here, denser, heavy with flowers and resins and something warm underneath, hard to separate, hard to ignore. It rose too quickly to his head, and that dull throb reappeared at the base of his skull, beating steadily, annoyingly, like something that had no intention of going away.
He clenched his jaw and stepped with more care than he would care to admit. He placed his sole between two patches of color, careful not to touch them, and the movement unbalancing him slightly, just enough for the tray to tilt for a fraction of a second. He tightened his fingers on its edge and steadied himself immediately, but the sensation remained, small and nagging.
He continued to climb, but every step felt too heavy for that place, too weighted, as if he risked breaking something simply by existing. It wasn't just the difference between him and the others, between his clothes and the fabrics surrounding him, but something simpler and harder to ignore: his body, too solid, too present in a space that seemed built for light movements, for footsteps that left no traces.
He adjusted his grip on the tray without realizing it, clinging to the sensation of the cold metal like a fixed point in a place that offered him no other.
The flowers occasionally brushed the edges of his boots, too lightly to be avoided completely, and each time his shoulders tensed imperceptibly, as if he were doing something wrong, even though no one was watching him, even though no one said a word.
And perhaps that was what unsettled him most. The fact that no one was stopping him.
The scent grew stronger with every step: sweeter, more oppressive, mingling with the warmth of the light and the air that no longer circulated as freely. It filled his chest without asking permission and rose to his head again; the throb at the back of his neck now beat more clearly, closer to the surface. For a moment, it seemed to him that if he climbed just one more step, something within him would give way.
He tried to breathe more deliberately, more shallowly, but he couldn't quite shake the feeling that the air was no longer his own. He reached the top of the stairs and slowed down, not because he wanted to, but because he could no longer walk the same way.
When he passed beyond the drapes, the sensation didn't come gradually; it hit him all at once, as if he had stepped into a space that had no patience to reveal itself slowly.
The air was so warm and heavy, laden with scents that didn't mingle but sat atop one another in dense layers: slowly burning incense, sweet resins, flowers, and spices that were unfamiliar to him, all so present they filled his chest, leaving no room to breathe normally. They rose to his head again, faster than he would have liked, and the pulsing at the base of his skull intensified immediately, a dull, constant beat like a noise he couldn't stop.
He didn’t stop, but his stride was no longer the same.
The room opened before him in a way that resembled nothing he knew, not simply because it was large, but because every corner had been designed to be seen, to catch the eye and hold it there longer than necessary. Heavy draperies in warm tones of gold and red fell in wide folds between carved arches, and from above hung dozens of metal lanterns, each crafted in fine patterns that let the light leak through them in intricate designs projected onto the walls, the floor, and the people.
The light wasn't blinding, yet it was everywhere.
It reflected off gold, off vessels, off gems worn without restraint, and off the bare skin of those who sat or moved through the room with a confidence that didn't seem learned, but innate. The space was divided into low areas with divans draped in thick fabrics and colorful cushions, while tables were laden with fruit, glassware, and objects Duncan couldn't name, but which seemed to belong to the place as naturally as the light itself.
Somewhere further back, an entire wall was covered in flowers, and long strings of petals and thin threads hung from the ceiling like a suspended rain that never reached the ground.
For a moment, he didn't know where to look. And that made him look nowhere for too long.
He moved forward, but his attention remained scattered, unable to fix on anything in particular, while the tray pressed into his palms harder than it should have, the only stable thing in a place that offered him no other foothold.
People didn't move as they did in the courtyard. There was no rush, yet every gesture had a precision he didn't understand; every approach, every glance seemed to mean something, even when nothing was said.
It was clear they weren't like the others. Not just in their clothes, though that was obvious, but in the way they occupied the space.
Nobles.
The thought came simply and required no explanation.
Duncan slowed down without realizing it, then stopped altogether for a moment, tray in hand, right in the middle of a place where everyone else seemed to know exactly where they needed to be and what they needed to do.
He did not. He lowered his gaze to the tray, then raised it again, searching for a clear spot, a surface where he could leave it without drawing attention. He found nothing. Every table was occupied, every corner seemed already accounted for, and the thought that he might place the tray in the wrong spot crossed his mind more clearly than he would have liked.
The throbbing at the back of his neck beat harder.
He swallowed, and the motion only intensified the sensation in his throat, as if the air had grown too thick to be swallowed without effort.
He felt exposed. Not because anyone was looking at him directly, but because it was impossible not to be seen, too tall, too solid, too present in a place where he was supposed to be invisible. A giant in a room built for people who didn't need to impose themselves to be noticed.
He shifted his weight, trying to look as if he knew what he was doing, but the movement changed nothing. He remained there a moment too long, tray in his hands, caught among people who didn't need to look at him to confirm that he didn't belong.
That was when he felt the light tap on his shoulder. Not painful, but firm enough to break his paralysis. He turned instinctively.
A servant, already in motion, shot him a brief glance and said something quickly, his accent swallowing part of the words, but the direction was clear. He gave a short, precise nod, gesturing toward to his side.
Then he was gone.
Duncan lingered for a split second, trying to link the sounds to the gesture, but he didn't need to understand everything. It was enough. He adjusted his grip on the tray and set off in the indicated direction, careful with every step, every movement, as if the place might reject him if he made a single mistake. He didn't feel better, but at least he was no longer standing still.
As he moved forward, the sound began to gather around him until it could no longer be ignored, gradually rising from a murmur into a presence that seemed to fill the entire place. It wasn't just music, but a blend of rhythms and vibrations that didn't settle into a clear line but overlapped one another, low beats that struck his chest before he truly heard them, long, vibrant sounds that stretched over the voices of people and their laughter without being drowned out by them.
Without realizing it, Duncan matched his steps to the rhythm; by the time he noticed, it was too late to fully correct the movement, so he clenched his jaw slightly and tried to walk straighter, more confidently, without appearing lost in his surroundings.
Around him, people no longer just stood in groups but moved in a way unlike anything he had ever seen, dancing without appearing to follow specific steps, yet without being chaotic, as if every gesture were linked to the next in a way he couldn't track. Fabrics rose and fell with their movements, gold caught the light and cast it further, and hands, shoulders, entire bodies moved in a continuous flow that became difficult to fixate on if you looked for too long.
He tried not to look.
He didn’t entirely succeed.
For a moment too long, his gaze snagged on their movement, and the world seemed to tilt slightly, not because of his steps, but because he couldn't find a stable point to rest upon. He immediately dropped his gaze to the tray, searching for something fixed, something that didn't move, and he clung to its edge as if to a thing that belonged to him, the only thing that didn't change from one second to the next.
The scent lingered over everything, sweeter here, more oppressive, slipping between breaths and movements, and the pulsing at the back of his neck now beat more clearly, rhythmically, in the same tempo as the music, which annoyed him more than he cared to admit.
He moved forward more carefully, weaving through the crowd without being sure he was doing it correctly, avoiding touches without being able to avoid them all. Each time someone passed too close, he felt the space tighten and then open again, without offering him anywhere to stop without appearing out of place.
The direction the servant had indicated came back to him, and when his gaze lifted again, he saw it, not because it was empty, but because it was the only spot where the space didn't move in the same way.
He slowed as he approached, sensing without understanding why that this place was not like the others; the air around it was heavier, more stable, as if all the rest of the hall were in motion, but there, motion was not allowed.
He stopped for a moment, too close to back away now without drawing attention. He lifted his gaze.
At first, he saw only the difference.
Not the details, the gold, the fabrics or the chains that caught the light and held it there, but the way the man before him sat, without having to impose himself, without needing to say a word, as if the place belonged to him in a way that could not be contested.
Then, his gaze fixed on the rest.
Raven-black hair fell in slight disarray, yet without appearing careless, framing a mature, steady face where a short beard was barely etched, a fine shadow across a strong jawline. A few silver strands caught the light and reflected it discreetly, unhidden, lending him a distinct air of authority.
His well-defined torso, was left partially bared, a canvas for an array of golden jewelry. Layered chains, each with intricate patterns and precious gem-set pendants, adorned his neck and chest. A heavy mantle of rich black fabric, featuring geometric gold embroidery and a deep green lining, draped from his shoulders, contrasting sharply with his matte skin. A golden sash, textured with delicate motifs, was swept over one shoulder, adding an asymmetrical, exotic touch.
Duncan remained motionless for a moment too long. He simply didn't shift his gaze immediately. And, for a split second, neither did the other man. He only realized it afterward.
He abruptly dropped his gaze to the tray, suddenly conscious of his hands, his posture, and the fact that he was standing there without having done what he was supposed to. He clenched his jaw and took the final step, setting the tray on the table with more care than necessary, as if the gesture could erase the moment that had just passed.
He barely managed to step away before the voice reached him, low and calm, yet so clear it seemed to cut through the music without disturbing it, settling directly over him as if spoken for him alone.
Duncan stopped. Not because he understood the words,he didn't understand them at all, but because the way they were spoken left no room for doubt. They were addressed to him, and that was enough.
He turned, without haste but without hesitation, in a movement that was neither fully controlled nor entirely instinctive, and raised his gaze just enough to see him again. Closer now, without the distance that blurred the details.
It was no longer just the presence he had sensed from across the hall, but something far more concrete, harder to ignore: the line of his shoulders, the way he leaned back without effort, that certainty that didn't need to be demonstrated because it was already there, in every gesture, in every stillness.
His gaze lingered there for a moment too long before his thoughts caught up with him.
He had understood nothing. The words remained in his mind as mere sounds, without meaning, but the tone had not been accidental; it hadn't been cast into the air without direction. It had targeted him.
He clenched his jaw slightly, irritated by the fact that he didn't even have the possibility of responding, and shifted his weight, prepared to say something, anything, even if he wouldn't be understood.
He didn't get the chance.
His gaze broke away for an instant, not because he wanted it to, but because he needed a foothold, something other than that direct contact, that exchange he didn't know how to carry further.
And then he saw it. Not all at once like a revelation, but as a recognition that settled before it could even be formulated.
The sword.
It was leaned against the edge of where the man sat, almost left there carelessly, yet not abandoned, positioned in a way that suggested it belonged to him, placed with the certainty that it didn't need to be guarded.
Duncan didn't blink. He didn't need to see it in its entirety; the hilt was enough. The coin struck into the metal, exactly where he knew it to be, slightly worn at the edges, but impossible to mistake. He recognized it before he could even think.
His breath hitched for a fraction of a second, then returned too quickly, too sharply. The throbbing at the back of his neck, which until then had been merely a constant discomfort, suddenly became too clear, too present, beating in a rhythm that no longer had anything to do with the music around him.
Ser Arlan. The thought came as a certainty. His jaw clenched automatically.
The hall vanished for a moment, not entirely, but enough that it no longer mattered. The music played on, people moved, the light remained the same, but none of it reached him in the same way anymore.
Only the sword. And the fact that it wasn't with him. His gaze rose again, inevitably, toward the man before him. This time, it wasn't just confusion. And it wasn't just curiosity either.
The thought didn't have time to fully form.
His body moved forward before he could stop it, as if the decision had been made somewhere lower, deeper, in a place reached by neither reason nor prudence. His hand detached from his side, and the step that brought him closer to the divan was too direct, too sure to be retracted.
The sword. Nothing else existed.
There was no more music, no more people, no more light that had dizzied him until then. Only the distance between him and the hilt, and the certainty that he had recognized it without needing to see it in its entirety.
He didn't make it.
The other man’s movement was fast enough that Duncan didn't track it completely, only its result: a line of cold metal that reached his throat before he could move his hand any further.
The tip of the dagger stopped exactly where the skin was thinnest; the pressure wasn't heavy, but it was enough to sever his impulse in a single motion. Duncan froze instinctively, not out of fear, but from an immediate recognition of the situation, and his breath hitched for a moment before returning too quickly.
He felt the blade. Not just the touch, but its precision.
As he inhaled, the tip glided almost imperceptibly, just enough to draw a fine line, and the warmth of blood appeared immediately beneath his skin, a thin trail that descended slowly and was lost against the edge of the table. He did not move because he knew exactly how little it would take for everything to change.
Around them, something had shifted without coming to a complete halt. The music played on, people still laughed, but the atmosphere had tightened in a way that required no noise to be felt, and several silhouettes approached, too quickly, too controlled.
Guards.
They didn't reach them. A brief, almost absent gesture from the man was enough, and their movement stopped before it could become an intervention.
His gaze remained fixed ahead, caught somewhere between the sword he could no longer touch and the hand holding the dagger, calm, steady, without a trace of hesitation or haste. His breathing gradually stabilized, though the throbbing at the back of his neck now beat more clearly, closer to the surface, mingling with the rhythm of the music and his own pulse. He was aware. Too aware. Of every detail, of every inch of distance, of the fact that he had made a move he couldn't explain now without appearing to be exactly what he didn't want to be.
The man watched him with an attention that seemed to weigh more than the situation itself, as if it weren't the gesture that mattered, but the man behind it. The dagger remained motionless, the pressure constant, exactly as it needed to be. Then the voice came, low, calm, close enough that it didn't need to be raised.
"What do you think you're doing?"
For a moment, Duncan didn't answer.
Not because he had nothing to say, but because the answer required no time. It was already there, simple and clear, with no room for detours, no room for softening. His gaze dropped for a split second toward the sword, long enough to confirm what he already knew, then returned to the man before him without hesitation.
"Mine," he said. He didn’t raise his voice, nor did he try to appear more certain than he was; he said it exactly as he would have stated any other obvious fact, as if no other possibility existed.
The man didn't react immediately.
His gaze remained fixed on him, calm, yet attentive, as if it weren't the words that mattered, but the way they had been spoken. The dagger didn't move, nor did it press any harder; it remained there as a constant presence, enough to be impossible to ignore, yet without any rush.
A barely perceptible smile touched the corner of his mouth. "Yours," he repeated, not contradicting him, but rather as if he were tasting the idea before choosing to accept or reject it.
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze sliding for a moment toward the sword and then back to Duncan, without appearing to have missed a single detail in the interim."And yet," he continued, just as calmly, "it is not with you."
Duncan clenched his jaw. "It was."
He added nothing. He felt no need to explain how or when he had lost it, and the silence that followed didn't seem to unsettle him as much as it might have someone else. Around them, the music played on, people moved, laughed, and spoke, but the space between them remained severed from the rest, as if it didn't belong to the same hall.
The man watched him for another moment, then the pressure of the dagger shifted almost imperceptibly, not vanishing, but becoming less of a constraint and more of a choice.
"You went straight for it," he said, and this time there was no trace of testing in his voice, only observation, "as if nothing else in this room existed."
His gaze dropped for a second toward Duncan’s hand, then back up, measuring him without haste. "Either you are very sure of yourself," he added, with a stillness that held nothing gentle in it, "or you are a bit of a fool." A brief pause, long enough for the words to settle.
Duncan didn’t answer immediately. He kept his gaze fixed on him, steady, without looking for exits or explanations, as if he saw no point in saying more than was necessary.
"It isn’t yours," he said at last, shorter this time, but firmer.
For the first time, the noble exhaled softly, almost like a laugh that never reached his lips, and the dagger withdrew a few millimeters, enough to leave the skin untouched, but not enough to vanish from his proximity.
"No," he admitted simply. His gaze remained on Duncan, sharper now, more alive. "But it is with me."
"And usually," he continued, his voice taking on a slightly warmer, almost playful lilt, "this is the part where people stop making such hasty moves." The smile returned, clearer this time, yet without losing its underlying stillness.
His gaze hadn't shifted. It remained fixed, dropping for a fraction of a second to the thin line of blood at Duncan’s throat, then up again to lock onto his eyes, too clear for that place, too foreign not to draw attention.
He tilted his head slightly, as if looking at something that didn't quite fit, and the breath he drew into his chest was short and controlled, yet enough to catch more clearly the scent surrounding Duncan.
For a moment, something in his expression shifted, barely perceptible, his interest sharpening, becoming more focused, as if he had discovered a detail that shouldn't have been there.
The word hung between them without being understood, yet it needed no meaning to retain its weight. His gaze dropped again, tracing the line of Duncan’s shoulders, his posture, the way he remained there without retreating, without asking permission, too present in a place where he should have been invisible. Then, the smile faded.
The movement came without haste and without warning, as if it had been decided long before it was made. His hand detached from the dagger and shoved Duncan in the chest with enough certainty to break his balance at a moment when he didn't fully have it anyway.
Duncan didn't have time to steady himself and fell. The impact wasn't heavy, but it knocked the air from his lungs for a second, and the world seemed to snap back into place too abruptly around him; the music became clearer, closer, the light harsher, the scent more oppressive.
He stayed there for a split second, long enough to feel the floor beneath him, then he looked up.
The noble hadn't moved closer. He remained exactly where he had been, only slightly more upright, and the distance between them now seemed greater, even though he had only taken a single step back.
"اختفِ"
He didn't raise his voice, yet the word reached him effortlessly. He paused briefly, long enough to ensure he was being watched, then continued, this time in Duncan's own tongue:
"Vanish." His gaze lingered on him for one more moment. "Before I call the guards."
Duncan didn't rise immediately, remaining for a moment braced on one palm, his breath still slightly uneven, not so much from the fall, but from what remained between them: unseen, yet impossible to ignore.
He finally stood in a single motion, without haste or hesitation, and his gaze rose instinctively, passing over the people, the light, and everything that had overwhelmed him only moments before, stopping where he already knew it would land.
The sword.
It was exactly where he had left it, leaning against the divan: still, untouched, as if it had never been lost and never taken, as if it belonged to no one but the man who recognized it without needing to touch it.
His jaw clenched without him realizing. He took a step, just one. Enough to feel the distance again, enough to understand that he couldn't close it without shattering the fragile balance that had formed around them.
He stopped because he knew exactly what would follow if he did. His gaze shifted, inevitably, toward the noble. No words were needed. Neither of them had moved, yet everything had changed; the space between them was now clearer than anything else in the room.
For a moment, Duncan stood there, caught between what belonged to him and what he couldn't take without paying the price. He didn't like the choice, but he didn't try to change it either.
He exhaled a short, almost imperceptible breath, then turned. It wasn't a retreat or a flight, but a controlled gesture, made against his own will, but made nonetheless.
The music surged over him again, louder, more present; people continued to move, laugh, and dance, unaware and unknowing, as the room resumed its rhythm without regard for what had happened only a moment before.
He walked on without stopping. He didn't look back, but he didn't truly leave either. He still felt it, not like a gaze following him, but as a stable, motionless, certain presence, as if the man needed to do nothing at all to remain right where he was.
Duncan tightened his jaw slightly, and for the first time since entering the hall, the thought didn't come as a reaction, but as something clear, calm, and impossible to ignore.
It wasn't over. Not by a long shot.