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Chapter Text

The morning before training that day, Arc is testing his skills against a heavy bronze padlock when Ciara enters the squad room and drops a brown paper bag on the table in front of him. 

“These,” she announces as he raises an eyebrow at her, “are for you.”

He pulls open the package and is instantly greeted with a rush of warmth and the smell of vanilla. “Dragon puffs?” he says, half in awe. It’s a clear bribe, but he can’t help but shove a sugar-coated sweet in his mouth anyway. They’re an Astorian original and possibly the best thing he’s ever tasted; he’d tried them once at a bakery near the castle and hasn’t stopped thinking about them since. 

“Okay, what do you want?” he says then, words muffled around the cream and pastry.

Ciara pulls a face at his manners, but still manages to blink innocently at him. “Can’t I just do something nice for a friend?” she tries, but it’s half-hearted.

He swallows and grins at her. “Nice try, Princess. Your dessert deliveries always come with an ulterior motive.”

Huffing a sigh, she sits down next to him. There’s this subtle air of anticipation lingering around her, one he can only sense based on how in tune they are after so long of being teammates. The two of them have this easy way of reading each other now; they’ve been spending more and more time together, something having shifted in their dynamic after the battle against Ryker. He can’t quite place what it is, but he knows it’s only brought them closer. “Do you know what the Council of the Five Kingdoms is?” she asks finally.

He shrugs. “Sure. Nobles from each kingdom used to have a big ball every year to talk trading and politics and other boring stuff…”

“Except there hasn’t been a council since Ryker’s invasion, because the kingdoms have been isolated and preoccupied with their own safety,” she finishes for him. Her fingers tug at the lacing of her leather gauntlets; she’s nervous, but he still isn’t sure why. “Now that Ryker isn’t a threat anymore, the councils are supposed to resume as planned, and Astoria is set to hold the first one two weeks from now.”

“Okay,” he says slowly. “That sounds exciting.”

Ciara nods. “It is! I finally get to meet some of the other nobility, and actually get to be involved in Astorian politics for once. But my dad won’t let me go without an escort,” she says, and then hesitates. “Which is where you come in.”

Arc chokes on his second dragon puff. “You want me to be your escort,” he says flatly, once he’s finished coughing, “to the Council of the Five Kingdoms?” Normally he’d jump at the chance to spend a night dressing up and eating castle food. But the council is a decidedly different scene; there’s a set of formalities, politics underlying everything, and too many chances for him to expose his lack of knowledge when it comes to Astorian customs. Not to mention that Catalias’ royals will be there. He doesn’t know if he can stomach looking them in the face, knowing what they did to Seagate.  

Ciara grimaces. “Look, I know it’s not exactly your thing, but my dad won’t let me go alone. And this really means a lot to me.” Her eyes are pleading, and Arc feels his resolve chipping away.

“Can’t one of your actual guards go with you?” he tries. “Or, Prudy or Warwick or someone?”

“I’ve already talked to my dad about it,” she explains. “You’re the only Knight School student he’d let protect me, because you already proved you could when Ryker invaded. Besides, if something were to happen…you’re the one person who knows I can handle myself as Ciara.”

There’s this brief stretch of silence where Arc works his bottom lip, and Ciara looks as though she’s debating something. “Also,” she adds finally, with the soft flicker of a hesitant smile, “I thought it might be fun to go with you.”

Arc blinks at her, caught off guard by the admission. There’s this sudden buzz in his chest that he can’t push away; in truth, he doesn’t like the idea of her spending the night with someone else either. Maybe, by some miracle, this will actually be a good thing. “Alright,” he relents. “I’ll be your escort.”

Ciara’s face breaks into a grin. “Yes! Thank you!” She throws her arms around him, and he’s shock-stilled, a rush of warmth flooding through him as he hugs her back. When she pulls away, her eyes are shining with excitement. “Okay, I’ve gotta go tell my dad you said yes, and there’s a million things to do, but I’ll see you at training later. You are the best .”

“I expect dragon puffs for life!” Arc calls after her as she disappears through her passageway. He leans back into the couch, lightheaded, and in that moment, he realizes abruptly that there’s almost nothing he wouldn’t do for her. 

And he is so completely screwed .

Two weeks later, Arc is standing outside Ciara’s bedroom, waiting for her to finish getting ready.

It feels odd to be out here in the open. Generally his visits to her chamber are accompanied by an air of secrecy, but tonight, he’s a guest in the castle. He’s dressed like it, too, decked out in the guards’ typical formal wear: pressed brown pants, a white shirt laced up the front, and a navy leather jacket trimmed in gold, with Astoria’s crest on one shoulder. He looks kind of dashing, honestly.

Despite the confidence boost his new look offers him, his hand keeps drifting to the hilt of his sword. It’s sheer force of habit; he only associates this brewing sense of apprehension with battle, and his muscles are responding in kind. He’s glad, at least, that he turned down the other guards’ offer to lend him one of their ceremonial blades and instead has the familiarity of his own. Hopefully he won’t need it, but it’s a steadying presence all the same.

“Almost ready!” Ciara calls from inside, and Arc carefully unclenches his fingers from around the leather grip of his sword. He has to keep it together tonight; she’s made it clear how much this means to her. The last thing he wants to do is embarrass her in front of nobles from all five kingdoms.

Well, four, he reminds himself. Seagate won’t be attending. There isn’t anyone left to represent them. 

The thought makes his stomach twist. 

He’s saved from having to dwell on it by the sound of Ciara’s door unlatching. “Better prepare yourself, Princess,” he teases, leaning against the wall, “I look pretty good, and the last thing we want is for you to get too smitten—”

He breaks off as she emerges from the doorway, all the air in his lungs leaving in a sudden rush. He’s trying hard not to be the cliche of a guy scraping his jaw off the floor at the sight of a pretty girl in a dress, especially not like this, with Ciara— but he can’t help but think that it’s ridiculously unfair of her to come out looking like that. Her dress is a pale blue, falling gently off her shoulders and cinching at her waist, and her tight curls are weaved with strands of gold and tied into a low knot, some of them falling loose to frame her face. There’s a crown of gold leaves and rosebuds settled in her hair. 

“You...um…” Arc searches for his voice, “you look amazing.” His mouth feels dry.

Ciara smirks and reaches up to adjust the collar of his uniform. “You don’t look so bad yourself. I’m definitely smitten,” she jokes, like it’s nothing for them to be flirting openly. It should be nothing. Except his skin burns where her fingers brush against his neck, and he suddenly wonders if she can hear his heart pounding.

He clears his throat. “We should probably get to the ballroom.” 

She nods. “Give me your arm,” she says, looking at him expectantly. When he raises an eyebrow, she continues, “You’re my escort, remember?” 

“Oh, right.” He lifts his arm obligingly, his cheeks warm.

“I really wish we’d had more time to go over Astorian customs,” she breathes as she takes it, more to herself than anything. “Between training and helping with preparations, I’ve been so busy…” His nerves must show on his face, then, because she squeezes his arm gently and amends, “Sorry. You’ll be fine, don’t worry. Just stay close to me, okay?”

“Not a problem,” he grins without missing a beat, and Ciara scoffs and shoves him, the smile tugging at her mouth taking all the bite away from it. 

They can do this, he thinks. The two of them have kept up appearances for each other for months now, have fought and trained and battled Ryker together. They’re Arc and Ciara, unstoppable duo. One little party should be nothing.

As they make their way down the hall towards the ballroom, flanked by guards, Ciara lowers her voice. “When we get there, most of the nobles should be inside already. The herald will announce my father first, then us, and then each of the other three kingdoms. We’ll be beside the thrones as they come in—you’ll stand by me, left side—and once they’ve all been announced, we can leave the thrones and mingle. Bow to each of the rulers as they come by.” 

They had, at least, practiced his bow. Arc swallows back the dread in his throat; all he has to do is stand beside her and greet the other royals, it’s easy enough. For a moment, they linger outside the entrance to the ballroom, until an official-sounding voice announces the King. “We’re next,” Ciara whispers to him, eyes glinting with excitement. “You ready?”

He nods back at her, and the voice calls, “Accompanied by Sir Arc...Princess Angelica of Astoria!” They step into the ballroom, greeted with applause. Arc doesn’t think he’s ever been in a place this lavish; the walls are white, accented in deep gold, and the floors are polished to a gleam. The ceiling looks hand-painted, ornately decorated in constellations and swirling designs, and crystal chandeliers dangle over their heads, casting a golden glow over the whole room. He tries not to look too awe-struck. 

They make their way to the platform on which the thrones rest, Ciara nodding and smiling and waving at the other nobles as they pass. She stands next to her father, and Arc takes his place on her other side, placing his hands behind his back and trying, for all the world, to look like he belongs there. He wonders suddenly if he’s stood too close to her, and if it would make things worse for him to shift over now, and if his indecision is showing on his face—

And then, almost imperceptibly and hidden from the ballroom’s view by the folds of her dress, Ciara reaches over and links her pinky with his. It’s a tiny gesture, a friendly reassurance, but Arc feels a tide of warmth swell in his chest all the same. He lets his gaze flit to her for just a moment, and her lips are graced with a small smile as she tugs his finger gently. 

His breath hitches, and he fights to keep his face a passive neutral as the herald announces the next kingdom and he turns his attention back to the doorway.

“Presenting King Hugo, Queen Luciana, and their son Prince Isaac of Catalias!” 

Arc’s stomach turns as the couple enters, trailed by their son, all three of them swathed in lavish red and gold. Their reputation precedes them; he knows little about the prince, but the king and queen are infamous for their hoarding of wealth, their favorance of the rich nobles and landowners of their kingdom over the common people. Arc knows them best for what they had done to Seagate. 

His hand twitches for his sword, but he fights against the instinct.

True to form, the two have a haughty look about them, all starched clothes and stiff smiles as they bow to Ciara and the King. The two of them return the greeting with Arc following their lead—grudgingly.

“I am so pleased you could join us tonight,” the King smiles, a little tight-lipped. “It is high time that Astoria and Catalias united again.”

King Hugo nods back. “I couldn’t agree more. The honor is ours.” 

Arc detects a veiled sort of tension between the two of them, hidden well underneath the cordial formalities. He glances at Isaac, whose eyes are trained intently on Ciara even as he and his parents move to greet the other guests. Something about it is unsettling.

He’s so focused on Isaac that he almost misses the herald’s announcement of the next kingdom. “Queen Damyanti, and her children Princess Aadhya and Prince Kavan of Khurjan!”

Queen Damyanti is the picture of elegance, draped in silver silk that almost seems to glow against her dark skin. Aadhya looks around fifteen, with the same deep eyes and regal expression, and Kavan must be ten or so. He grins toothily as the three of them approach the thrones and bow.

The King’s expression is much warmer now. “Queen Damyanti. It has been too long. I trust Khurjan is doing well?”

“Not quite as well as Astoria, perhaps,” she replies, and it’s teasing, no sharpness to it. “This ball is absolutely lovely. Princess Angelica, you look so beautiful. Just like your mother. I was so sorry to hear of her passing.”

Ciara’s eyes go soft. “Thank you, Queen Damyanti,” she nods back. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

“You as well. It’s a shame your sister couldn’t make it, but hopefully we’ll all gather again soon.” She gives a small, departing nod and joins the rest of the nobles, Aadhya giving them a bright-eyed smile and Kavan waving enthusiastically as they follow her. Ciara laughs. 

“And finally...King Jesper of Vysalt!”

Arc is confused for a moment; he wonders if he had remembered the name of Vysalt’s king wrong. Then a young man with a head of dark curls and a smattering of freckles against tawny brown skin enters, his crown just slightly crooked. His eyes are wide and dark, and a jagged, white scar cuts across his cheekbone. He can’t be much older than they are.

“He’s the king?” Arc whispers to Ciara under his breath as Jesper makes his way over to them. “How old is he?”

Her expression twists a little in sympathy. “Seventeen. He wasn’t supposed to inherit the throne so soon. His parents were killed when Ryker’s army took over his kingdom.”

Arc isn’t sure what to say to that. He knows what it’s like to lose everything to Ryker—he can picture the flames every time he shuts his eyes. But he hadn’t known about Vysalt or the fate of its royals. They had been close allies with Seagate at one point, one of the only other kingdoms without much wealth, and their king and queen had been known for their generosity. 

Somehow Arc had thought the damage had been done to Seagate alone, but now he wonders how the other kingdoms fared, if they suffered just as much. If any of them came out as unscathed as Astoria did.

“Your Majesties,” Jesper says as he bows, and there’s a note of pity in the King’s expression as he returns the gesture. Arc can only imagine how he feels about someone so close to his daughter’s age having to run a kingdom on his own. 

“King Jesper. How are you doing?” 

It’s a more personal question than he had asked the other royals, Arc notes. Jesper smiles easily; it’s soft, highlights his deep dimples and makes his dark eyes glimmer. “Well, thank you. Vysalt is recovering with time. As am I,” he adds, voice quieting for a moment.

The King nods back. “That’s good to hear. Let us know if there’s anything Astoria can do to help.”

Something flickers in Jesper’s expression, hard to read and gone so quickly that Arc wonders if he imagined it. The young king bows again before moving to join the others, but not before he catches Arc’s eye and smiles warmly. It surprises him—the other royals had hardly given him a second glance—but he returns it with one of his own. Beside him, Ciara lifts an eyebrow, her expression a mixture of amusement and something else he can’t place. 

“What?” he asks quietly, and she shakes her head, glancing away. 

“Nothing.”

He wants to pry, but the King is clearing his throat, getting ready to address the room. The chatter dies down as all eyes turn to him.

“My fellow Astorians,” he says in his deep, booming voice, sounding more formal than Arc has ever heard him, “and my guests from our neighboring kingdoms...I am honored to welcome you to our castle, and so pleased that we could all be in attendance tonight.”

Not all of us, Arc thinks, but no word of Seagate comes up. 

The King continues, “For decades, our kingdoms have been isolated and divided by Ryker’s armies. We have long suffered under his forces, but his threat is gone for good. Thus, tonight is more than a council; it is a symbol of our victory, a symbol of our unity as we move forward and rebuild. So enjoy yourselves! After all, we have so much to celebrate!”

To Arc, the sentiment feels hollow. He got his revenge, and of course he’s glad that Ryker can’t hurt anyone else, but it doesn’t change the fact that Seagate is in ruins. It feels suddenly difficult to celebrate with the weight of his village’s absence lingering in the air around him. The rest of the partygoers don’t seem to share his hesitance, though; the room breaks into applause and cheers, several of the guests raising their goblets jovially. 

Ciara gives him a subtle nudge, jolting him out of his thoughts. “Now we get to mingle,” she grins, leading him off the throne platform and towards the crowd. 

He follows dutifully as she heads toward the table where the other kingdoms’ royals have gathered, Astoria’s king staying behind to greet the other royals. Queen Damyanti is in conversation with King Hugo and Queen Luciana, but she doesn’t seem entirely pleased about it, and Jesper and Kavan are laughing at something Aadhya has said. Isaac hovers next to them, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. He has his father’s golden hair and clear blue eyes, but the frown on his face is entirely his mother’s.

It disappears, though, the moment he sees Ciara approaching them. “Princess Angelica,” he greets her, with a little too much enthusiasm for Arc’s liking, “I’m so honored to finally meet you. You’re even more radiant in person.” Before she can say anything, he takes her hand and kisses it swiftly. Arc narrows his eyes.

Ciara gives a forced-sounding chuckle and curtseys, pulling her hand back. “Thank you, Prince Isaac. I’m glad you could make it. Allow me to introduce Sir Arc, my guard and escort for the night.”

Arc bows—and if he never has to bow to another pompous royal again, he thinks, it’ll be too soon—and Isaac offers him a dismissive sort of half-smile. Any further interaction they would’ve had then is thankfully avoided by the other royals noticing Ciara’s arrival.

“Hi, Princess Angelica!” Aadhya says brightly, with a neat little dip of a curtsey, “I’m Aadhya.” When Ciara and Arc begin to return the gesture, she waves her hand with a tiny scoff. “Oh, you don’t have to do that. Formalities. Just come sit.” She returns to her chair and pats the seat next to her, and Arc decides right there that he likes her.

Ciara takes the offered chair, and Arc takes the only other open spot, in between her and King Jesper. As Ciara launches into conversation with Aadhya, Jesper turns to him. 

“Hi,” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’m Jesper.”

Arc bites back a laugh at the unnecessary introduction. “I know who you are, Your Highness,” he replies lightly.

“I know. I was just trying to give you an opening to tell me who you are.”

Oh. That’s unexpected. There’s no prerogative behind his words, no assertion; Jesper’s grin is almost bashful, his voice easy and bright. He doesn’t sound like a king, just a seventeen-year-old boy trying to flirt. Arc can’t help but return his smile.

“I’m Arc,” he says. “Normally I’m a student at Knight School, but I’m the princess’s guard and escort for the night.” 

“Wait,” Aadhya pauses her conversation with Ciara to lean over and look at him, “You’re the Arc who defeated Ryker?” 

“I helped,” Arc says with a shrug, and the princess’s eyes go wide. She turns to Ciara.

“Were you there too?”

“I was—” Ciara pauses for a moment, “hiding. I was hiding. Arc got me to safety.” 

He grins a little at her, tongue between his teeth, knowing it must be killing her to hide what she was actually doing. She narrows her eyes and kicks his leg under the table in response, a silent shut up. He lifts his eyebrows, like, I didn’t say anything, and she rolls her eyes in an entirely non-subtle manner. 

Across the table, Queen Damyanti is watching their exchange with a raised eyebrow, Arc notices belatedly. She has a mildly amused look on her face, but doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, she states, “Battling Ryker face-to-face must have been quite the experience.” 

“What was it like?” Prince Kavan asks eagerly from beside his sister.

Aadhya elbows him. “ Kavan,” she hisses, but Arc just grins.

“No worries. It was…” he trails, trying to think of what to say and suddenly aware that all the royals’ eyes are on him. He shifts in his seat. “It was scary, obviously. He had the Armor of Astoria, and a whole army with him, and most of the Astorian knights under his spell. But, y’know. We Knight School students are pretty formidable. We all took him on together. Wouldn’t have been able to do it otherwise. I wasn’t half as scared as I would’ve been without my squadmates watching my back.”

He glances at Ciara, who smiles softly and nudges his foot, gentler this time. Jesper has that same unreadable look on his face and Aadhya has her chin propped in her hand, her expression amazed, but Queen Luciana gives a snide sort of scoff. 

“It’s a wonder it took so long to defeat him, then, if a group of students cut him down so easily,” she says. “Perhaps Ryker was never as great a threat as we all made him out to be.”

There’s a cut of silence across the table in which Jesper visibly stiffens. “With all due respect, Queen Luciana, Ryker’s attacks were devastating. Or have you forgotten what happened to my parents?” he demands, without any respect at all. His eyes are blazing. 

“I’m merely pointing out that the only real damage done was to the less...fortified kingdoms,” she sniffs. “Ryker only breached Catalias’s walls once, and he was driven out rather quickly.”

“Well, not every kingdom has Catalias’s resources.” Ciara sounds like she’s choosing her words carefully, frustration masked well behind them.

King Hugo gives a huff of a laugh; his blue eyes are cold. “My dear princess, you have no cause for indignation. Astoria lost the least to Ryker, what with your,” he waves a hand, “magic bubble.”

Ciara opens her mouth but falters, brow furrowed, and across the table, Queen Damyanti speaks up. “Nevertheless, Ryker was still a formidable enemy to all of us. We were only prepared for his attacks because he targeted Seagate and Vysalt first. And Seagate’s destruction is a clear example of his power.”

“Oh, even you can’t argue that Seagate was rotting long before Ryker got to it, Damyanti,” Hugo replies swiftly, and Arc’s breath catches in his throat. Queen Damyanti shrugs in agreement, her expression passive; Arc almost stands up, but Ciara’s hand on his leg underneath the table stops him. 

“ Don’t ,” she hisses, just barely loud enough for him to hear, “Let me handle this.”

Though as it turns out, she doesn’t have to. Before she has a chance to speak, Jesper is already bristling, his voice sharp: “As if Seagate’s corruption justifies the destruction of its people?”

“It’s thieves and criminals, you mean?” Isaac scoffs. “Seagate was a wasteland. The kingdoms are better off.”

The words ring in Arc’s ears, alongside the pounding of his blood. They sound painfully similar to what Ryker had said to him on the mountain— rats and thieves, I did the five kingdoms a favor —and he thinks fleetingly that he’s going to be sick. He’s always known that Seagate was looked down on by the other kingdoms, but hearing them say so casually that what happened, the flames and the destruction and all of the death, was deserved—

“The people were only thieves and criminals because Catalias took advantage of them,” Jesper argues. “I hope I don’t have to remind you that it was your government that poured money into the gangs of Seagate for their own profit and allowed them to stage a coup in the first place.”

The words are deadly and cold, but Arc feels a flash of admiration for Jesper; the king has no obligations towards Seagate, and yet defends it like his own. King Hugo’s gaze hardens. “You’re blaming Catalias for Seagate’s problems?” he says with a derisive laugh. “If anything, Ryker’s attacks only revealed that Seagate was a kingdom full of people that weren’t worth saving.”

“That’s enough,” Ciara says abruptly. Her hand tightens on Arc’s leg, and he can no longer tell if he’s the one trembling or if she is. There’s this burning fire behind her eyes; she looks, Arc thinks briefly, the same way she does in battle. “What happened to Seagate was a devastating tragedy, and I won’t let you treat it as otherwise. Those who disagree aren’t welcome here.”

It’s a weighted statement, one she doesn’t entirely have the formal authority to make, but no one dares to contest it. A heavy silence settles over all of them. Arc doesn’t know how long he can sit there with all the heat under his skin; he doesn’t remember when his hand found the hilt of his sword, only that he’s gripping it tight enough that the leather bites into his palm. He wants to stand up and tell them that none of them would be here if it weren’t for him, a thief from Seagate . In truth, the only thing holding him back is Ciara. In a battle between her steady hand and the storm in his chest, she wins without even trying.

He doesn’t say anything or look at her, but her gaze flits to him for a moment and she just knows , standing up. Before she even opens her mouth, Isaac is on his feet too. “Going so soon?” he asks. “Would you care to dance, Princess?”

She looks at him coolly for a moment. “I would, actually.” And then, she turns to Arc, offering him her hand, “Sir Arc, dance with me?”

Arc blinks up at her and takes it as he stands. “Absolutely, Princess,” he says, letting her lead him away from the table and glancing back only long enough to catch the dumbfounded expression on Isaac’s face.

Chapter Text

“I’m sorry,” Ciara is saying as she pulls him away from the nobles, towards the center of the ballroom. She huffs a breath of air. “I didn’t....it all got so intense so fast.” 

Arc tugs at his collar, tension still riding heavy in his shoulders. He finds himself wishing for a training dummy to hack to pieces—he feels prickly and disjointed and itching to hit something, to get rid of all the frustration building inside of him. 

“The things they were saying—” He breaks off, the anger tightening in his throat. There’s some truth to their words, maybe. He had been hearing it since he first got to Astoria, and even before then—that Seagate was lesser, looked down on, not worthy of having a place among the five kingdoms. It had never been a safe place, after all; it always bled with crime and violence, gang leaders carving up the territory to rule. It wasn’t clean or elegant the way Astoria is. But it’s his home . 

“I know.” Ciara squeezes his hand. “Do you want to—”

Arc shakes his head before she gets a chance to finish. The last thing he wants to do is talk about it. He doesn’t even know if she’ll understand; she’s trying, and he knows that, but there’s a gap there that she will never be able to bridge. Even if she has never meant to be malicious, she’s made her fair share of comments about Seagate too. This is the first time he’s ever heard her defend it so candidly. Besides, he’s managed to keep those memories mostly at bay since he came to Astoria, and it’s been working fine so far. This would arguably be the worst time and place to change that.

There’s a tense sort of silence that’s uncharacteristic of them. Ciara’s eyes keep shifting to him and away, nervous, and his skin is crawling, and he hates how on edge they are. 

“King Jesper seemed cool, though,” he says finally, needing to break whatever unease is starting to crystallize in the air, “with the way he came to Seagate’s defense so fast.”

It’s a rash switch in the subject, but Ciara leans into it, seeming a little relieved. “God, he was totally flirting with you the whole time,” she smirks. “I’m pretty sure he’s still staring.”

“Wait, what?” He turns, and sure enough, Jesper’s gaze is lingering on him. They lock eyes for a moment before the king grins sheepishly and looks away. Arc feels a hot blush creeping up his neck. 

When he looks back at Ciara, she has one eyebrow raised. “It’s my natural charm,” he shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant. “It’s irresistible.”

“Oh yeah, we’re all so in love with you,” she says with a dry laugh. Something in their banter has gone rigid all of a sudden.

“Okay, so what about you?” he says, nudging her. “Isaac is basically throwing himself at your feet.”

Almost immediately, she rolls her eyes in disgust—and Arc finds himself quietly pleased. “He’s such an ass,” she groans. “He acts like I’m lucky to have his attention—like I should be thanking him or something.” Abruptly, she stops walking and turns to face him, and he realizes they’re in the center of the room, surrounded by couples locked in a waltz to the shimmering orchestral music. “Speaking of...he’s heading this way,” she breathes hurriedly. “God, he’s desperate—we should dance.”

Arc glances back to see Isaac making his way through the crowd, his clear eyes trained on them. He looks at Ciara’s expectant hand and bites his lip, shifting on his feet. “I feel like this is a good time to tell you that I have no clue what I’m doing,” he says. 

“You can’t dance?”

“Not the fancy kind!” 

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a measure of fondness behind them still as she takes his hand and places it on her waist. “Okay, just...put your hand here.” Her touch is gentle and feather-light, different from the blows and sharpness he’s used to from training, and he swallows as goosebumps begin to crawl up his arms. It’s one stupid dance, Arc, pull it together. She puts her left hand on his shoulder and clasps their other hands together. The soft lavender of her perfume seems to dull his other senses; he blinks and tries to focus on what she’s saying. “Follow my lead, yeah? Keep with the tempo and make a box with your feet.”

“You make it sound so easy,” he scoffs, but does as he’s told and lets her guide him into a steady waltz as the song changes to a soft, elegant melody. The beat is slow and the steps are simple enough, but he’s tripping over himself, nerves spilling everywhere. He can feel Isaac’s gaze on him from across the floor, can see Queen Luciana watching his graceless stumbling with a look of disdain. Everything about their expressions seems to remind him that he has no place dancing with her.

Ciara laughs a little at his missteps, light and teasing and clear. “Why are you so nervous?”

“Everyone is staring at us,” he says under his breath.

She taps his cheek with the hand that was on his shoulder, bringing his eyes back to hers. In the torchlight they’re glimmering gently, crinkled up at the edges and blazing with the warmth of her smile. “Don’t look at them,” she tells him, her voice achingly soft, and his heart stutters in his chest. “Just look at me.”

He does. Suddenly he can’t take his eyes off of her, can’t remember why he ever did in the first place. She’s close enough that he can see the faint flecks of light reflected in her dark eyes, the flutter of her lashes, the tiny scar on her chin from when she’d fallen in training that her makeup doesn’t quite cover. It’s a reminder that she’s still his Ciara, still the girl he’s fought and trained and pulled stupid pranks with, still his best friend.

And somehow, the knowledge doesn’t stop the burning, tingling warmth from spreading under his skin.

He lets her lead him through the dance, falling into a steady rhythm with her, a one-two-three that makes everything else fade into the background. He’s not sure if his feet ever meet the ground again; they must be floating. The air seems golden and honeyed. Somewhere in the distance, the music swells.

“See,” she says, smiling, “you’re a natural.”

“I catch on fast,” he grins back.

Ciara snorts. “So, what, people don’t dance in Seagate?” 

“We do, but it’s a little more...rugged.” And then, in a burst of shining courage, he adds, “Maybe I’ll show you sometime. Y’know, minus all the courtiers staring at us.”

There’s a grin playing at her lips when she ducks her head, giving his hand a light squeeze. “I think I’d really like that.”

He’s not sure how long they dance for. Maybe it’s only been minutes, but he thinks that hours, even days could’ve passed without him noticing. When the music slows to a stop, he’s only dimly aware of it, but he can’t pull away from her. She’s staring at him, and he’s breathless. His heart is pounding against his chest. “Ciara—” he starts to say, unsure of what will come next, and then she drops his hand. 

Whatever spell had fallen over them splinters into pieces at their feet. He takes a step back, feeling lightheaded and dizzy. From the spinning, probably. 

“I have to use the bathroom,” she tells him, and she’s miles away. “Can you wait outside?”

Arc swallows. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Of course, Princess.”

His head is still turning as he waits for her outside the chambers. The hallway seems cramped, the leather of his uniform impossibly tight. He pulls at his sleeves, feeling hot and flustered—it was so stupid of him to think anything would happen between them, especially right then, in the center of the room in front of everyone. 

He never should’ve danced with her to begin with. It dredged up too many things that were better left buried, and now he’s left with this lightning-struck feeling that he can’t shake from his skin. He doesn’t know what to do with it.

There’s a voice beside him, then. “Well, if it isn’t the Princess’s lapdog,” it lilts, taunting, and the corridor gets somehow smaller. 

Arc bites back a groan. “Prince Isaac,” he replies curtly, ignoring the jibe despite the way his fists tighten, twitching with the desire to hit Isaac across the face. 

The prince leans in front of the entrance to the hall, his gaze critical, tinted with amusement. Without Ciara there as a buffer, the hostility between them is palpable, splayed out in the open. “Had enough of tripping over your feet in the ballroom?” 

Just one punch, Arc thinks wistfully. It would be so satisfying . “It was fun, actually,” he says instead, his tone carefully measured. “The Princess is a great dancer.”

Isaac’s jaw tightens. “It’s always nice to see royals doing charity work,” he replies.

“Oh definitely,” Arc says, unable to stop himself, “I mean, she managed almost a whole conversation with you.”

The prince’s clear blue eyes turn stormy, his face reddening. He seems to sputter for a response and then settles on snapping, “You can’t address me like that.”

Arc steps towards him, tilting his chin up. “In case you haven’t noticed, Your Highness, you don’t rule me.” He knows he’s pushing too far, knows he’s out of line. He can’t bring himself to care. He’s tired of the show of respect he’d put on for Catalias’s prince, especially after everything he’s said about Seagate and the way he acts around Ciara. 

“You think you’re untouchable just because you’re in the princess’s favor.” The prince’s voice is suddenly dark and sharp and deadly, his snarl wolfish and laced with venom. “But she doesn’t need you the way you need her. Whatever you are to each other, whatever you think you have with her, it won’t last.” 

Arc stiffens, the words digging through the chink in his armor to find his flesh. Just like that, Isaac has the upper hand, and Arc is on edge and vulnerable, like he’s been thrust into an ambush without a sword. He sets his jaw. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

“It’s a warning,” Isaac responds. His eyes are flickering; he knows, Arc thinks, the weak point that he’s found. “She’s a princess. There are expectations—”

“Ci—Angelica doesn’t care about that stuff.”

The prince laughs humorlessly. “You’re naive. She’s been bred for nobility since she was born, and you barely know the proper decorum for a ball. You’re nobody. Everyone here can see you don’t belong, and it’s only a matter of time before she realizes it too.”

There’s a nasty, helpless part of Arc’s brain that tells him that Isaac is right—that she’s royalty, and he’s not even a Dragonblood—but he shoves it back. “Newsflash, asshole,” he says, with more bravado than he feels. “I was the one she was dancing with, not you.”

“Maybe for now.” Isaac smiles, and there’s something unsettling about it. It’s the kind of look that Arc has seen in gang leaders on the streets, the hunger for power lingering behind his gaze, the threat of something bigger at play. “Times may be peaceful now, but they won’t stay like this forever. New threats will come, and when they do, Angelica has a duty to her family—to her people—to make an alliance that will strengthen the kingdom. Do you really think she’d choose you over all of that? Over Astoria?”

Arc falters, the words cutting through him like a knife. No. Of course she wouldn’t.

The prince gives him a look of both pity and this sick sort of amusement. “You may care about her—maybe she even feels the same way,” he shrugs, like the statement means nothing—like Arc’s heart doesn’t leap into his throat, “but it doesn’t change anything. She will always be a princess, and you…” Isaac smirks and leans in close to Arc, his voice bitterly cold and as final as a killing blow: “You’re nothing .”

Any response that he could’ve scrounged up is knocked out of him. Isaac turns on his heel and walks away from him, unscathed by their encounter, and Arc is left scrambling with an arrow through his chest.

The bathroom door swings open. When his gaze locks with Ciara’s, her smile falters, and her eyes narrow in the direction of Isaac’s retreating form. “Are you okay? What did he say to you?”

Arc blinks, shakes his head, pries his fingers off the hilt of his sword. His blood is rhythmic in his ears. “Nothing,” he says blankly. “He didn’t say anything.”

She tilts her head, but if she doesn’t believe him, she doesn’t mention it. “All right,” she replies instead, hesitant. “Come on, let’s go check out the chocolate fountain you’ve been eyeing all night.”

“You’re joking.”

Ciara shakes her head as Arc piles another chocolate-covered strawberry on his plate and gapes at her. The tables of food are semi-crowded, but while everyone seems to part to make way for Astoria’s princess, no one takes much interest in her conversations with her guard. It makes it easy enough for them to talk about Knight School without causing suspicion, so long as they stay vague enough. They’ve slipped back into their easy banter and goofing off, and he feels like himself again for the first time that night.

“Nope,” she replies, grinning. “First and only time I’ve seen Sage cry.”

“But a video of a baby seal? Seriously?” Arc snorts. “I knew she had a secret soft side.”

Ciara rolls her eyes teasingly. “Oh, don’t pretend you’re not terrified of her.”

“People can be scary and soft!” He gestures to himself. “Case in point.”

She chuckles as she steals a strawberry from his supply and ruffles his hair with her other hand, a casual display of friendly affection that somehow manages to make his stomach flutter. He swallows back that feeling, burying it deep in his chest. “Please,” she says, “You are not scary.”

“You only say that because you’ve seen me with a fuzzy tail. Otherwise you’d find me very intimidating.”

Her laugh is clearer this time, a bright, warm sound that lingers in the air. “Don’t forget the pig’s snout.” 

He’s so focused on her smile that he almost doesn’t see her father gesturing behind them, but when he does, he nudges her gently. “Hey, I think your dad needs something.” The king is sitting at a table with Sir Gareth and some other nobles, a couple of which Arc recognizes as the duke and duchess of Catalias. 

“It’s probably for the sake of political exposure. Do you want to…?” 

Arc shakes his head, not really interested in reprising the events that had happened earlier. Ciara heads toward them, and he hangs back with the twinge of doubt settling back into his stomach, that out-of-place feeling that seems stuck to his skin. He should be used to it by now, he thinks wryly, after so long of posing as a Dragonblood. But it’s easier at Knight School, where being a Dragonblood is just a title, an arbitrary name he can make up for with his skill set. Here, terms like that are defining statuses that dictate how each person interacts with each other. It’s harder to fake it. 

He watches Ciara talk with the other nobles. It surprises him how natural she seems; he’s seen her in ballgowns and tiaras before, of course, but he doesn’t often get to experience her really, truly acting as the princess. It’s not as though she’s an entirely different person, and he’s trying to remind himself of that. He sees parts of Ciara and Angelica bleed together all the time. But seeing the way she carries herself here, the way she converses, it’s a reminder that there’s a side of her that he’s unfamiliar with. After all, the castle was her home first. A part of her will always belong here.

“Enjoying the festivities?” 

Arc is pulled out of his thoughts as he turns around to see Jesper approaching his side, a golden goblet in one hand and a small grin on his face. Once again, Arc finds himself caught off guard; he keeps expecting the king to join the other nobles in their conversations and instead, Jesper keeps seeking him out. He doesn’t know what he’s done to catch his interest, but he can’t say that he minds. 

Arc shrugs. “I guess I’m just not used to this sort of thing,” he says honestly. If it were anyone else, maybe he’d plaster on a smile and pretend to be as captivated by the party as the rest of the guests, but there’s something about Jesper that tugs him towards dropping the act.

“It’s not exactly my scene, either,” the king admits. “The last council happened before I was born.” He glances at Arc with a little quirk of a smile. “So you could say this is equally new territory for both of us.”

“You’ve never had balls in Vysalt?”

Jesper shakes his head. “Not like this. It was mostly festivals and street fairs around the times of the harvest, more open to the public. Although it’s been years since we’ve had one of those, either.”

Arc feels a flash of sympathy, chased down by an overwhelming sense of homesickness. Seagate had never had the kind of parties that Vysalt did, but there were weeks when the catch or trade was particularly good, and the markets would buzz with life: street musicians taking up corners and filling the air with folk music, stalls giving away rare samples, people momentarily forgoing the looting and pickpocketing and violence to swap stories and dance together. The ache of longing in his chest intensifies. 

“You could go back to it,” Arc offers unsurely. “I’m sure the harvest fairs would be a good boost for morale. Unify the kingdom, and all of that.”

The smile that flickers across Jesper’s face is twinged with sadness. “Vysalt has bigger things to worry about, unfortunately. Besides, I’m not even sure if—” he breaks off and shakes his head again. “Sorry,” he says ruefully. “You don’t want to hear about my kingdom’s political issues. We’re supposed to be enjoying the party.”

Arc grins a little. “I don’t think either of us are doing a great job of that.”

“I guess you’re right.” Jesper looks at him for a long moment, hesitating. “It’s just...all the celebration feels a little empty,” he says at last. A shadow has passed over his face; for a moment he looks older than he is, the scar on his cheek stark white against his dark skin. “I’m glad Ryker’s gone, obviously, but it feels like no one cares about all the damage he left behind.”

It’s an echo of the same thing Arc had thought during the King’s speech. It occurs to him suddenly that he and Jesper might understand each other better than anyone else here, that something in what they’ve faced on their own might tie them together. He opens his mouth, wanting to say that he knows how Jesper feels—but at the risk of exposing his secret, he shuts it again. “I’m sorry,” he says finally, and he can’t keep the note of bitterness out of his voice when he says, “It isn’t right.”

Jesper tilts his head, his curls falling in front of his dark eyes. “You were angry when the other royals were talking about Seagate,” he states, an observation rather than a question. “I could see it on your face. You wanted to say something.”

Arc pauses, choosing his words carefully. “I did. Seagate wasn’t—it was more than a wasteland,” he tries to keep his tone even, “I hated listening to them talk about it like that, but I didn’t think they really cared what I had to say about it.”

The king gives a huff of wry laughter, but when he finally looks at Arc, his gaze has gone unexpectedly soft. “You might be the only Astorian who gives a damn about Seagate,” he says quietly. “And Vysalt, even.”

Arc’s eyes flit to Ciara, half on instinct. “Not the only one.”

There’s a brief pause, and then Jesper looks away from him. “Right.” The silence between them is pulled taut. He takes off his crown and fiddles with it in his hands, and it makes him look even more boyish, like it takes all the weight of being king away with it. “So,” he begins then, “are you and the princess…?”

He trails, and Arc bites his lip, tearing his gaze away from Ciara. “It’s complicated,” he responds.

But that’s only half-true. Sometimes it’s alarmingly simple. Sometimes they’ll spend long hours in the training yard after everyone has gone to bed, sparring or developing new moves or just sitting there, talking, and in those moments Arc thinks there’s nothing in the world that’s easier than being with her. She makes him laugh, challenges him, and they’re partners— he trusts her more than anyone else. But Isaac’s words still ring in his ears. It won’t last. 

It’s only complicated because of this part, he thinks. Because when she’s wearing her tiara, there’s a chasm between them that neither of them know how to cross.

Beside him, Jesper takes a long sip of his drink. “I figured it was something like that.”

“Jesper, I—” 

Arc breaks off, unsure of what to say, and the king’s gaze comes back to him. Their eyes lock for a moment. “Arc, it’s okay,” he says softly. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” 

There’s a flicker of quiet before Jesper settles his crown back onto his head, lifting his goblet with his other hand. “I think I’ll get a refill,” he says with an easy smile. Just like that, the air between them shifts again, all traces of their conversation dissipating like smoke. Arc thinks briefly that he should ask to go with him, but the words stick in his throat. 

“It was really nice talking to you.” Jesper’s voice is light, but he hesitates, tugging gently at his collar. “And, um, if you’re ever looking for something...uncomplicated,” he says finally, “you know where to find me.” He nods his bow, eyes glittering, before stepping away.

Arc watches his retreating back. His whole body buzzes with some strange, unfamiliar feeling; he doesn’t know what to make of it, or what to do with Jesper’s interest in him. He feels hot and dizzy again, overwhelmed by everything that’s happening at once. Suddenly, he needs to get out.

His eyes land on the glass double doors to the garden. He casts a quick glance at Ciara, still wrapped in conversation, and heads towards them.

As he pushes through the exit, the stuffiness of the ballroom relents to the cool evening starlight, a gentle breeze ruffling his hair. In front of him, there’s a path leading into the sprawling gardens of the castle, trimmed hedges and bright flowers lining the stone. Above him the moon is a bright silver disk among the stars. He’s only ever seen this place from the windows; it’s even more beautiful out here. He takes a steady breath and feels the tension bleed slowly out of him.

Arc isn’t normally the type to relish in being alone, but compared with the stifling conversations of the party, the gardens are blissfully quiet. As he strolls down the walkway, he feels, for the first time that night, like he can actually think. Like his every movement isn’t being watched and judged by a room full of royals who seem to see right through him. 

It’s ironic enough that he almost laughs to himself: he can take on monsters, trolls, whole armies—but when it comes to a ball, he loses his footing entirely. 

When he’d first gotten to Astoria, he had been acutely aware that he didn’t belong. But after everything he’s been through—finding his squad, making friends, proving himself, defeating Ryker—he had finally started to feel like he’d found his place. Like part of him belonged here now. But the party has thrown everything into a different light. There’s a side of this kingdom that isn’t his, and may never be. And Ciara—

He swallows and stops just as the path splays out into an open circle. There’s a fountain in the center, the soft rush of it filling his ears, and he shuts his eyes momentarily just to listen.

“Arc?” 

He turns. Ciara stands on the path, a few feet behind him; he hadn’t heard her approaching. “Hey,” he says, quiet, and offers her a small smile. 

“Hey yourself,” she grins back. “What are you doing out here?”

His fingers drum against the hilt of his sword as he exhales and tugs his other hand through his hair. “Just...needed a sec to breathe, y’know?” he replies lightly. “It’s kind of been a crazy night.”

She gives him a sympathetic sort of smile and nods as she moves closer, and the two of them step into the opening of the circle together. “I saw you talking with Jesper,” she says, conversational, and then pauses to give him a look that’s half amused, half quizzical. “What is it with you and these furtive meetings with the other royals tonight?” 

He barks a laugh, grinning down at her. “Jealous that you’re not getting my undivided attention, Princess?”

She gives an exaggerated huff and shoves at his shoulder. “You were right,” she scowls at him teasingly, “I totally should’ve brought Prudy.”

“Harsh!”

“She’s a much better dancer than you are, too.”

He scoffs. “Okay, now you’re just being mean.”

Ciara laughs, and as she leads him towards the fountain, the doubt and tension festering inside of him briefly gives way to the sure-footed back-and-forth that he knows by heart. 

She takes a seat on the edge and tilts her chin towards the breeze. For a fleeting moment Arc feels as though he’s stepped into a dream; her curls are highlighted in silver, the shadows of her face even more striking than usual. When she turns to look at him, his breath catches in his throat; in the moonlight the depth of her dark eyes seems endless, like he could fall and fall and fall into them and never make it back to the surface.

She tilts her head a little, an unspoken gesture telling him to join her, and their elbows brush against each other as he takes his place by her side. “I just wanted to say thank you,” she says after a moment. “I know tonight has been...weird, and complicated. But, you put up with it for me.”

“I put up with it for the chocolate strawberries,” he quips jokingly, and she elbows him in the ribs. “Okay, yes,” he amends underneath her glare, “And for you.”

“That’s better,” she says with a self-satisfied smirk, her eyes glittering, and he’s struck again by that same golden, floating feeling he’d experienced when they danced. He’s acutely aware now of how close they are, and that they’re alone out here; there’s a roaring in his chest that he tries hard to stifle.

Arc thinks distantly that he should go inside now. Before something permanent shifts, before he slips any further, before that brewing storm snaps back to life and leaves him reeling. But he’s entranced by her eyes, by the rapture of her smile. Anticipation hangs in the air between them; underneath it, an inexplicable sense of dread.

“I’m serious, though.” Her fingers brush against his arm, setting his nerve endings ablaze.

“About?”

“I wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else,” she tells him, looking right up at him, her voice soft and violet-colored. The words sound so truthful that he wants nothing more than to lean into them. 

But he doesn’t. The things Isaac said to him, the differences between them, the bite of his own insecurities all push their way to the surface at once. 

He looks away.

“You shouldn’t say stuff like that, Princess.”

Ciara tilts her head. “What do you mean?” she asks, a confused sort of half-laugh behind her voice.

Something beneath his ribs fractures, splitting off in a hundred spiderweb-cracks that each burst with their own ache. Everything about the picture seems suddenly wrong. He can’t do this, can’t stand here and wish and wish and know it won’t ever be true. The still quiet of the night air turns serrated. 

“I just mean—” Arc stumbles for the words, “stuff like that, it’s too…”

“Too what?” The smile slips from her face. Too real, he thinks, but doesn’t say. He can’t meet her eyes; for the first time in ages, he wishes he wasn’t beside her. There’s an echo in the back of his head that sounds like Isaac’s voice, sounds like the gaping mouth of the abyss in between them. 

“Arc,” she presses, something like concern written over her expression, “what is it?” When he doesn’t answer, she reaches for his arm, “Whatever it is, you know you can tell me—”

He pulls away. Ciara looks like she’s been struck, surprise and traces of hurt flashing across her face. The sight of it floods him with guilt and this awful, sick feeling, and for a moment he wants nothing more than to pull her into his arms and tell her exactly how he feels about her. But he can’t. All of a sudden he’s irrationally angry, but he’s not sure who its directed at: her or Isaac or himself or this whole stupid , impossible situation.

He grips the cold stone of the fountain edge, bracing himself, his knuckles blanching. “I just—I don’t know how long we can keep doing this.” 

“You’re not making sense.” Her eyes narrow, a sharpness to her voice as she demands, “Doing what?”

“This—this back and forth thing with you!” he bursts, suddenly on his feet. “Acting like something could ever happen between us, like we could ever be more than—” The words catch in his throat. A blistering pain flares in his chest, an open wound, like he’s going to bleed out right there in the garden—he wants desperately to run from all of this, the instinct clawing at the base of his skull.

“Arc—” Ciara starts, quiet, but whatever she’s going to say, he doesn’t let her finish.

 “This isn’t going to work.” There’s a bitter edge to his voice. “I’m always gonna be a thief from Seagate, and you…” He swallows, the truth acrid and burning between them. “You’re always gonna be a princess.”

She stands up, and for a moment he thinks she’s going to hit him. Maybe it would be better that way, better than the look she gives him—this awful, betrayed expression, full of hurt and anger and everything he’s ever wanted to keep her away from. 

“You’re a coward, Arc,” she says finally. The fire behind her eyes flares and peters out. “And you were the one person who was supposed to see me as more than that.”

She shoves past him, straight down the garden path towards the castle. His stomach twists. “Ciara, wait—”

She doesn’t turn around. He’s rooted to the ground as he watches her leave, shrinking in his line of sight, and then regret fills him in a sudden, crippling wave. He has a sinking feeling that he’s wrecked everything, that by trying to keep them from crossing some invisible line he’s broken the thread entirely. A part of him thinks he should wait, let time fix what he isn’t sure he can, but a larger part of him is pulled towards her, even now. So he runs. 

He doesn’t catch up to her in the gardens; she must have made it inside the castle already. He bursts through the doors, his heart in his throat, his eyes seeking her out in the crowd. 

And just as he thinks he’s spotted her, all the torches on the walls go out at once. 

There’s a shrill scream. Arc’s head whips toward the sound, and then everyone is yelling—he catches the king’s booming voice over the noise for a moment until it’s drowned out just as quickly. There’s a flood of movement around him, figures blurring together in the low moonlight. Adrenaline and battle instinct push their way to the front of his mind as he tries in vain to figure out what’s happening, his hand clutching the hilt of his sword. 

“Ciara!” he yells, eyes straining through the dark. “ Ciara!”

Someone rams into him; he catches them by the shoulders, and suddenly there’s a flash in between them. Aadhya is in front of him, holding a ball of light in the palm of her hand—a spell, he realizes, his thoughts slowing just long enough to note that she can do magic—and her other hand is clamped firmly around Kavaan’s. 

“Princess,” he gasps. “Are you okay?”

“Sir Arc! I-I’m fine, have you seen my mother?” There’s a desperation in her stunned expression, fear plastered over her face.

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I haven’t—do you know what’s going on?”

Her dark eyes flicker with the reflection of the blaze in her hand. Beside her, Kavaan is trembling, clutching at her gown, and Arc feels a cold rush of dread run through him. When Aadhya finally answers, it’s in a horrified whisper that makes his stomach curl: “The castle’s been attacked.” 

Chapter Text

The world goes pitch black. 

In the darkness, someone screams, ear-splitting, and Ciara’s blood runs cold. Something’s happened, she thinks helplessly. There’s a cold wave of terror rushing over her. She feels frozen, rooted to the floor, instinct and training all falling away underneath the abrupt realization that something has gone suddenly, horribly wrong. 

“Dad!” she yells, strained. 

Her voice is lost in the chaos. People are shouting all around her, and she can’t see anything, can barely make out the blurry silhouettes that push and shove against her. Someone grabs at her dress and she stumbles blindly away from them, panic rising in her throat.                                                                     

“Arc!” she cries out. She can’t find him. “Dad!” She can’t find anyone , not searching around helplessly like this. She needs to get her head on straight, needs to focus, needs—

“ Ciara!” 

Arc . His voice cuts through the noise around her. She pushes towards it, desperate, heart hammering against her ribs. “Arc— Arc!” 

“Ciara!” Hands latch onto her arms. She twists away from them on instinct, until her eyes make out the faint outline of Arc’s body in the dark and she stops pulling and grabs his hand. Relief washes over her like a tidal wave; a broken laugh bubbles up in her throat.

“It’s me,” she says, breathless, and Arc pulls her close to him. 

“Shit, shit,” he’s saying, “I couldn’t find you, I thought—” 

“It’s okay. I’m okay.”

She clutches at the leather of his uniform. He’s warm, solid—familiar. Whatever argument they’d had before seems inconsequential. She can’t bring herself to be angry with him, not now, not when she’s sure that everything else is coming apart; in the moment, there’s only this aching sort of solace in the knowledge that he’s by her side. Chaos still rages around them, but her best friend, her partner, is here, and she knows that they’ll get out of this together. 

His hands come to rest on her shoulders. “People are saying the main doors are sealed. We need to find a way out of here,” he says, half-shouts, and she almost doesn’t hear him over the roar of noise surrounding them.

“No, we can’t just leave!” she protests, grabbing his arm. “We have to figure out what’s going on.”

“If someone is attacking, you and your dad are the ones in the most danger.” His voice is level but urgent, pleading. “My job is to keep you safe. We’re not gonna find anything here; there’s too much chaos, and we’re half blind. We’ve gotta get out!”

The idea of abandoning a ballroom full of people— her people—makes Ciara’s stomach twist. But Arc is right, and she knows it; the longer they stay here, the more danger everyone is in. They’ll never figure out what’s happening like this, not with people still knocking into her left and right. She grits her teeth, swearing under her breath. “Alright. This way.”

She’s lucky that she knows the castle like the back of her hand, could navigate it in her sleep. She tugs Arc through the crowd, their hands clasped desperately tight—once or twice as they’re pushing towards the hidden exits, his grip almost slips from hers. But they hold on to each other. 

Near the back of the room, Ciara feels along the wall until her fingers find the slim crevice there. She pulls aside the false furnishings to reveal the paneled wooden door underneath, then shoves it open with her shoulder. “Through here,” she says, and Arc gapes a little as he steps into the shadowed entrance where the wall had been.

“Secret passages,” he says in awe. “I will never get used to these.”

She can’t help but grin despite herself at that as she tugs the door closed behind her. When it shuts, there’s a soft huff of air through the tunnel, and the torches mounted on the walls crackle to life. 

A soft glow fills the narrow passage. In the low light Arc looks golden and shadowed, the angles of his face sharper as he takes both her hands in his. “Are you hurt?” he asks, and she shakes her head. He exhales a little, unsteady. 

“Arc, my dad—“ she starts, unsure of what she wants to say; she feels high and dizzy with panic, and now that she’s out of the darkness suddenly every inch of her wants to turn back. 

“Sir Gareth and the other knights will protect him,” Arc tells her. He squeezes her hands; in the moment this seems like a promise. “He’ll be okay, Ciara.”

It’s not easy to just believe that. But the alternative—she can’t think about that, not now. She left everyone behind in that ballroom, and now she has a responsibility to make that decision count. She’s not going to waste time getting lost in her fears while something is threatening her kingdom. 

Ciara steels her nerves. “What do you think happened?” she asks Arc, who shakes his head. 

“I’m not sure. I ran into Princess Aadhya—she’s fine, she and her brother found Queen Damyanti—and she said the castle had...had been attacked.”

“By who?” Ciara demands. “Security is tighter than ever during the Councils—who could’ve gotten past all of the guards?”

Arc looks at her carefully. “I don’t think they had to,” he says, and Ciara blinks back at him for a moment until the realization dawns on her. 

“The attack came from someone who was already inside,” she voices his theory, and he nods. Her mind whirs as she struggles to wrap her head around the idea—but the more she thinks about it, the more sense it makes. “If it were someone outside, we would’ve been warned sooner,” she says slowly. “The guards would’ve raised the alarm, and the attack would’ve come through the ballroom doors—not from inside the room itself. But who…?”

“I have a theory about that too.” Arc takes a torch off the wall and starts down the tunnel, his long strides keeping him a few paces in front of Ciara. The passage twists, steeping downward. “I know it’s going to sound crazy,” he continues, an edge to his voice, “but hear me out, okay?”

“Arc,” she says after a moment passes, a little impatiently. “Just say it.”

He stops and turns to meet her eyes, the muscle in his jaw pulled taut. His eyes flicker with the reflection of the torchlight. “I think it was Isaac. Or his parents, probably—I-I think Catalias is involved.”

Ciara hesitates, unsure of what to make of this. She doesn’t like Isaac, has never liked King Hugo or Queen Luciana, but she can’t imagine that they would wage an open attack on Astoria like this. Then again, she thinks, with a bitter taste in her mouth, she hadn’t known what they had done to Seagate, either. “I know you don’t like them—justifiably,” she adds quickly, as Arc’s mouth opens in defense, “but what makes you think they would pull something like this?”

Arc drags a hand through his hair. “When you were in the bathroom, Isaac confronted me,” he admits, and Ciara sets her jaw. There had been something brittle behind Arc’s eyes ever since she had seen the prince walk away from him, and she had known it, but it had been clear then that he hadn’t wanted to say anything. Now she wonders if she should have tried to get it out of him regardless. 

“What,” she demands, a surprising sharpness in her voice, “did he say to you?”

“It was bullshit,” Arc says dismissively, though his hand drifts to the hilt of his sword. “All this stuff about not being good enough for you—”

“Arc—”

“—but then, he mentioned something,” he continues, talking firmly over her. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but he said that...that ‘ new threats would come’ and that when they did, you would have an obligation to...marry him, to form an alliance.”

“ What?” 

“Like I said. Bullshit. But maybe—”

Her eyes widen in understanding. “ This is the supposed threat. You think Catalias is faking an attack to scare us into wanting a stronger alliance with them,” Ciara finishes, and Arc nods again, his eyes dark. It makes a warped sort of sense, she thinks, feeling sick to her stomach with rage. Of course Catalias’s royals would be manipulative enough to try to coerce a marriage proposal through fear tactics. If there was an unknown threat looming over the head of the kingdom—if the safety of her people and her family were threatened—of course Ciara would take the best course of action to guarantee Astoria’s safety. Of course she could be convinced that merging kingdoms with Catalias would be the only way to do that.

Except now she knows. And she isn’t falling for it.

“C’mon,” she says to Arc, stalking down the passageway with a renewed sense of determination and anger. “We’re getting out of here, and we’re going to confront Prince Dickhead and his parents. Together, this time.” 

When she looks back at Arc, there’s a growing smile on his face. “As you wish, Princess,” he grins, and follows her through the tunnel.

The path slants uphill again before forking off. Ciara shuffles through the underground routes in her head, leading the way down the left side. “This will take us towards the library. It’s closest to the back entrance of the palace—we can call for reinforcements and confront the attackers head on once we’re outside.” It’s not a foolproof plan, but if Arc is right about this, then the castle’s attackers don’t have a reason to hurt her. She trusts his instincts enough to put her faith in that assumption—enough that she decides against transforming now, knowing that any potential enemies would be far more willing to hurt a knight school student than the Princess herself. 

The passage begins to narrow. It’s darker now, no torches lining the walls, just the wavering light of the one in Arc’s hand. She’s suddenly aware of how close behind her he is, and though she’s used to being alone with him, there’s something in the back of her mind that feels as though it’s different now. Like something has shifted since the gardens. 

“Ciara,” he says softly, and she feels her breath hitch in her throat but doesn’t stop moving. “I know it’s not really the time, but...about what happened earlier—”

She drags her tongue over her teeth. “Not now,” she interrupts him, a little harsher than she means to. Shutting her eyes, she exhales slowly. “I just—can we talk about it later?” 

She can’t do this right now. She doesn’t want to think about how things have changed between them, maybe for good—she doesn’t want to hear him say that they’ll only ever be teammates and nothing else. Maybe it would be easier for both of them, but she doesn’t want him to pull away from her, to leave her alone again with her secrets and her lies and her heart that feels like it’s going to burst from her chest. She just wants them to be what they’ve always been, and maybe—

Maybe more. 

But he’s made it clear that he doesn’t want that. And she thinks if she has that conversation right now, again, on top of everything, she’s going to break something. 

“Yeah,” he says finally, quiet. “We can. But, Ciara, listen, you—you should know that—that I—”

“We’re here.” They’ve reached the door at the end of the passage. 

Whatever Arc was going to say, it dies then. He clamps his jaw shut and draws his sword from its scabbard with a soft shink, and the light from his torch glints off the edge of the blade. Just like that, all traces of their conflict are gone; he’s slipped soundly back into what he does best.

“I’ll go first. Stay behind me,” Arc tells her, his voice low. She half wants to argue, out of habit or maybe out of spite, but she lets him move ahead of her just as he extinguishes the torch against the ground and plunges them both into darkness.

There’s a brief moment where they stand in the pitch black, their soft breaths the only sound in the tunnel. Ciara can see the faint outline of Arc in the shadows, the sheen of his blade, and she hears his hand scrabble for the handle of the door and then pause, for a moment, waiting. They’re both still. She thinks, if she held her breath and pressed close enough against his back, that she would be able to hear the echo of his heartbeat. 

“Go,” she says then, in his ear, and then he pushes open the door and lunges into the hallway.

Light spills over them. Ciara squints as her eyes adjust; they’re standing in the gaping, empty hall by the library, chandeliers dangling over their heads, gleaming tiles beneath them. No sign of the attackers. 

Arc twirls his sword in his hand, eyes darting. “I think we’re good. Let’s—”

He breaks off, suddenly rigid. She hears the sound too—the subtle scrape and clang of armor against marble floors, the steady cadence of footfalls. Arc takes a step back, and Ciara presses close to him as she slips the knife strapped to her thigh into her hand. 

“Arc,” she says, under her breath, “we should—“

She hears the blade before she sees it coming. The swish of it cutting through the air seems to reverberate in her ears—the knife is flying towards her, then, gleaming in the flickering lights, and she ducks out of the way just in time for it to embed itself in the wall behind her with a dull thud . 

“Princess!” Arc shouts, and Ciara jerks her head around, searching for the source of the throwing knife. Her gaze lands on a shadowed figure at the end of the hall, moving closer to them in heavy, purposeful strides. 

He’s dressed in pitch-black armor. A helmet obscures his face, and a long, black-bladed sword hangs in one hand, gleaming with a sinister light. She can tell immediately that the forging of the gear is unlike anything in Astoria. Or anything she’s seen from Catalias’s armory, for that matter—but Arc’s words still burn in her mind. Isaac, she thinks, and imagines his leering smile behind the metal grate of the helmet, and crinkles her nose in disgust.

“Stand down,” she says, drawing herself up to her full height. She’s settled back into her commanding-royal voice now. “Whatever you’re trying to pull, it’s not worth paying for it with your life.”

The black knight stills in his tracks, but raises his sword into the air. The silent threat hangs heavy and deadly. “You,” he says, and his voice clangs, warped with the echo from his helmet, “have no idea what I’d pay.”

For a moment there’s no movement: they stand there, still and facing each other, anticipation brewing like a storm. With his free hand, the knight draws another throwing knife from his belt and twirls the blade, flashes of light ricocheting off of it like stars. Ciara tenses, and Arc moves in front of her, one arm extended behind him to shield her. 

“Isaac,” he says sharply, determination and righteous anger flooding his voice, “you’re not going to win this one. Your stupid plan isn’t fooling anybody here—and you can’t manipulate the Princess or the rest of Astoria.”

There’s a brief pause, and then a slow, cold huff of humorless laughter. The knight takes a deliberate step forward. “Isaac,” he says, voice hard. “Catalias’s crown bitch? Is that who you think I am?”

Ciara watches Arc falter. A chill washes over her. 

It’s not Isaac. 

The knowledge of their miscalculation throws her. She is aware, suddenly, of being still in her ballgown, the dagger in her hand her only weapon, and the feeling of vulnerability slams harshly into her. The voice behind the armor is familiar, she knows it, but with the reverb of the helmet it’s suddenly hard to place. She racks her brain for a clue, but nothing comes to the surface. She’s scrambling—they both are.  

“I get it now,” the knight continues. Amusement twists a lilt into his words. “A staged threat to Astoria to, what, force a marriage, is that what you thought? Well, it’s not a bad idea. Too bad Prince Isaac’s too stupid to have thought of it.”

“Then who are you?” Arc demands from beside her.

The knight levels his gaze with theirs—shadowed eyes gleaming from behind his helmet. Even in the low light, Ciara can see the warm golden-brown of them. Those aren’t Isaac’s eyes. “I thought you, at least, would’ve figured it out, Sir Arc.”

The point of Arc’s sword dips, and suddenly Ciara knows .

The shock of the realization reels. She thinks for a moment that she’s wrong, that it can’t be true—it doesn’t make sense —and then the knight is tugging off his helmet, dark curls and freckles and a long, white scar emerging from beneath the armor. He smiles, but any of the warmth it ever had is gone now. His expression is cold, and calculating, and merciless.

“No,” Arc says in a quiet, disbelieving whisper, and Jesper smiles.

“Hi, Arc.”

“Jesper.” Arc takes an unsteady step back, pulling Ciara with him. “Jesper,” he says again, as if testing the name against his shock, “What are you doing?”

Jesper spreads his arms like great black wings. The shadow of him takes up all the air in the hallway. “Isn’t it obvious?” He levels his gaze with Ciara’s, and a chill shudders down her spine. “I’m here to kill the Princess.”