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Chapter Text

The parlor in the east wing of the manor was lit by soft sunlight filtering through stained-glass windows, painting fractured patterns across the plush carpet. Castorice sat on a cushioned bench beside her sister, Polyxia, who was nestled in layers of silk and wool, her pallor more visible than usual today. The scent of rosewater hung in the air, delicate and cloying.

Opposite them stood Phainon, arms crossed, and mouth quirked into a half-smile that made it impossible to tell if he was jesting or sincere.

"No," Castorice said firmly, trying to summon the haughty certainty expected of a Duke's daughter. Her posture was impeccable, chin high, voice clear, but her fingers were twisted together in her lap, betraying her nerves.

"Come now, cousin," Phainon said, tilting his head. "One evening. One tavern. One mug of something vaguely questionable. It’ll do you good."

"Vaguely questionable?" Castorice wrinkled her nose.

Polyxia let out a weak giggle beside her. "He means the drinks, sister, not the company."

Phainon grinned at Polyxia and bowed theatrically. "Exactly so. Though the company might be questionable too, come to think of it. Especially my dear Stelle."

From the far end of the parlor, Stelle rolled her eyes. She stood like a shadow by the carved doorframe, dressed not in her usual polished armor but in a simple brown cloak and breeches.

"I heard that," she said, voice dry.

"Good." Phainon turned back to Castorice. "Look, no one's going to recognize you. We have cloaks, plain dresses, simple shoes. You'll look just like any other lass off for a drink."

Castorice frowned. "I've never even been to a tavern. What if they throw me out?"

"They won’t throw you out, Cassie," Polyxia said gently, placing a cool hand over hers. "And even if they did, it’d be a story worth telling."

Castorice glanced at her sister, the soft smile, the quiet encouragement beneath her exhaustion. The sight made something twist gently in her chest. Polyxia had always been the brave one, despite everything. If she thought this was a good idea…

"You really think it’s safe?" she asked, more to Polyxia than to Phainon.

"I wouldn’t let anything happen to you," Phainon said. "Besides, I’m bringing Stelle. No one would dare get too close."

Stelle gave a small shrug. "It’s just a tavern, my lady. Not a battlefield."

"I’m not sure which I’d prefer," Castorice murmured, but she stood. "Alright, fine. But if I so much as smell vomit, I’m leaving."

XxxOxOxOxxX

When Castorice emerged in borrowed clothes, her lilac hair secured in long, voluminous braid, Phainon actually whistled.

“Who knew nobility could pass for a milkmaid?” he said, earning a soft slap from Stelle, who had just finished fixing her own grey hair and tying it with a strip of linen. The plain tunic and trousers did little to hide the way she carried herself, like a sword in a velvet sheath. Still, she offered Castorice a small, approving nod.

“You look like one of us,” she said.

“I feel like a child in a play,” Castorice murmured.

“Then play your part,” Phainon said, grinning. “Let’s go before I lose my nerve, and you go back to alphabetizing knitting needles.”

XxxOxOxOxxX

The tavern was nestled in the crook of a wooded slope, its roof slanting like a drunken hat and its windows glowing with warm orange light. Smoke curled lazily from the crooked chimney, carrying with it the mingled scents of roasting meat, honeyed bread, and woodsmoke. From inside rose a swell of sound, laughter, shouting, the clatter of mugs, and the cheerful, rollicking strains of a fiddle chasing the rhythm of a bodhrán drum.

Castorice stopped cold just outside the door.

The moment Phainon opened it, the noise burst forth like a tide. Warmth rushed out to meet her, heavy with sweat and spice and ale. Inside, the tavern was chaos wrapped in merriment. Long wooden tables were crammed with patrons shoulder to shoulder, many of them already red-faced from drink. Candles burned low in wrought-iron sconces, their flames flickering with the movement of bodies in constant motion.

At the far corner, a trio of musicians perched atop a low platform: a fiddler with wild gray curls who played like a man possessed, a flutist who kept time by tapping her boot against the floor, and a young man with a lute who looked half-asleep but strummed with lazy brilliance. They played a fast-paced reel, the kind that made toes tap before the mind could catch up. Their melody set the tone for everything, the raucous, joyous heartbeat of the room.

Men bellowed and clanked tankards together, sloshing golden liquid across the already sticky floor. A pair of older women in aprons shuffled between tables with practiced ease, doling out bowls of steaming stew and thick wedges of bread. Near the hearth, a group of gamblers clustered around a table, tossing dice and shouting accusations of cheating with good-natured venom. The bard at the center of one crowd stood on a stool, balancing a spoon on his nose while attempting to recite a bawdy ballad without breaking into laughter himself.

A reel of dancers spun and stomped in a circle near the middle of the room, hands linked, boots clattering against wood in time with the music. Their skirts and cloaks flew with every turn, and bursts of laughter followed every misstep.

And in the middle of it all stood Castorice, unmoving, hands curled into the rough fabric of her borrowed skirt.

She felt as though she had stepped onto another planet.

The smells alone were dizzying; roasted meat, spilled ale, burning tallow, the faint scent of damp earth from coats hung too close to the fire. The sounds crashed against her like waves; the fiddle’s frantic high notes, the thud of boots, the ring of coin on wood, the clatter of mugs being slammed down, the shouts and hoots and bursts of mirth. Every sense was overwhelmed, every instinct screamed at her to turn back.

Castorice gripped Phainon’s arm like it was the only real thing in the room.

“I don’t belong here,” she whispered, her voice nearly lost in the din.

He glanced down at her, his expression softer than usual, and placed a hand over hers.

“You do tonight,” he said, guiding her gently over the threshold.

Her boots stuck slightly to the floor with each step, a sharp contrast to the marble hallways of the manor. She flinched as a tankard clattered nearby and someone bellowed with laughter at a joke she didn’t understand. A woman with an accordion winked at her as she passed, and two children ran between the tables, one with a ribbon tied around their head like a crown.

“Are they…children?” she asked faintly.

“Landlord’s twins,” Phainon replied. “They know all the swear words and most of the dance steps.”

She looked up at him with wide eyes. “This is madness.”

He grinned. “This is life, cousin. You’ve just been missing it.”

Someone spilled a mug nearby, and the liquid splashed across the floor. It nearly touched the hem of her skirt, and her stomach twisted.

“Gods,” she whispered. “I’m going to die.”

“You’re going to have a drink,” Phainon said, grinning as he steered her toward the bar. “Possibly two, if you keep looking like that.”

Her gaze darted around in a mild panic, looking for something – anything – that might anchor her.

The bar was a long stretch of scarred oak, darkened by decades of ale spills and rowdy elbows. Tankards clinked and slid across its surface with practiced ease as patrons barked orders, flirted shamelessly, and laughed with mouths too full.

Behind the bar stood a man with rolled-up sleeves and a cloth draped over one shoulder. Tall, broad-shouldered, and unmistakably at ease in the noise. His auburn hair fell just enough to shadow his eyes, and his arms moved with slow confidence as he polished a mug. He looked like he belonged to the tavern, like he was part of its bones, the one fixed point in a room that wouldn’t stop spinning.

Up close, his hair was lighter in color, red-tipped, and tousled in a way that looked either artfully careless or genuinely unruly. His jaw bore the shadow of stubble like he hadn’t bothered shaving for a day or two. He had the look of someone who carried barrels for fun, but whose eyes had seen too much to ever really laugh without some weight behind it.

And yet, when he grinned at Phainon’s approach, it was bright and disarming.

“Well, well,” the barkeep drawled, voice rough-edged and laced with a commoner’s lilt. “If it ain't the prince of polite society gracin' my doorstep again. What's it been this time, three weeks, or are y’finally come t’pay your tab in blood?”

Phainon grinned back like a man seeing an old brother-in-arms. “If I paid my tab in blood, you'd owe me a kingdom by now.”

“I owe you nothin’ but a boot t’the backside.”

“You tried that once and nearly broke your own toe.”

The barkeep snorted, wiped his hands on the rag slung over his shoulder, and leaned forward against the bar with the kind of ease that said he didn’t give a damn who was watching. “And I notice y’still bring trouble when you walk in. Who’ve you dragged in this time?”

“This,” said Phainon with a flourish, “is my dear friend Cass. Cass, meet Mydeimos, the poor, weary soul who runs this ramshackle excuse for a tavern and insists on ruining my liver every time I visit.”

Castorice startled slightly at the attention. For a moment, all the noise faded, just a bit, as the barkeep’s gaze settled on her.

His eyes, she noticed now, were a sharp golden. Not soft, not cruel. Just…steady. Observing. And unexpectedly kind.

“Well now,” Mydeimos said, tilting his head, his voice pitched just a touch lower. “Friend, y’say?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Noticed she walks like she’s wearin’ pearls under that coat,” Mydeimos muttered, not unkindly, with a smirk tugging at the edge of his lips. “But aye. Friend she is.”

“I’m right here,” Castorice said, flushing.

“Aye,” Mydeimos said, straightening. “That you are. Welcome t’The Thistle and Thorn, miss. Hope y’ve a strong stomach an’ a poor sense o’self-preservation.”

She blinked. “Pardon?”

“He means the stew’s a bit spicy and the floor’s not entirely stable,” Phainon translated, clearly enjoying himself.

“It moves?” Castorice asked, genuinely alarmed.

“Only if y’dance too hard,” Mydeimos replied with a wink.

Phainon barked a laugh and slapped the counter. “Gods, I missed this place.”

“Y’only ever leave when y’get bored of comfort,” Mydeimos replied, reaching beneath the bar. “Or when you think you’ll find trouble good enough to write songs about. What’re you drinkin’?”

“Something strong.”

“That’ll be my finest rotgut, then,” he said, pulling out a dark bottle with no label and two wooden cups.

Castorice hesitated. She watched as Mydeimos poured a generous amount into one cup and a much smaller, nearly laughable sip into the second. He slid the larger one to Phainon.

And the smaller one…to her.

Their eyes met again as he did so and his smirk softened slightly.

“Figured you weren’t the drownin’ sort,” he murmured.

Phainon glanced at the tiny pour and grinned. “Careful, Cass. He only shows restraint when he’s suspicious.”

“I’m not suspicious,” Mydeimos said, “I’m polite. Something you ain’t picked up in all these years of moochin’ off my liquor.”

“I bring you customers!”

“You bring noise, and trouble,” Mydeimos said, jerking his chin toward Stelle, who was glaring daggers at a man who’d come too close to her shoulder. “Speaking o’which…”

Right on cue, the music shifted, and the tempo jumped. The flutist let out a long, warbling trill and the bodhrán picked up pace, rapid and vibrant. The fiddler gave a hoot, and launched into a faster reel, one that made the tavern erupt with a roar of delight.

“Oh, that’s the one,” Phainon said, already rising. “Come on, Stelle. Time to show these drunkards what rhythm looks like.”

Stelle barely rolled her eyes. “Try not to elbow someone in the jaw this time.”

“No promises!”

With that, Phainon grabbed her hand and they were off, vanishing into the growing knot of dancers at the center of the room, swallowed by music and stamping feet.

Castorice turned back to the bar, alone now with the barkeep who was polishing the rim of a mug and pretending not to look at her.

She glanced down at the tiny drink before her. A pale golden liquid with a hint of something floral rising from it.

She sniffed it, and her nose wrinkled.

He smiled. “S’just a bit o’honey wine. Barely stronger than milk.”

“I’ve never…had this before,” she admitted, cheeks warm again.

“I reckoned as much,” he said. “Y’held the cup like it might bite.”

“I didn’t want to be rude.”

“Then you’re in the wrong tavern, miss Cass.”

Despite herself, she smiled, just a little.

He tilted his head at her again, slower this time, his eyes never quite leaving hers.

“Tell me,” he said. “What’s a girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”

“I’m not entirely sure yet,” she admitted.

He leaned an elbow against the counter, watching her with a lazy sort of curiosity. “Well, if y’find out before the stew kills y’, I’d love t’hear it.”

She took a cautious sip of the drink.

It didn’t bite, but something in her chest fluttered like it might.

Castorice took another sip, this time without grimacing. The honey wine was warm and faintly spiced, like something from a childhood feast dressed up for adulthood. It left a pleasant heat in her chest, enough to soften the edges of her nerves.

Across the tavern, the dancers had erupted into movement. Phainon was unmistakable even in a crowd, his white hair glinting like candlelight, a wide grin stretched across his face. He spun Stelle once, twice, her boots skimming the floor. Her gray braid whipped behind her, and she moved with the lithe sharpness of a sword, equal parts grace and danger.

“Your friends dance like they’re bein’ chased,” Mydeimos said casually, nodding toward the floor.

Castorice turned to look, and couldn’t help a soft laugh as Phainon nearly stumbled trying to twirl himself under Stelle’s arm. He recovered with theatrical flair and bowed exaggeratedly to a round of laughter.

“They’re…energetic,” she said.

“They’re mad, is what they are.” He poured himself a finger’s worth of something dark and took a lazy sip. “Good hearts, both. Trouble, though.”

“Phainon said the same about you.”

Mydeimos arched a brow over the rim of his cup. “Did he now?”

“He said you ruin his liver.”

“Well, now that’s true.”

She laughed again, still quiet, but less guarded. Her fingers curled around the cup’s edge. “So, do you always banter like this with strangers?”

“Nah,” he said, setting down his drink. “Just the ones who walk like they've never tripped, talk like they’ve never cursed, and drink like they’re bein’ watched.”

She flushed and looked away, then immediately looked back. “I’ve tripped,” she said, a bit too defensively. “Plenty of times.”

“I believe it.” His smile was slow and lopsided. “But probably on marble floors.”

She laughed again, surprised at herself. “You’re…observant.”

“I get that a lot.”

Near the hearth, Phainon had just flung himself into a perfect bow, Stelle sweeping down beside him like a hawk folding its wings mid-dive. Then the music hit its peak, a furious crescendo of strings and percussion, and they launched back into motion, feet pounding, skirts flying, hair spinning.

“Phainon’s light on his feet,” Castorice said, watching the blur of him.

“Aye,” Mydeimos said. “He moves like a man with nothin’ to prove.”

“And Stelle?”

“She moves like a woman who knows she could break every man in the room.”

Castorice blinked. “That’s…accurate.”

“’Course it is.”

The dance floor was now a storm of bodies, boots stomping, hands clapping, couples swinging around in loose, joyful chaos. A few chairs had been pushed back or outright toppled. Tankards sloshed, skirts twirled, and a dog darted between legs, yipping like it was part of the performance.

Castorice felt like she should be overwhelmed again, but somehow, she wasn’t. She was warm, anchored at this corner of the chaos, sipping honey wine and stealing glances at the man across from her.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she admitted.

“This?” Mydeimos gestured around. “This is nothin’. Wait ‘til the musicians get into a fight.”

She blinked. “Do they?”

“Every third Thursday.”

She smiled into her cup. “Is that why there’s a lute hanging above the hearth with a sword through it?”

“Ah, aye. That was a particularly inspired duel. Fiddle versus longsword.”

“And who won?”

“Well, the lute lost, that’s for sure.”

They shared a small laugh, and her heart warmed, not just from the drink.

For a moment, Castorice let herself look at him fully; his casual lean, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, the rough edge to his voice that made everything he said sound like a secret.

“You know,” he said, watching her back, “you’re not so stiff now.”

“I’m still stiff,” she said. “Just…slightly pickled.”

“Good,” he said, topping off her cup with a careful hand. “Pickled’s a start.”

Behind them, Phainon let out a whoop as he swung Stelle into a full lift, and she shrieked in laughing protest. Cheers followed them, someone banged a tankard on the wall in rhythm with the drum, and the dog howled again in delight.

Castorice watched her cousin, his flushed face alight with joy. And Stelle, who rarely let anyone see her smile, laughing openly, dancing like a wildfire.

“I think,” Castorice said softly, “they’re in love.”

Mydeimos followed her gaze. “That obvious, huh?”

“Only if you’re looking for it.”

“Are you?”

She turned back to him, blinking. “What?”

“Lookin’ for it.”

Her mouth opened, and then closed. A pause passed between them, one neither of them hurried to fill.

Then Mydeimos, smoothly, leaned back and said, “Didn’t mean to go all philosopher on you. It’s the stew fumes. Rots the brain.”

“I…don’t mind,” she said honestly. “Most people only ask me what I’m reading.”

“You a book sort?”

“I live in a library, practically.”

“Well, we’ll fix that.”

She smiled faintly. “What, by offering me a second drink?”

“Nah.” He winked. “By makin’ you forget the titles.”

The noise of the tavern grew, but at the bar, everything seemed to slow.

Castorice sipped her honey wine again, more confidently now, though her fingers still held the cup like it was something delicate. She glanced around at the dancers, the clashing boots, the overturned stool no one had bothered to pick up, and shook her head softly.

“It’s like another world,” she murmured.

“Aye,” Mydeimos said, leanin’ on his elbow, eyes on her. “That it is.”

“You all seem so…” She hesitated, searching for the right word. “Untamed.”

“We don’t do well in cages, if that’s what y’mean.”

“Maybe I do.”

She didn’t realize she’d said it aloud until he tilted his head.

“That so?”

She looked down at her cup. “Do you ever…want something else? Something more than this?”

“This?” he said, gesturing loosely at the bar, the crowd, the chaos. “Sure. Every now an’ then. Sometimes I think about leavin’, goin’ east, findin’ work in the coast cities. Sometimes I think about openin’ a tavern where the chairs don’t collapse when y’sit on ‘em.”

She smiled faintly. “Ambitious.”

He shrugged. “I dream small. Safer that way.”

Castorice was quiet for a moment, her thumb brushing the rim of the cup.

“I don’t,” she said finally. “I dream too big.”

He watched her, eyes steady, the teasing gone for now. “Like what?”

She took a breath, the kind you take when you don’t normally say what you’re about to.

“I want to see the sea,” she said. “Not read about it, not paint it from memory. I want to stand in it, let the waves ruin my shoes. I want to climb a hill and not know which duchy I’m standing in. I want to get lost in a market and not have someone sent to find me. I want to learn a reel and get it completely wrong. I want to eat food I’ve never heard of and dance with someone who doesn’t know my name. I want-”

She stopped, breath caught.

Mydeimos didn’t speak right away. He just watched her, the smile that pulled at his mouth quieter now. Not mocking, not amused, something else.

“Y’ever told anyone that?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. Not…like that.”

His fingers tapped the wood of the bar, just a rhythm, soft and even.

“Well,” he said at last, “I don’t know ‘bout all that, but you’re drinkin’ stew-wine in a half-rotted tavern with a barkeep who probably hasn’t slept a full night in a week. That’s a start.”

She huffed a laugh. “I suppose it is.”

“And for what it’s worth,” he added, “you got the look of someone who’s meant for more than sit-down teas and braided hair.”

Her gaze flicked to him. “Is that a compliment?”

“Dunno,” he said with a shrug. “You want it to be?”

She laughed, softer this time. “You’re impossible.”

He raised his cup in a mock-toast. “So I’ve been told.”

She clinked hers gently against it. “To impossible men and slightly pickled noble daughters.”

He paused just half a heartbeat too long before he smiled.

“Cheers t’that.”

The words noble daughters hung in the air like perfume, faint but lingering. She’d said it without thinking. The wine. The warmth. Him.

If Mydeimos noticed, he didn’t show it. He just took a slow sip and looked away toward the crowd, lips curling in that same half-amused, half-knowing way.

Her heart pounded. Did he catch that?

She followed his gaze to Phainon and Stelle, now collapsed into a booth, laughing between gasps of breath. Someone had started juggling in the corner with half-rotten apples. A serving girl darted past with mugs stacked almost to her chin, and a drunk tried to follow her before being pulled back by his collar by a friend.

Mydeimos watched it all with calm familiarity, like he’d seen every version of every night, but still found a bit of fondness in each one.

She looked back at him, be he didn’t speak, didn’t press, and somehow, that made her want to tell him more.

Instead, she took another sip, letting the silence settle.

He broke it, gently.

“So. Tell me one more thing.”

She looked up. “What’s that?”

“What’s the first place you’d go, if y’had no leash and no name?”

She smiled, slow and real. “I’d go to the coast,” she said. “I’d wear something ridiculous, and I’d run straight into the waves until I couldn’t feel my toes.”

He grinned. “That sounds terrible.”

“It sounds free.”

He raised his cup again. “To cold feet, then.”

“To freedom,” she said.

The fire had burned lower by the time Phainon and Stelle made their way back to the bar, cheeks flushed, hair mussed, and laughing like they had just stolen something. Castorice glanced up at them with a small smile, but her heart dipped unexpectedly.

The night had gone far too fast.

“Well,” Phainon said, pulling a chair out and sitting with a dramatic groan, “I’m quite convinced that someone swapped my bones out with wet rope.”

Stelle didn’t sit. She leaned beside him, one hand resting lightly on the back of his chair, eyes flicking toward Castorice. “You alright?”

Castorice nodded. “Better than I expected. Still in one piece.”

“She didn’t even faint,” Mydeimos added, mock-impressed. “And she only looked horrified twice.”

“I was never horrified.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “You made the face. The one where you’re smilin’ polite but your soul is screamin’.”

“I did not.”

Phainon grinned. “You absolutely did.”

Castorice turned pink and opened her mouth to argue, but ended up laughing instead, helpless and warm.

She hadn’t laughed this much in…she couldn’t remember when.

Stelle straightened and gave Phainon a subtle nod. “It’s getting late.”

He sobered just a little. “Right. Cas?”

Castorice blinked. “Already?”

“You’ll get us caught if we push it,” Stelle murmured, glancing toward the door. “Your folks don’t strike me as the type to forgive easily.”

Reluctantly, Castorice rose to her feet. Mydeimos stood as well, politely, the gesture natural and easy. Their eyes met.

She reached for her cloak. “Thank you for the drink.”

“Anytime,” he said. “Though next time, I might make you try the real stuff.”

She smiled. “Only if you promise to catch me when I fall.”

He smirked. “Don’t you worry, if you fall, I’ll make sure it’s spectacular.”

Something about the way he said it, gentle tease wrapped in real steadiness, made her heart give a small, traitorous flutter.

She pulled her cloak tighter. “Goodnight, Mydeimos.”

“Night, lass.”

She turned with the others, Phainon giving his friend a pat on the shoulder as they passed. Stelle offered Mydei a slight nod, just short of a smile, and the trio slipped out into the night air, cool and damp with dew.

XxxOxOxOxxX

Mydeimos stood at the door a moment longer, watching the empty space they’d left behind.

Someone threw a stool across the room with a whoop, and a tankard crashed against the hearth, but he didn’t look.

“Noble daughter, huh?” he murmured under his breath.

Then he turned, grabbed a cloth, and started wiping down the bar, grinning to himself like a man who’d just found the first line of a story he wasn’t done telling.

TBC

Chapter Text

The castle was quiet.

Too quiet.

Castorice lay stiffly in bed, her gaze fixed on the velvet-dark canopy above. Somewhere beyond the draped windows, the wind brushed through ivy leaves, and the hoot of a far-off owl punctuated the silence. Normally, it would be soothing; the stillness of night, the hush of her feather pillows, the weight of embroidered quilts. But tonight, the silence felt intrusive, loud in its emptiness.

The warmth of the tavern still clung to her skin like smoke; the press of bodies, the golden flicker of firelight, the twining notes of flute and fiddle. Laughter, too; loud and brash and spilling from the walls like spilled mead. She had walked among it all like a child in a dream: wide-eyed, a little frightened, and far too aware of the shape of her own hands, unsure of where to place them, what to do with herself in a place so alive.

And then there had been him.

The thought of Mydeimos made her cheeks heat, even now. She rolled onto her side and pressed her face into the pillow. His voice, warm, worn at the edges, dipped in a rough drawl like someone who’d grown up around knives and laughter in equal measure, played over and over in her mind.

“Figured you weren’t the drownin’ sort, are you, lass?”

He didn’t know, of course, not really. And still, somehow…she wasn’t sure how he’d known. Or how she had managed to say anything back without melting into the sticky floorboards.

He’d smiled at her, not like the simpering noble boys who bowed too low and tried too hard. His smile was lopsided and amused, and it had made her heart do a little thing, something fragile and ridiculous and not at all appropriate for someone she’d only just met.

Worse? She liked it.

A lot.

She groaned softly and covered her head with the pillow.

What would her mother say if she knew? Her father? They’d lock her in the east wing until her next name-day. The idea of them discovering she’d not only snuck into a tavern but shared drinks and conversation with a man whose shirt had been half-unbuttoned and who smelled vaguely of pine and smoke…

Oh heavens.

She was ruined.

And yet…

And yet, she didn’t regret it. Not a single second of it. Not the sticky floors or the noise or the glass of sweet honeywine he’d gently pressed into her hand. Not even when she’d blurted out something idiotic about maps and freedom and made a royal fool of herself.

The only thing she regretted was that it had ended.

She turned again, kicking off one of the heavier quilts. The air kissed her skin, cool and unfamiliar. She imagined the flicker of lantern light against stone, the distant trill of laughter, the sound of a fiddle tuning between reels.

She missed it already.

Or perhaps it wasn’t the tavern.

Perhaps it was him.

Her fingers curled gently in the sheets, and she whispered the name aloud, barely more than breath.

“Mydeimos.”

It tasted different than the names she knew. Not court-polished or perfumed. It was rough and real and wrapped in something dangerous.

She liked the way it sounded.

She liked the way he had sounded.

She closed her eyes, but she didn’t sleep.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The breakfast table was immaculate, as always.

Polished mahogany gleamed beneath crisp linen runners embroidered with Aidonian swans. A silver teapot steamed between a pyramid of buttered scones and a crystal bowl of strawberries. Not a smear, not a seed out of place. A footman hovered near the hearth, waiting for someone – anyone – to require something.

Castorice sat straight-backed in her carved chair, hands folded lightly in her lap, her expression demure and pleasant. She knew the drill; her mother had trained it into her from the moment she could balance a teacup.

Elbows in. Shoulders back. Smile small. Never first to speak.

The Duchess of Aidonia – pale, composed, and dressed in dove-grey silk trimmed with silver – was buttering toast with surgical precision. Across from her, the Duke rustled the pages of the morning brief, his monocle catching the light as he skimmed a report on grain yields and the price of horses.

Silence reigned, broken only by the clink of china and the faint rustle of linen.

It was the same silence they always shared, and for the first time…it itched.

Castorice reached for her tea and paused, her fingers catching on the delicate handle of her porcelain cup. Just yesterday, she might’ve found comfort in the familiar weight of it; the same gold-rimmed set used for years, the same morning ritual, the same hollow peace.

Now it felt thin. Precious. Breakable.

She sipped carefully, and it tasted like nothing.

Her mother spoke without looking up. “You have circles beneath your eyes, dearest. Were you reading again after curfew?”

Castorice blinked slowly. “I may have…stayed up a little late.”

She didn’t mention the real reason. The music, the laughter, the sudden thunder of feet on tavern floorboards as strangers leapt into reels. The way the fiddle and flute had chased each other through the rafters like wind and wild things.

“Too much reading dulls the eyes,” her father said, finally looking over his paper. “A young lady must not tire herself with ink and fantasy. It saps the bloom of youth.”

“Of course, Father,” she said, and smiled sweetly, as if she hadn’t just watched a woman leap onto a table the night before and shout a toast so crass it nearly made her faint. She’d almost laughed and now she missed the sound of it. The way real laughter cracked in a room, not ladylike giggles but belly-deep joy.

“I do hope you didn’t damage your complexion,” her mother added. “Lady Demetria’s son will be joining us at the Solstice Garden party next week. And he’s...discerning.”

Castorice nodded. “Yes, Mother.”

A strawberry slipped from her fork, but she didn’t bother picking it up.

The Duke cleared his throat. “You’ll wear the blue brocade. The one with the silver fastenings. It sets your eyes.”

That gown had seventeen buttons up the back. She’d hated it even before she’d danced near the tavern fire in a simple homespun cloak, sweat at her temples and the wind in her sleeves.

“Of course,” she said again, and took another sip of her tasteless tea.

Her mother reached for the jam with fingers ringed in heirloom rubies. “Did you finish your correspondence to Lord Damianos’ family? Their Viscountess was very complimentary of your manners.”

“I did.”

She had not.

It was tucked under her mattress, half-written, somewhere between “It is with great fondness that I recall your…” and “Do Viscounts ever dance until dawn in taverns near the woods?” A line she’d scribbled and immediately scratched out. It made her blush just thinking about it.

This table isn’t real, she thought suddenly. Or perhaps I’m not real at it.

Everything was too delicate, too stiff. The chairs didn’t creak, the flowers in the vase didn’t wilt. The fruit didn’t smell like fruit, it smelled like expensive nothing.

She wondered what Mydei would say if he saw this table.

Probably something horribly improper. Something about tea being weak and strawberries looking terrified to be eaten.

The thought almost made her laugh.

Almost.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The Thistle and Thorn was quieter than usual.

It was the hour just before the lamps were lit, warm late sunlight slipping like syrup across the tavern floor, catching the dust mid-drift and painting everything in gold. The hearth crackled lazily with leftover wood from the midday stew. A pair of traveling merchants sat in a corner, arguing over cards, and someone’s mangy cat was curled asleep in the windowsill, half-bathed in light.

Phainon stepped through the door, tossed his cloak over a hook, and strolled to the bar with the casual air of a man who’d never once paid for a drink in his life.

Mydeimos didn’t even look up.

“Well,” he said, wiping down the counter with a rag that looked like it had seen better centuries. “If it ain’t Lord Sunbeam himself.”

Phainon grinned and dropped into a stool. “You missed me.”

“I miss quiet, clean floors, and folks who don’t ask for drinks with more than one adjective.”

“Was that a complaint about last week?”

“Aye. I had a man order a ‘refreshin’, mild-bodied summer ale with notes of apple blossom.’ I nearly threw him out the window.”

“That was a good ale,” Phainon said, stretching. “You’ve a talent, Mydei. Truly.”

Mydeimos gave him a flat look and thunked a tankard on the bar. “Drink. Don’t flatter me. It’s unnatural.”

Phainon laughed and took a sip. “She enjoyed it, you know.”

Now Mydei looked up. “Did she now.”

Phainon raised an eyebrow. “You remember her?”

Mydei made a scoffing noise. “Hard t’ forget the only girl I’ve ever seen try to thank a barstool before sittin’ on it.”

“She was being polite.”

“She looked like she was about to ask the stool its name.”

Phainon choked on his ale. “That’s…accurate.”

Mydei leaned a hip against the bar and crossed his arms, eyebrow arched. “You gonna tell me why you brought a silk-laced noblewoman into my tavern dressed like she was plannin’ to make a run for it?”

Phainon blinked with the exact expression of a man preparing to lie. “She’s not-”

“Mate,” Mydei cut in, “you named her ‘Cas.’”

“It’s a good name!”

“It’s half a name. And the other half’s probably embroidered on three different family banners.”

“She blended in!”

“She ordered her ale like she was recitin’ a potion ingredient list.”

Phainon raised his tankard in surrender. “Alright, alright. You caught me.”

Mydei smirked. “Thought you were passin’ her off as some washerwoman’s niece for a moment there.”

“To be fair,” Phainon said, sipping again, “Castorice wanted to go. She asked for it. Her sister even encouraged it.”

“Castorice, huh?” Mydei tilted his head, and a brief, companionable silence stretched.

Then Mydei asked, offhand, a little too casual, “She ever been outside the keep before?”

Phainon glanced over at him, curious. “Why?”

Mydei shrugged, looking busy with a glass that didn’t need polishing. “Just seemed like it. Like the whole world was new to her. You can tell when someone’s never heard bad music before.”

“She liked the music?”

“She stared at the fiddle like it owed her money.”

Phainon chuckled into his drink. “She’s always been that way. Dreamy. Quiet, but thoughtful. You know, I once caught her memorizing maps for fun?”

Mydei nodded slowly. “She talked about that.”

Phainon paused. “Oh?”

Mydei looked supremely uninterested. “Briefly.”

Phainon’s grin turned fox-like. “She talked to you?”

“Didn’t have a choice, did I? You went off to twirl your girl around like a springtime fool.”

“You talked to her.”

“For about a song’s worth.”

“And?”

“She didn’t faint.”

“High praise.”

“And she said I didn’t look like a barkeep.”

Phainon burst out laughing. “She did not.”

“She did. Swear it. And then she tried to pretend she hadn’t. Blushed like a hearth brick.”

Phainon raised his brows. “Well. That’s more than she says to most people.”

Mydei shrugged again, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “Girl like that…sweet, clever, got her heart tangled in the stars…she don’t belong in a place like this.”

“Maybe,” Phainon said, softer now, “that’s why she liked it.”

For a moment, they didn’t speak. The tavern cat shifted in the sun, tail flicking. Dice clattered in the back room, someone laughed.

Then Mydei said, almost to himself, “She looked like she’d never tasted noise before. But she wanted to.”

Phainon tilted his head. “You really noticed a lot for a guy who only talked to her for a song.”

Mydei scowled, snatched the glass from under Phainon’s hand, and went to rinse it. “Shut up.”

“Touching, really.”

“Get outta my bar.”

“You like me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“Mm-hm.”

Phainon downed the last of his drink, left a few coins that Mydei pretended not to notice, and slung his cloak over his shoulder.

As he stepped out into the cooling dusk, Mydei leaned back against the bar and watched the light slip down the walls like honey. He wiped the same clean spot on the counter again, slower this time.

“She asked if she looked foolish,” he muttered under his breath, eyes distant. “Never known a girl less foolish in my life.”

And for no reason at all, he looked toward the door long after it had closed.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The late afternoon sun pooled across the polished floor of Polyxia’s chambers, softened by gauzy curtains that danced faintly in the breeze. The scent of chamomile and rose lingered in the air, wafting from a bowl of petals steeping gently near the hearth. It was a quiet room – too quiet, Castorice often thought – too still, like time politely paused at the threshold and waited outside.

Polyxia lay propped up on a fortress of embroidered pillows, her thin frame swaddled in a woven shawl the color of lilac cream. Her skin was pale, her silver-purple hair tucked behind one ear with delicate care. The perpetual flush of low fever warmed her cheeks, making her eyes look brighter than ever.

“You’re fussing again,” Polyxia said, voice light, teasing. “You’ve already fluffed that pillow twice.”

“It looked lumpy,” Castorice muttered, plumping it once more for good measure. “You need to be comfortable.”

“I am comfortable. You’re the one looking like someone’s going to burst in any moment and demand to see your boots for mud.”

Castorice blinked. “My boots?”

“You haven’t stopped looking at them since you came in.” Polyxia smiled like a cat in a sunbeam. “You’ve been fidgeting.”

“I am not-” Castorice paused mid-reach for the teacup, caught herself, and sighed. “Oh.”

Polyxia smiled sweetly, then patted the bed beside her. “Come. Sit. Confess your sins.”

“There are no sins to confess,” Castorice huffed, perching carefully beside her.

“Only if we’re not counting sneaking out of the castle, dressing like a scullery maid, and spending the night in a tavern.”

Castorice winced. “You told me to go.”

“I did.” Polyxia beamed. “Which is why I’m demanding details. What was it like?”

“There’s not much to tell-”

“Liar. You snuck out of the castle for the first time in your life. You walked into a tavern. That alone is scandalous.”

“It was loud.”

“I’m shocked.”

“And sticky.”

“Properly shocking.”

“And people were just…dancing! Like they didn’t care who was watching or whether they were stepping in someone’s dinner.”

Polyxia gave a delighted giggle, holding her shawl to her chest. “And?”

Castorice hesitated. “It was…wonderful.”

Polyxia turned to look at her sister, truly look the way only she could, with that kind of unfiltered, knowing affection that felt like sunlight on skin. “You really liked it.”

Cas nodded, almost reluctantly. “I didn’t know I could. Everything felt alive. It smelled like fire and cinnamon. There was a fiddle and a flute and they played so fast, and everyone just moved like their feet already knew the tune.”

“And did you dance?”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“I’d have tripped over the nearest goat.”

“I doubt they allow goats in taverns.”

“I wouldn’t know! I’ve never been in one before.”

“Which makes it even more exciting.” Polyxia beamed at her. “And tell me, sister dearest, what handsome ruffians did you meet in this den of revelry?”

“I…what?”

Polyxia nudged her with a bony elbow. “Come now. I’ve read enough novels to know what taverns are for. There had to be a charming scoundrel somewhere in all that noise.”

“There was a barkeep…”

Polyxia made a high, delighted sound.

“No, don’t do that noise,” Castorice warned, already flustered.

“I make no promises. Was he handsome?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Of course you didn’t. Describe him.”

Cas folded her arms, then unfolded them. “He was…tall. Strong. Rough around the edges. Sort of…charming, in a weather-worn kind of way.”

Polyxia’s grin deepened.

“And very blunt. And…and he speaks with an accent like a pirate with gravel in his throat.”

“Be still, my heart.”

“And he gave me a drink, which,” Castorice winced at the memory, “made my grimace at first.”

Polyxia laughed again, bright and small. “And did he smile at you?”

“I…yes.”

“And did you smile back?”

“…maybe.”

“Castorice of Aidonia,” Polyxia whispered with mock outrage, pressing a hand to her chest. “Did you flirt with a commoner?”

“I wouldn’t call it flirting! I asked what was in the cup, and he said something sarcastic, and I may have choked on a drop of it-”

“Oh, you’re doomed,” Polyxia said cheerfully.

Castorice buried her face in her hands. “It was just one evening.”

“But you’re still thinking about it.”

“I am a noblewoman!” Castorice hissed, scandalized. “I am not in the habit of exchanging coquettish repartee with barkeepers.”

“You just used the word coquettish. I think that alone disqualifies you.”

 “I should never have told you anything.”

Polyxia reached over and pried one of her hands away gently, lacing their fingers. “You should always tell me everything. Especially the good parts.”

There was a pause, quieter now.

“…I didn’t know it could feel like that,” Castorice whispered. “Being out there. Being…just a girl. Not a Duke’s daughter, not Lady Castorice of Aidonia. Just me. It was terrifying. And freeing. And I wanted it to go on forever.”

Polyxia’s smile softened.

Cas looked down. “But I couldn’t stay, could I? I had to come back. To this.”

“To me, you mean.”

“No!” Castorice sat up quickly. “Never. Poly, I would never leave you behind. You’re everything to me.”

“I know,” Polyxia said quietly. “But you don’t have to stay in this tower for me. My illness isn’t your prison.”

“You’re not a burden.”

“I didn’t say I was. I said you’re the one who won’t leave.”

Castorice didn’t answer, and Polyxia let the silence stretch. Then, she smiled teasingly “He was charming, wasn’t he?”

Castorice gave a faint, reluctant laugh. “He had no idea who I was. And still managed to make me feel…seen.”

Polyxia squeezed her hand again. “That’s dangerous.”

“I know.”

“Do it again anyway.”

Cas blinked at her.

Polyxia leaned her head against her sister’s shoulder. “Life is short. Mine has already proven that. So dance if you want to dance, talk to pirates if they smile at you like the sun’s come up for the first time. Sneak out again. Just don’t pretend you’re content with crumbs when you’ve tasted fire.”

There were tears in Castorice’s eyes before she knew they were coming. She didn’t speak. She only nodded once, fiercely.

And Polyxia, frail and warm and wise beyond her years, rested against her, the two of them quiet again, though this time, the silence was alive with something new.

Hope.

XxxOxOxOxxX

Polyxia’s laughter had faded into the soft rustle of pages; Castorice was reading aloud from a worn poetry collection, her voice low and even, the words lingering like perfume. Afternoon light spilled across the bed, warming the embroidery on Polyxia’s coverlet and the loose curls around Castorice’s face.

It was a rare, quiet moment. Peaceful. Still.

Naturally, it didn’t last.

The door burst open with theatrical flair, banging against the wall.

“I have returned!” Phainon announced grandly, stepping inside as though he were on stage. His cloak billowed dramatically behind him, entirely unnecessary, since there was no wind indoors, but he made it work somehow.

Polyxia jumped, Castorice nearly dropped the book.

“I was just saying,” Phainon continued, grinning as he closed the door behind him, “how terribly dull the duchy becomes when left to its own devices.”

“Phainon, gods-” Castorice pressed a hand to her chest. “You frightened the life out of me.”

“You’ll survive,” he said, breezing past her to plant a quick kiss on Polyxia’s head. “Hello, darling troublemaker.”

“Hello, dramatic pest,” she replied fondly.

Phainon turned to Castorice, hands behind his back, eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement. “I hope,” he said, “you haven’t made plans for two evenings from now.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, stepping closer, lowering his voice like a co-conspirator, “the Harvest Festival is upon us. Cider, lanterns, music in the trees. It would be a terrible shame if a certain someone were to miss it…”

“Phainon.”

“I’ve already taken care of the details,” he continued, ignoring her warning tone. “A new cloak, a new plan. No lace, no titles. Just laughter. And maybe,” he added with a devious little smile, “a familiar face or two.”

She opened her mouth to protest and paused.

He was looking at her too directly. Like he knew she’d been thinking about the tavern. About the music. About a particular someone whose smile still lingered somewhere behind her ribs.

Phainon’s grin widened, knowing he’d struck gold.

“I’m taking you back,” he said simply.

And Castorice’s heart, blasted thing that it was, had the audacity to skip.

TBC

Chapter Text

The dining hall of the manor was a masterpiece of symmetry and silver. Candlelight spilled from iron chandeliers above, softening the hard glint of crystal goblets and polished bone-handled cutlery. The long oaken table, wide enough to seat twenty, but currently hosting only four, was lined with steaming dishes and lace-trimmed napkins that had likely never known the indignity of a spill.

Castorice sat as straight-backed as she could, her hands resting demurely in her lap, every inch the obedient daughter. Her gown, soft mulberry silk with understated embroidery, shimmered faintly in the candlelight. She wore her hair pinned, her expression composed, and her nerves tripping over themselves like frightened mice.

Across the table, Phainon sat utterly at ease.

“You’ve grown broader,” her mother said approvingly, slicing delicately into her roast duck. “The years have done you good.”

“Thank the orchards of Okhema,” Phainon replied with a grin. “There’s no shortage of sweetbread and sparring matches back home. I can only hope I’ve earned at least half the weight in muscle and not just custard.”

The Duke chuckled lightly, and Castorice allowed herself a breath. Phainon, as ever, knew exactly how to turn a conversation away from sharp corners.

“I trust the harvest has been kind?” he asked.

“More than kind,” said the Duke. “Aidonia’s soil is generous, as always. We’ve been in talks with new merchants from Belobog.”

“Ah, the ones with the…what did you call it, Uncle? ‘That dreadful golden brandy that tastes like spoiled pears’?”

The Duchess actually laughed, a quick fluttering sound behind her wineglass.

Castorice reached for her own goblet, grateful for the momentary distraction, only to feel her hand tremble slightly against the stem.

What are you so nervous for? she scolded herself. You’re just having dinner.

With your parents.

And your cousin, who’s going to help you sneak out of the house in two hours.

Nothing to worry about at all.

As if sensing her discomfort, Phainon leaned slightly toward her, nudging her foot under the table with the subtlest of taps.

Relax, he mouthed, then picked up a piece of bread with the exaggerated care of a man handling live fire.

She nearly choked on a laugh.

“So, Phainon,” the Duke said after a lull, “I imagine the Royal Court is keeping you busy.”

Phainon nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “That it is. Trade summits, tax reform, ceremonial archery tournaments…you know how it is.”

“And what of more personal matters?” the Duchess asked delicately. “Surely, there are discussions underway? You are to be king, after all. Alliances must be considered.”

Castorice stilled, and so did the air around them, like the pause between heartbeats.

Phainon smiled easily, placing his goblet down. “That’s true, Aunt. Alliances are important. But thankfully, my heart made its choice before the court did.”

That earned him a raised brow from the Duke.

“Oh?” Castorice’s mother hummed, a slow smile forming. “And who is the lucky noblewoman?”

Phainon leaned back in his chair, utterly relaxed. “I’ll tell you when the timing is right. For now, let’s just say she’s the most capable woman I’ve ever met.”

“Mm,” the Duchess mused, clearly intrigued. “Well, I hope she’s worthy of your affection. Whoever she is.”

“I rather think it’s the other way around,” he said, then promptly turned the conversation toward Aidonia’s winter game season, much to Castorice’s relief.

By the time dessert had been cleared – a light pastry with sugared quince – the tone had softened entirely. The wine had loosened the conversation; her parents were smiling, content. Even Castorice had managed to say a few things without stumbling over her words or glancing anxiously at the clock.

Then came Phainon’s next, perfectly placed stroke.

“Aunt, Uncle,” he said with a polite incline of his head, “with your permission, I’d like to steal your daughter for a short while. I’ve brought a rather interesting book of poetry from Okhema’s libraries, and I promised her a chapter or two before we retire.”

Castorice blinked.

“Poetry?” the Duke asked, one brow raised.

“Deeply unsuitable for court,” Phainon said cheerfully. “I’m counting on Castorice to frown at it on behalf of us all.”

The Duchess smiled. “Well, so long as it’s nothing too scandalous.”

“I solemnly swear I will shield my dearest cousin from anything improper,” Phainon said with mock solemnity.

A few more goodnights followed – kisses on cheeks, warm reassurances that they'd see each other in the morning – and then the Duke and Duchess withdrew down the candlelit corridor, pleased and untroubled.

The library door clicked softly behind them, and Castorice exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“You’re impossible,” she whispered.

Phainon plucked a book at random from the shelf and flipped it open. “Am I? I thought I handled that rather gracefully.”

“Poetry, Phainon?”

He looked up at her and gave that lopsided, conspiratorial grin, the one that had led them both into and out of more trouble than she could count.

“Would you rather I told them the truth?”

Cass flushed. “No.”

He closed the book gently, tucked it under his arm, and tilted his head toward the far side of the room. “Cloak’s hidden behind the tapestry. I brought gloves and a scarf too; figured we’d better blend in with the festival crowd.”

“You’re serious?”

“My dear cousin,” he said, sweeping her a bow, “you haven’t lived until you’ve danced under a lantern with a cider in your hand.”

He offered her his arm.

“Shall we?”

XxxOxOxOxxX

Polyxia’s room was tucked into the east wing of the manor, smaller than the grand chambers Castorice slept in, but warm and filled with the scent of chamomile and old paper. A small fire crackled gently in the hearth, and the windows were fogged with mist from the cooling night.

Castorice stood near the foot of the bed, shifting from foot to foot in her plain wool dress, its hem brushing just above her ankles. It was dyed a soft russet, a far cry from the silks she wore at court, and even further from the corseted gowns her mother preferred for evening appearances.

“Hold still,” Polyxia said from her perch atop the bed, pulling a braid into place with practiced fingers. “You’re fidgeting like a squirrel.”

“I’m nervous,” Castorice muttered, eyes fixed on the floorboards. “I still don’t know how Phainon talked me into this again.”

“Oh please,” Polyxia said, looping the braid and pinning it with a tiny wooden clasp. “You wanted to go the moment you walked back in from the tavern last time. Your eyes were sparkling for three days.”

“They were not.”

“They were.” Polyxia leaned back, surveying her handiwork with a smug little hum. “There. Now you look like a charming village girl who absolutely doesn’t belong in a ballroom.”

“Wonderful,” Castorice sighed. “Exactly the look I was going for.”

“You’ll thank me later,” her sister said breezily, already reaching for a tiny jar from her bedside table. She dipped a fingertip into the rose-salve inside and turned toward her like a general preparing a soldier.

“Close your eyes.”

“No.”

“Castorice.”

“You know I hate cosmetics.”

“It’s not cosmetics,” Polyxia said with dramatic patience. “It’s rose-salve. It smells nice, and it gives you a bit of color so you don’t look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I have. I see one every time I look in the mirror after you’re done with me.”

Polyxia gave her a look that said don’t test me, then dabbed a tiny bit onto Castorice’s cheekbones anyway. “There. You look positively scandalous.”

“I look like I might faint.”

“From beauty? Yes.”

“From nerves.”

“You’ll be fine,” Polyxia said gently, setting the little jar aside and folding Castorice’s hands between hers. “You’re only going for a few hours. You’ll dance a little, drink something light, and probably scowl at your own shoes the entire time. That’s your idea of rebellion.”

Castorice let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sigh.

“I still feel like I’m going to burst into flames the moment I step outside.”

Polyxia grinned. “Then do it beautifully.”

A knock at the door interrupted them; two short raps, followed by one long.

“Your escort awaits,” came Phainon’s voice, muffled through the door. “Bearing cloaks, and a wildly irresponsible plan.”

The door creaked open a sliver, and Phainon’s dark-cloaked form slipped through. His hood was pulled low, but he grinned at the sight of them. “Well, don’t you look like an angel about to commit a misdemeanor.”

“She’s perfect,” Polyxia said, beaming with the pride of a true stylist. “Don’t let her trip over anything or drop her cider.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Polyxia reached up and pulled Castorice into one last hug. “Go,” she whispered. “Do something your mother would absolutely disapprove of.”

Castorice gave a strangled laugh. “Is it terrible that that’s becoming my new measure of a good time?”

“It’s progress.”

Phainon held out her cloak, a rough-spun brown garment that was thick enough to shield from the night air, and plain enough to go unnoticed in a crowd. As Castorice slipped it on, pulling the hood over her braided hair, she caught her sister’s gaze one last time.

“I’ll be back before dawn,” she promised.

“Bring stories.”

“And maybe,” Phainon added, offering her his arm as they turned toward the door, “a smile or two from a certain tavern-keep?”

“Out,” Castorice hissed, shoving him ahead of her as Polyxia’s giggles rang out behind them.

The door closed with a soft click, and the corridor beyond swallowed them into the shadowed hush of a house falling asleep.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The tavern had spilled out into the streets.

Tables were dragged into the courtyard, lanterns strung between posts and tree branches like captured fireflies. Smoke from roasting meats curled lazily into the dusk, mingling with the crisp bite of fermenting apples and the sweet crackle of honey-glazed walnuts warming on a griddle.

Mydeimos wiped his hands on his apron and stepped back to survey the scene. The long wooden benches had been scrubbed, the casks stacked in tidy rows by the bar, and the musicians, already tuning up near the foot of the hill, were laughing over some crude joke about fiddles and innkeepers’ daughters.

“Oi, boss,” came a voice from behind him. “You want the cider flowing from both taps or just one?”

Mydei turned to find Lyra, one of the newer barmaids, leaning against the post with a sly tilt to her hip and a grin that said she’d been in more festivals than most people had teeth.

He gave a sharp whistle and waved her toward the taproom. “Both. We’ve got half the bloody village comin’. If the barrels don’t run dry, we ain’t pourin’ fast enough.”

She gave him a mock salute. “Aye aye, Your Cidership.”

“Y’keep callin’ me that and I’ll put ye on hog roasting duty.”

“Promises, promises.”

Mydei shook his head, fighting a grin as he turned back to the tables. Behind him, laughter and the clang of tankards echoed from inside the tavern proper. The festival hadn't even officially started, but people were already milling in, drawn by the music and the promise of full bellies and flushed cheeks.

The firelight danced over the stones, and he ducked to adjust one of the lanterns, squinting up at it to make sure it wouldn’t catch the garland behind it.

“Too much?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

“Nah, it’s damn near romantic,” said old Theodoros, plodding by with a jug under each arm. “You courtin’ someone?”

Mydei snorted. “Aye. Courtin’ my own patience.”

Theodoros cackled and wandered on, but the moment lingered.

He stood still, one hand on his hip, eyes drifting over the warm lights, the slowly gathering crowd, the familiar wood-smoke-drenched scent of festival night.

And unbidden, as it had more than once over the last few days, her face slipped into his thoughts.

Wide-eyed, too careful. All lace and wonder tucked inside a commoner’s cloak. She’d looked like she didn’t belong anywhere near a bar stool, and yet…she’d stayed.

She’d looked at him like he was something unexpected.

Castorice.

He hadn’t meant to remember her name, but there it was, caught like thistle in his chest.

Was she coming?

Probably not. Noble girls didn’t go to taverns twice, not even ones who stared at dancers like they wanted to join in but didn’t know how. Not even ones who laughed like they were afraid they might shatter something.

Still.

He looked out over the rising celebration, the murmur of voices growing louder, reels beginning to build in rhythm as the fiddlers played a practice set. Somewhere, someone had started clapping along.

Still…

“MYDEI!” one of the kitchen lads hollered, bursting through the door with flour on his sleeves. “We’re short two platters! Gonna have a riot!”

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’-” Mydei snapped back to motion, jogging toward the rear kitchen with practiced ease. “Tell Nessa to stop feedin’ the musicians raw!”

The clamor wrapped around him again, and the moment passed, but just as he reached the bar, the crowd by the courtyard parted, a hood slipped down.

Lilac-silver hair braided and tucked over one shoulder, cheeks pinked by the cold. That same look; soft, a little startled, but braver than last time.

He froze, a mug halfway into his hand.

Well, Saints help him.

She’d come back.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The path into the village had never felt so alive.

By the time they crested the hill, the festival lay before them like a dream. Lanterns swayed in the breeze, strung between tall poles and low tree limbs, casting honey-gold light across the courtyard and tavern yard. Ribbons fluttered, apples caramelized on open griddles, and somewhere in the thrumming heart of it all, a fiddler struck a reel with a flourish that sent several skirts whirling before the dancers could stop themselves.

Castorice stared, wide-eyed.

This was not the velvet-and-gilt elegance of noble gatherings, where the music was soft and the conversation softer. This was color and noise and smoke curling up into the evening sky, where even the stars seemed to blink in rhythm with the beat of the drum.

The scent of roasting pork and cinnamon cider wrapped around her like a shawl.

“Mother would faint,” she murmured under her breath.

“Only if she saw the fire dancers,” Phainon said cheerfully, adjusting the satchel at his hip as he turned to walk backward in front of her. “Which reminds me, you are not allowed to join them, no matter what impulses you feel.”

“What impulses? I’ve never seen anyone juggle fire before!”

“Exactly. Which is why you might get ideas.”

“I might get ideas?” she asked, scandalized, as if he’d accused her of plotting treason.

Stelle chuckled beside them, cloaked in a dark gray shawl and moving with the casual ease of someone who could draw a blade faster than most people blinked. “She’s already gotten ideas, Phainon. That’s why she’s here, isn’t she?”

Phainon wiggled his brows, mock-serious. “Touché.”

Castorice gave them both a reproachful look, which failed entirely to mask the smile threatening her lips. “You're both insufferable.”

“Correct,” said Phainon. “Now let’s introduce you to festival night as it should be enjoyed; loudly, improperly, and with something mildly spiced and questionably fermented in hand.”

The festival had grown livelier by the minute. Musicians were clustered in a half-circle on raised wooden crates, playing with the sort of fierce abandon that made people stamp their feet whether they knew the steps or not. Tankards clinked, children darted between adults, some wearing paper crowns, others chasing each other with long ribbons tied like tails. Someone let loose a burst of laughter so loud it startled a pair of chickens near the alleyway.

Castorice didn’t know where to look first.

A man was carving tiny animals from a hunk of wood without even glancing down. A trio of elderly women were gambling over cards with wild grins and suspiciously full mugs. A young girl with dark paint across her cheeks performed handstands on the edge of the square, as her brother collected copper coins in a cap.

And everywhere – absolutely everywhere – people were moving. Dancing, swaying, stomping, clapping. Music lived in the air, and it begged for movement like it had a mind of its own.

Castorice stepped closer to Phainon without realizing it. “It’s like something out of a story.”

“It’s like something out of a life,” Phainon said, smiling softly now, no teasing in his voice. “People need to celebrate. Especially when times are hard.”

Castorice looked up at him. There was something in his face, some gentleness, some gravity, and it made her feel both heavier and lighter at once.

“Well,” he said after a moment, clearing his throat. “We’d best get you something warm to drink before you collapse from polite overexposure. Stelle, will you keep her out of trouble while I visit an old friend I just saw near the gambling tables?”

Stelle raised a brow. “Old friend?”

“I’d say more…acquaintance than friend, but yes,” Phainon said, already stepping backward toward the tavern yard. “I’ll fetch cider for us all.”

He tossed a wink over his shoulder. “Don’t let anyone set her on fire!” he called, disappearing into the swelling crowd.

Castorice blinked after him, bemused.

“I am right here,” she said.

Stelle offered her a sidelong smile. “He knows.”

The two of them stood in the golden chaos for a moment, Castorice’s fingers curled into the hem of her plain but neatly braided overskirt, her boots already coated with a light dusting of dust from the courtyard. The music shifted tempo, feet stomped, and someone yelled “FASTER!” at the fiddler, who laughed and obliged.

And just beyond the swirl of color and celebration, Castorice caught the warm glow of the tavern.

Through the courtyard crowd, she could just make out the long outdoor bar, set beneath a canopy of woven garlands. A flash of motion behind it, a familiar broad shoulders, red-blond hair, and a mug in each hand.

Mydeimos.

She didn’t even realize she’d stopped walking.

Not until he turned, and locked eyes with her.

XxxOxOxOxxX

For half a heartbeat, Mydeimos forgot to move.

It was her.

Her.

The girl from a few nights past, the one Phainon had passed off as “just a friend.” The one who’d looked like she'd never tasted air that wasn’t perfumed and pressed between linen folds. She’d fumbled with a mug, flushed at a compliment, stared like the world might overwhelm her, and then, in the quiet, she'd said something about longing.

And he hadn’t stopped thinking about it since.

Now she stood uncertain at the edge of the crowd, shoulders hunched, eyes wide again, but there was a shimmer of anticipation beneath it all. Like a lantern just waiting for its spark.

“She’s here,” he muttered under his breath.

“Hmm?” asked one of the girls behind the counter.

“Nothing,” Mydeimos said, waving her off.

Stelle spotted him first.

Of course she did.

With all the grace of someone who could break a man’s jaw and smile doing it, she took Castorice’s hand and tugged her forward like a reluctant fawn caught too far from the forest, and the crowd parted with ease around Stelle. People sensed power like they sensed a coming storm.

Mydeimos stood up straighter, reached for three mugs, and tried not to look like an idiot.

“She’s just a girl,” he muttered to himself. “Just a-”

“Hello again,” said Stelle as she reached the bar, interrupting his internal nonsense.

“Evenin’, milady terror,” Mydeimos greeted with a crooked grin. “Still breakin’ hearts and bruisin’ ribs?”

Stelle raised a brow. “Only the deserving.”

His eyes flicked to Castorice.

She hovered a step behind Stelle, hands curled in front of her, cheeks pink and bright from the walk or the warmth, or maybe something else entirely. She looked less like a noblewoman this time. No cloak of silk or shawl of guilt. Just a simple dark coat, boots that had seen dirt, and a braid tied with a red ribbon that had definitely not come from any palace seamstress.

But the eyes were the same.

And they caught him now, wide and curious and cautious. Her lashes lowered when she realized he was looking.

“Evenin’,” he said, gentler this time.

“Hello,” she said, then cleared her throat. “Um. Again.”

Stelle leaned forward on the bar. “Three ciders, if you’re done flirting.”

Mydeimos didn’t look away from Castorice, but one corner of his mouth lifted. “Was I flirtin’? Must be losin’ my edge. Thought I was bein’ polite.”

“You’re many things, Mydei,” said Stelle, “but polite’s never been one of them.”

She turned to Castorice and said with the softness of a friend, “I’ll fetch us a place near the fire. You stay here a moment.”

“Wh-wait-Stelle!” Castorice sputtered, but the knight was already gone, weaving into the crowd like it obeyed her.

Which left them.

Alone.

Sort of.

Mydeimos placed one mug of cider before her and leaned his elbows on the bar. The buzz of the crowd swelled behind them like a tide.

“Y’don’t look like you belong here,” he said plainly.

She stiffened, then frowned, “I was hoping to blend in a bit more this time.”

“Y’did a better job,” he allowed, nodding toward the braid. “But you still got that look.”

“What look?”

He cocked his head. “The kind that says you ain’t sure whether you ought to stay or run.”

She blinked. “Maybe I should.”

“Maybe. But y’didn’t.”

She looked down at the mug between her hands. “I liked the music,” she admitted.

“Aye. That’s a good reason.”

“And the dancing. And the…” she glanced sideways, “company.”

He smiles. “Even if said company speaks like a dockhand and smells like smoke?”

“I don’t mind the smoke.”

There was a moment – just a small one – where the air between them stilled. The music carried on behind, wild and winding and full of joy, but the quiet here, between just the two of them, hummed differently.

He watched her fingers trace the rim of her mug.

“Y’ever danced at one of these before?” he asked.

“No.”

“Y’want to?”

She hesitated. “Maybe.”

“Maybe’s a dangerous word,” he said, voice a little softer now.

“Is it?”

“Oh, aye. Folk who say maybe end up doin’ the reckless thing more often than not.”

She smiled, small, secret, sweet, and in that second, Mydeimos was half-tempted to forget every reason he had to keep his distance.

But before he could speak again, Phainon’s voice called cheerfully from behind.

“Have I missed the romantic tension already?” he announced, loud enough for half the crowd to hear and exactly one person to scowl.

Mydeimos, who’d just passed a mug across the counter, shot him a look that could’ve curdled cream. “Y’know, one day someone’s gonna put that mouth of yours in a barrel and roll it downhill.”

“Flattering,” Phainon replied, leaning one elbow on the bar with aristocratic laziness. “If the tavern ever burns down, you could probably rebuild it with all your charm.”

Mydeimos snorted. “Aye, and if your wit gets any sharper, I’ll ask ye to fillet the fish next time.”

Castorice, caught between the two, looked like she wanted to sink behind her cider mug.

Phainon gave her a wink. “He’s only like this with people he likes. Which means you’re practically royalty already.”

She choked on her sip.

“Steady now,” Mydeimos said, patting a napkin in her direction with surprising gentleness. “Can’t have ye drownin’ on my watch.”

She recovered, cheeks crimson, and muttered, “I’m fine.”

Phainon straightened with a sly smile. “I’ll leave you in good hands. I see a certain knight of mine pretending not to miss me, and I’m a man with priorities.” He tipped an invisible hat to Mydei. “Don’t scare her off.”

“I ain’t the one who shouts across a festival like a cockerel on a fence,” Mydei grumbled.

But Phainon was already gone, slipping through the crowd with effortless grace, a flash of blue among homespun tunics and festival garlands.

Which left Mydei and Castorice alone again.

The bar buzzed with life around them. The scent of roasted apples wafted from the food stalls, and laughter rolled from a nearby table where someone was attempting to juggle tankards. The lanterns above flickered like trapped stars, casting a golden glow over her face.

She looked up at him with a small, curious smile. “You two are…close.”

“Like a splinter in the thumb,” Mydei said. “Annoyin’, impossible to remove, and somehow makes life worse when he’s not around.”

She laughed, just a soft breath through her nose, but it made his chest feel stupidly warm.

“I’ve never seen him like that,” she said, “with someone who…treats him like a person.”

Mydei tilted his head. “Don’t most people?”

Her smile turned wry. “Not when they know who he is.”

He leaned back slightly. “And what ‘bout you?”

Her eyes flicked to his, then away. “What about me?”

He gave her a long, appraising look.

“You don’t talk like a commoner. Don’t move like one either. And when you hold that mug, you hold it like it might bite you.”

She stiffened. “I-”

“Not accusin’,” he said, raising his hands. “Just noticin’.”

A beat passed, then he leaned closer across the bar, lowering his voice just enough that only she could hear.

“Cas,” he said slowly, almost savoring the name. “That ain’t really your name, is it?”

She stared at him.

He smiled, lazy, confident, a touch amused. But his eyes…his eyes were sharp.

She hesitated, fingers tightening around the mug, then easing.

“No,” she admitted. “It isn’t.”

He nodded once, like he already knew.

“Didn’t think so.”

She met his gaze fully. “You’re not going to ask?”

“Already did.”

She blinked.

“And y’answered. That’s enough for now.”

Something about the way he said it – calm, respectful, almost tender – made her stomach do that ridiculous flutter again.

“You’re not curious?”

“Oh, I’m curious as a cat in a pantry,” he said, one corner of his mouth lifting. “But I’ve learned not to go stickin’ my nose in places where it ain’t been invited.”

She smiled before she realized it, and it lingered, soft on her lips.

He poured himself a small drink, but didn’t touch it yet. His eyes remained on hers, thoughtful now.

“You said somethin’ last time,” he murmured. “’Bout wantin’ more. Wantin’ to see the world.”

She blinked, surprised he remembered.

“I meant it,” she said, quieter now.

“Figured as much.”

A breeze swept through the square just then, stirring her braid, fluttering a lock of hair across her cheek. She reached up to tuck it back, and his gaze followed the motion.

“Y’look different tonight,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Like you know what you’re gettin’ into…but you came anyway.”

She tilted her head. “Do you think that’s brave, or foolish?”

“Bit o’ both,” he said, smiling again. “Which makes it interestin’.”

Another moment passed between them, unhurried, settled in the hush that came between songs, before the next round of fiddle and flute struck up.

He reached for the drink, finally. “To secrets,” he said, raising it in a mock toast.

She raised hers without thinking. “And to stories.”

Their mugs met with the softest clink.

Then, from somewhere in the crowd, Phainon’s voice reached their ears, far-off and delighted, “Gods help me, she’s beating me at dice!”

Castorice laughed, and Mydei did too, this time more genuine. And just like that, the tension melted into something easy.

But the spark?

That stayed.

The crowd shimmered beyond the bar, moving like a living tapestry. The flutes had picked up again, playful and swift, weaving through the night air like wind over a river. Laughter rang from every corner; high, bold, unselfconscious. A girl was being spun in wild circles by her partner, skirts flying, cheeks glowing. An older couple tapped out the rhythm with expert ease, dancing like they'd been born with the reel in their bones.

Castorice tilted her head as she watched them, her mug forgotten in her hands. Her expression had gone soft and faraway, touched by something wistful, something almost mournful.

“They look like they’re flying,” she said quietly, not really to him.

Mydeimos watched her watching them. Her eyes, large and wondering, seemed to drink in every glittering flicker of lanternlight on twirling hems and lifted boots.

“They’re jus’ drunk,” he replied with a lopsided grin.

She huffed a laugh, but didn’t take her eyes off the dancers. “They’re happy.”

“Aye,” he said, sobering slightly. “That they are.”

Her gaze dipped to her hands wrapped around the mug. “I’ve never danced like that.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“Well…I’ve danced, of course. But it’s not the same.”

His brow quirked. “What, in the fancy halls with crystal chandeliers and powdered wigs?”

“Not wigs,” she said with a laugh, “but yes. That sort of thing. The kind of dancing where everything’s measured and proper and if you misstep once your aunt will write you out of the family history.”

Mydeimos leaned against the bar, folding his arms. “Sounds like a thrill.”

“It isn’t,” she said, still smiling, but with something behind it. “It’s more like…a performance. Like standing in a museum, painted into place.”

He studied her for a moment, something stirring behind his eyes.

“Then you ain’t ever really danced.”

She looked up, startled, and before she could reply, he had vaulted clean over the bar with an ease that made her heart trip. One hand landed on the wooden edge, and with a smooth swing of his legs, he was on the other side, brushing crumbs from his apron as he came to stand in front of her.

“C’mon,” he said, offering his hand.

She blinked at it, then at him. “What?”

“I said, c’mon.”

“You want me to dance?”

“With me, aye.”

“But I-I don’t know the steps-”

He grinned. “I do.”

“I’ll look ridiculous.”

“Only if you try too hard.”

“Mydei-”

He stepped closer, close enough that the music seemed to hush between them.

“Look,” he said, voice quieter now, meant for her and no one else. “You came out here wantin’ a taste o’ life, didn’t you? Well, this is it. Music’s playin’, feet are stompin’. You’ve got a full belly and a whole night ahead o’ you. So stop thinkin’. Just move.”

She hesitated, breath caught between fear and longing, but then she looked into his eyes – golden and warm, alight with something both daring and kind – and slowly, as if against her own better judgment, placed her hand in his.

He led her into the open square, the crowd parting without resistance, people cheering as they recognized the barkeep leading some unknown girl into the ring. Lanterns swung overhead like golden fireflies, and petals from the wreaths drifted down like lazy snow.

Mydeimos gave a nod to the fiddler nearest the stage. “Play somethin’ sharp!” he called.

The fiddler winked and struck the first note. The rest of the band followed, and suddenly the square burst into motion again with a reel fast enough to set hearts galloping.

“Alright,” he said, turning to her. “Follow my lead. Nothin’ fancy. One-two-three, and spin.”

She tried, she tripped, and he caught her.

Their laughter bubbled up together, easy and warm, and the next time, she didn’t trip. The next step, she hit it right on the beat. And then again. And again. Her hands were in his – callused and sure – and he guided her through the whirling tide of dancers like a ship threading the stars.

Her braid flew over her shoulder as he spun her, her skirts flaring behind her. He caught her again and this time they didn’t let go right away.

“You lied,” she said breathlessly.

“Did I?”

“You said I’d look ridiculous.”

“I said only if you tried too hard,” he murmured, eyes twinkling. “But you ain’t tryin’ anymore, are you?”

She didn’t reply, she couldn’t. She was smiling too hard, laughing too freely, and her heart was soaring in a way it never had before; not in grand ballrooms, not under watchful chaperone eyes, not even in her dreams.

The music climbed higher, and the two of them turned in tight, swift circles, close enough to feel each other’s breath. Her hands in his, her eyes caught in his, their boots moving in tandem, dust rising around them like magic.

And for a heartbeat, Castorice forgot everything else.

Forgot the title she wasn’t allowed to share, the rules she was supposed to obey, the sister she missed, the life she’d always known.

She forgot everything except the sound of the reel, and the man who held her like he’d known her across a hundred lifetimes.

The music ended in a swirl of flutes and handclaps, and the floor broke apart like a crashing tide. Cheers rang out, people clapped each other on the back, grabbed new drinks, or dove into the next round of merriment.

Castorice stood in the middle of it all, chest rising and falling with her breath, her cheeks colored pink with exertion and delight. One ribbon had slipped loose from her braid, trailing over her shoulder. Her lips parted slightly, as if still catching up to what had just happened.

“Alright?” Mydeimos asked, voice low but amused, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist.

She gave a breathless laugh. “No. Not really.”

He quirked a brow. “No?”

“That was the most fun I’ve ever had.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “And I think I might never recover.”

He chuckled, deep and fond, shaking his head. “C’mon then, Lady Lungs, ya need a bit o’ air.”

She didn’t protest when he reached for her hand again, and maybe it was the festival lights still swimming in her vision, or the feel of callused fingers around hers, but she didn’t let go either.

He led her to the edge of the square, past the outer ring of lanterns and away from the press of dancers. They stopped beside a cider cart, tucked halfway beneath the shade of an old willow tree. From here, the square looked like a dream; the lights, the music, the spinning people all blurred into warmth and color.

Mydeimos leaned a shoulder against the cart, arms folded behind his head. “Not bad for your first reel.”

She exhaled a laugh. “I nearly stepped on your feet. Several times.”

“Once,” he corrected. “And I’m still standin’, ain’t I?”

She smiled, turning toward him just slightly. “I suppose that means I passed?”

“Aye. With flyin’ colors. Though if yer lookin’ for the professional score, I give ya a nine outta ten. Losin’ points for thinkin’ too much and refusin’ to let go.”

Castorice scoffed softly. “I’ve never been good at letting go.”

He tilted his head, a flicker of something more thoughtful crossing his face. “Maybe it’s time ya learned.”

She didn’t reply to that, not right away. A cool wind teased her braid and swept the sweat from her brow. She let her eyes drift back to the square. The music had started again, but softer now, something slower and almost wistful.

“Do you always live like this?” she asked, voice quiet. “Among laughter and light and loud dancing?”

“I live like I ain’t got a stick rammed up my spine,” he said with a shrug. “Not everyone’s born for palaces an’ perfect manners.”

“You make it look easy,” she said, not unkindly.

He turned his gaze to her then, serious despite the tilt of his smile. “It ain’t easy. It’s just…mine.”

There was something in his voice then, something honest beneath the charm. She looked at him fully, really looked. The casual stance, the disheveled hair, the faint hint of soap and firewood clinging to his shirt.

He was so different from everything she knew. And yet, in this moment, it didn’t feel wrong. It felt grounding.

“I envy you,” she said before she could stop herself.

His brow lifted. “Envy me?”

“You belong somewhere,” she murmured. “You’re not pretending.”

“And you are?”

She nodded slowly. “Every hour of every day.”

He let the silence sit for a moment, then offered, softer now, “Y’know…you don’t glow when you’re pretendin’.”

Her head turned quickly. “Excuse me?”

“In the tavern, back when you first walked in, ya looked like a statue that wandered into the wrong fairytale. But once we danced?” He leaned just slightly closer, voice low. “You glowed. Real bright.”

Castorice’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

And then, like someone yanked a curtain across the moment, a familiar voice rang out across the festival; Phainon’s cheers, loud, exaggerated, theatrical. Stelle’s followed, dry as wine and just as biting.

She looked toward them instinctively, but Mydeimos didn’t.

When she turned back to him, he was still looking at her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He gave her a little shrug, that one-shoulder sort of thing that said it wasn’t a big deal, except it was. “Anytime.”

TBC

Chapter Text

They drifted from the cider cart with no particular direction, the sound of the festival softening behind them as they took the winding path between booths and trees. Lamps swayed from hooks in the boughs above, casting golden pools of light on the grass below. Somewhere behind them, a fiddler took up a melancholy tune, slow and mournful, like a lullaby wrapped in the hush of twilight.

Castorice walked beside Mydeimos, their shoulders nearly brushing, her fingers twisting the edge of her sleeve.

It was quieter now, just the hush of crickets and the distant echo of cheer. Children chased fireflies in the dark, their giggles little sparks of joy in the quiet air.

"Is it always like this?" she asked. "The music, the dancing…the smell of roasted apples and spilled ale?"

He gave a low chuckle. “Aye, more or less. Depends on the crowd. Folk come in from the farms an’ hills for the autumn nights. Harvest fills their bellies, drink fills their cups, an’ dancin’ does the rest.”

She smiled faintly. “It feels like something out of a painting.”

He shot her a look. “Bit messy for a painting, don’t ya think?”

“I didn’t say it was tidy,” she said, soft laughter in her voice. “But it’s…alive.”

They passed a stall with candied walnuts, a bored boy leaning against the counter half-asleep. Castorice glanced at Mydeimos, hesitating before saying, “Shouldn’t you be back at the bar?”

He arched a brow, amused. “Why? Gettin’ tired of me already?”

“No,” she said quickly, too quickly. She felt her face heat and cleared her throat. “I just meant…I hope I haven’t kept you from your work. People seemed to rely on you quite a bit earlier.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Lyra’s watchin’ the bar. She can handle a drunk or two, long as no one sets fire to anything. And if they do, well…” He grinned. “Ain’t the first time.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“Didn’t say it was.” He winked. “Still, ain’t nothin’ burnin’ down tonight. 'Cept maybe some poor lad’s dignity.”

Castorice let out a laugh that surprised even her. It was soft, but real. She glanced sideways at him, her expression curious now in the dim light. “You run the tavern by yourself, mostly?”

He nodded. “Me an’ a few hands. Started workin’ the place when I was barely tall enough to see over the bar. Took over some years back.”

She tilted her head. “You must love it.”

He shrugged, like he hadn’t thought about it too hard. “Aye. It’s mine. Honest work, loud folk, decent coin. Plus…” He glanced at her sidelong. “Ya meet all kinds.”

She held his gaze for a moment. “That almost sounded pointed.”

“Did it?”

Her eyes narrowed, though there was a playful twist to her mouth. “Are you teasing me again, Master Mydeimos?”

He scratched the back of his neck, feigning deep thought. “Suppose I might be. You’re just such an easy target, is all. All prim and sweet in your commoner’s cloak.”

“I am not prim.”

He gave a mock-wounded gasp. “Oh no? You still curtsied when someone spilled their cider on your boots.”

“I was being polite!”

He gave a warm laugh that she felt in her chest. “That’s what I mean.”

They walked in comfortable silence for a few steps. Overhead, a string of firelights glowed like starlight between the trees. A pair of older villagers swayed together nearby, not quite dancing, not quite standing still either, just turning slowly in each other’s arms.

Castorice watched them, then spoke without really meaning to. “Do you think…anyone ever really feels like they belong?”

He looked at her a moment. The firelight caught on the curve of her cheek and the softened edges of her braid. She looked tired, and restless, and a little bit like someone trying to hold a dream without letting it slip through her fingers.

“I think some folk do,” he said at last. “But others, folk like you, maybe, you gotta build the place y’want to belong to. Bit by bit.”

She didn’t respond right away, but the faintest smile tugged at her lips. “That sounds very wise for a man who runs a tavern.”

“Aye,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Don’t tell nobody. Ruin me reputation.”

That made her laugh again, softer this time. Then she let her gaze drift back to the square in the distance, where the light still flickered and the music still played.

“I should probably return,” she said. “Phainon will worry.”

“That guy?” Mydei drawled, pushing off the cart. “He’ll be too busy makin’ eyes at that bodyguard of his.”

“Still,” she said with a small smile, “I wouldn’t want to disappear on him.”

They began to head back, their steps slower now, reluctant. The path was dappled in lantern-light, and the chatter of the tavern grew louder the closer they came. The reel had picked up again, quick and sharp, flutes dancing with handclaps.

As they rounded the corner, the tavern came into view again in all its riotous, glowing glory.

“Thank you,” Castorice said suddenly, her voice half-lost in the wind. “For…everything tonight.”

He looked at her, eyes steady. “Weren’t nothin’.”

But she knew it was.

They reached the edge of the square once more, and just before they rejoined the noise and color and Phainon’s teasing gaze, Mydeimos leaned in slightly, voice pitched low, close to her ear.

“Yer not like the rest o’ them, miss Castorice.”

She froze at the sound of her name, spoken in full, soft and deliberate.

Then he gave her a small smile, crooked and fleeting, and stepped back toward the bar.

Just like that, the world swallowed him again.

XxxOxOxOxxX

Castorice found Phainon easily.

He was leaning against the cider booth now, arms crossed, head tipped back in laughter at something Stelle had said. The firelight danced off his white hair, casting it in amber and copper, and his expression was light in a way she rarely saw at the castle. Stelle stood beside him, relaxed, smiling, a half-eaten tart in her hand. For once, she wasn’t wearing her armor, just a loose tunic tucked into well-worn trousers. She looked…happy. And entirely unbothered by the way Phainon was not-so-subtly inching closer to her with every joke.

When Castorice approached, they both turned toward her. Phainon gave her an appraising look that could only be described as fond.

“Well, look who wandered back from her moonlit tryst,” he said, straightening. “We were about to send out a search party.”

“You were not,” Stelle said dryly, but her eyes sparkled. “You said, and I quote, ‘Let the girl flirt a little, she deserves it.’”

Castorice’s face went crimson. “I wasn’t flirting,” she said far too quickly, tucking a piece of her braid behind her ear. “We were just…talking. Walking.”

“Ah, so moonlit strolling, then.” Phainon’s grin deepened, absolutely unrepentant. “Much more scandalous.”

“Phai-” she warned, but her voice caught on a nervous laugh. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you’re blushing,” he countered. “I’d say that’s a win.”

Stelle, mercifully, reached out and patted Castorice on the shoulder with a gentle sort of reassurance. “Don’t let him get to you. He only teases when he approves.”

Phainon didn’t deny it.

They fell into step together as the crowd began to thin. The music had slowed now, no more reels or jigs, just the faint strumming of a lone lute near the tavern door, played by a man with half-lidded eyes and a contented slouch. The air smelled of sweet smoke and trampled grass. Lanterns swayed above them like sleepy stars.

“I suppose we should head back,” Castorice murmured.

“We should,” Phainon agreed, but he didn’t move right away. Instead, he looked around one last time; the flickering stalls, the joyful remnants of laughter, the faint sound of someone humming as they gathered spilled cups. “You know…you fit in more than you think, Cas.”

She blinked at him.

“In this world,” he clarified, softer now. “You keep acting like you’re just visiting it. But tonight, you looked like you belonged.”

She didn’t know what to say. Her fingers curled around the edge of her sleeve again. “It felt like a dream.”

“Maybe it was,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.”

They left the square behind, their footsteps muffled by dew-soft grass. Stelle led the way along the tree-lined slope, cloak pulled tight around her. Phainon offered his arm to Castorice, and she took it without hesitation, her mind still drifting somewhere between the dance and the way Mydei had looked at her when he said her name.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Phainon asked.

She glanced up at him, thoughtful. “More than I thought I would.”

He gave her a knowing look. “It’s not just the cider, is it?”

She smiled softly, not answering.

By the time they reached the hidden gate at the edge of the estate, the sky had deepened into velvet. The stars blinked lazily overhead. Phainon produced the smuggled key with a dramatic flourish, unlocking the gate with exaggerated stealth.

“After you, My Lady,” he said with a bow.

She rolled her eyes, but stepped through, into the shadows of the garden beyond.

They made their way back in silence, the warm hush of shared mischief wrapping around them like a blanket. When they reached the servant’s passage, Stelle paused at the corridor's fork with a nod to them both.

“I’ll keep watch while you sneak her up.”

“You’re too good to me,” Phainon whispered.

Stelle arched an eyebrow. “You’re lucky I’m your knight.”

“I certainly am,” he said with a wide grin, and Castorice watched, quiet and observant, as the two exchanged the kind of glance that said more than words ever could. She didn’t speak of it yet, but it nestled in her chest like something lovely and secret.

Up the stairs, around the last corner, and then her room. Safe, still, familiar.

Phainon paused at her door, whispering, “Get some sleep. And next time, you’re picking the dress. That brown cloak is a crime.”

“I thought it was subtle,” she murmured.

“It’s subtle the way a sack of potatoes is subtle.”

She stifled a laugh behind her hand.

And then he was gone, disappearing down the corridor with silent steps and a smug grin.

Castorice closed the door behind her, back against the wood. She exhaled, slow and careful.

The scent of the tavern still clung to her skin, smoke and cider and something wild.

She crossed to the window and looked out into the darkness.

Somewhere out there was a tavern. And a boy with storm-washed eyes who danced like the wind and smiled like the world hadn’t broken him.

And tonight, for a little while, she had been someone else entirely.

Someone braver, someone freer.

Someone who might, someday, learn to belong.

XxxOxOxOxxX

Sunlight broke through the tall windows of the manor’s east wing like soft fingers, dust motes swirling lazily in its golden grasp. The castle was quiet still the way it always was at dawn, wrapped in old stone and a hush that didn’t ask questions. Castorice padded silently across the corridor, her slippers barely making a sound against the mosaic floor, a delicate tray in her hands.

On it sat a porcelain teacup of jasmine brew, still steaming gently, a small dish of soft bread with clover honey, and a folded napkin. She liked to do this herself, even if it was frowned upon. Polyxia insisted it wasn’t necessary, and her mother had told her more than once that a proper lady must delegate these things, but Castorice found peace in it, in the quiet routine, in doing something that felt entirely hers.

She nudged the door open with her shoulder. The room inside was dim and sweet-smelling, lined with velvet drapes and warmed with an iron stove that ticked gently in the corner.

Polyxia was propped up with pillows, pale and slender against the snowy linens, her ever-present quilt draped across her legs. Her eyes opened at once, sharp as ever despite the dark circles beneath them.

“I heard you coming,” she said, her voice raspy but playful. “I thought I smelled jasmine.”

“You always do,” Castorice said, crossing the room and setting the tray on the nightstand. “It’s your nose, not the tea.”

Polyxia smiled weakly. “You say that every time, and I’m still right every time.”

Castorice rolled her eyes with fond exasperation and gently sat on the edge of the bed. She pulled back the curtain to let in more of the morning light, then turned to see her sister watching her a bit too closely.

“You’re glowing,” Polyxia said.

“I am not,” Castorice answered primly, reaching for the teacup to hand it over.

“You are,” Polyxia sing-songed, drawing out the word and cradling the warm cup with both hands. “Your cheeks are pink, and your eyes are doing that sparkly thing. Is it a side effect of commoner ale or perhaps…” she widened her eyes dramatically, “romantic intrigue?”

Castorice made a soft sound halfway between a scoff and a gasp. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you’re deflecting.” Polyxia sipped her tea with a knowing look. “Come now. I’ve been in this bed since the solstice. The least you can do is feed me good gossip. Tell me everything. Did he kiss you?”

“Polyxia!”

Polyxia coughed a little from the effort of laughing, her smile as mischievous as ever. “I knew it. There is a he!”

“There’s not,” Castorice said, flustered, folding her hands in her lap. “I mean, no one kissed anyone. It was a dance. That’s all.”

Polyxia arched an eyebrow. “A dance in the arms of a handsome stranger at a tavern full of music and candlelight? Sounds like something straight from one of those novels you hide under your mattress.”

“I do not hide them.”

“You really do.”

Castorice blushed deeply, and Polyxia grinned triumphantly over the rim of her teacup.

Silence fell for a moment, soft and gentle. The warmth from the stove, the scent of honey and tea, the lazy hum of the castle waking…it should have felt safe. But Castorice's fingers twisted themselves in the edge of the quilt.

“I didn’t want to come back,” she said quietly. “When the festival ended…I wished it could go on just a little longer.”

Polyxia watched her carefully, her teasing gone. “Because of him?”

“Because of everything,” Castorice whispered. “The noise, the dancing, the people. The laughter. The warmth. I was no one there. Just…a girl in a borrowed cloak.”

“And you liked that,” Polyxia said gently.

“I loved it,” Castorice admitted, and then dropped her gaze. “Which makes me feel horrible, somehow.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not my life, Poly. I’m the daughter of a Duke and Duchess. I’m expected to…to sit like a statue, to say the right things, to smile the right way. I shouldn’t be dancing barefoot to fiddle music with strangers or drinking pear cider under festival lights.”

“You should be doing exactly that,” Polyxia said fiercely. “You’re alive, you’re young. You’re not made of marble, Cas.”

“But I have duties. To you, to Mother and Father, to Aidonia-”

“You also have feelings,” Polyxia interrupted. “And dreams, and wishes you’ve been swallowing for years just to keep us all comfortable.”

That silenced Castorice. She looked down at her hands again, the faint memory of calloused fingers brushing hers on the dancefloor ghosting over her skin. Mydei's voice echoed in her mind, low and warm: “See? You’ve got a dancer in you yet.”

“I don’t know what I feel,” she said at last.

“Then that’s your answer,” Polyxia replied, reaching out to press her hand gently over Castorice’s. “You feel something. That’s more than most of the nobles in this house have managed in years.”

Castorice swallowed the lump in her throat. “What if it’s a mistake?”

Polyxia tilted her head. “Do you want it to be?”

A knock at the door interrupted them. Castorice blinked and turned her head toward it.

“Miss Castorice,” came a servant’s muffled voice, “Her Grace requests your presence in the solar, mid-morning. She says to wear something nice.”

Polyxia wrinkled her nose as the footsteps retreated. “Sounds like tea and veiled lectures.”

“Likely,” Castorice murmured, rising from the bed slowly. “I should go dress.” She leaned down and kissed her sister’s forehead gently. “Rest. I’ll see you before lunch.”

Polyxia caught her hand as she turned to go. “Cas?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t pretend nothing happened last night.”

Castorice paused, then nodded faintly. “I won’t.”

And she meant it. Even if it was only for a few hours beneath festival lanterns and laughter, something had happened.

And it wasn’t done with her yet.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The tavern smelled like wax and ash and leftover merriment.

The benches were skewed at crooked angles like tired dancers who’d slumped over mid-reel. Tankards littered the tabletops, some still half-full, others clinging to the dregs of last night’s cider like they hadn’t gotten the message it was over. The fire in the hearth had long gone out, its ashes cold and pale in the stone cradle.

Mydeimos rubbed the back of his neck, yawned, and kicked a splintered chair leg back into place.

“Y’ve all had better nights,” he muttered to the empty room, flicking a stray bit of straw off the bar. “Though I’ll admit, I’ve had worse cleanups.”

Outside, the sun was climbing past the rooftops, and the square was stirring to life with the usual vendors, sleepy-eyed farmers, and children trailing after mothers like ducklings. The early bustle clashed starkly with the ghost of music still hanging in the rafters of the tavern, soft and fleeting, like the last note of a song no one wrote down.

He filled a bucket at the pump just outside the tavern door, the cool water biting at his skin. When he stepped back inside, he caught sight of a red ribbon tangled around one of the chair spindles.

It definitely hadn’t belonged to any of his regulars.

He plucked it free, held it up, and smirked.

“Well now,” he murmured, inspecting the delicate weave. “What’re the odds a lass like you leaves behind a scrap like this?”

“Careful, boss,” came a sly voice from behind him. “That one’s got the look of a keepsake.”

Mydeimos didn’t even need to turn to identify it; Nessa, barmaid and hellraiser, wiping down the nearby tables with the same speed she applied to gossip.

He rolled his eyes. “Thought y’d still be sleepin’ off the punch.”

Nessa grinned as she slung a rag over her shoulder. “Thought you’d still be dreamin’ about your little dance partner. She’s all anyone talked about after you whisked her off like some storybook lad.”

“Didn’t whisk no one,” he grumbled, tucking the ribbon into the wooden box behind the bar. “She near fell down tryin’ to walk in a straight line. Least I could do was keep her upright.”

“Oh, so now it’s charity, is it?” piped in Isodemos from the corner, balancing a crate of empty bottles on his hip. “Bit odd, though, don’t remember you ever offerin’ me a dance when I’ve been tipsy.”

“That’s ‘cause you step like a three-legged ox wearin’ shoes on its ears,” Mydeimos shot back without missing a beat, grabbing a broom and swiping up the trail of dried mud at the door.

Isodemos barked a laugh. “Still, never seen you grin like that on the dancefloor before. Or at all. We were startin’ to wonder if your face could even move like that.”

Mydeimos waved them off with an exaggerated groan, though the tips of his ears were, very faintly, red.

“She were just…curious,” he muttered, sweeping faster now, as if he could brush away the conversation. “Didn’t know a reel from a roast chicken, that lass. I showed her the steps. That’s it.”

Nessa leaned on her elbow against the bar, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. “Y’know, we all thought she was a traveler. But lookin’ at her up close? That wasn’t homespun. And them hands? Never done a day’s scrubbin’.”

“She say who she was?” Isodemos asked, brow raised.

“No,” Mydeimos replied too quickly, then added, “Didn’t ask.”

That wasn’t quite true. He had asked, and she hadn’t quite answered. And somehow, that had only made him more curious.

“Hmm,” Nessa said, smirking. “You’re thinkin’ about her.”

“Am not.”

“You’re thinkin’ about her right now.”

“Would y’ shut up and sweep somethin’?” he snapped, though it lacked any real bite.

They laughed and dispersed, drifting into their own morning tasks. The tavern slowly began to breathe again beneath the sweep of sunlight and the rustle of rags, chairs being reset, counters polished.

But the thought lingered, like a note held too long in the air.

She danced like someone who hadn’t known she could.

He wiped his hands on a towel, then stood at the open doorway for a while, watching the townsfolk pass by in pairs and threes, mothers with baskets, boys chasing each other with sticks.

And for just a moment, his fingers twitched, remembering the softness of hers.

“She might come back,” he muttered aloud, almost absent-mindedly.

Then he scoffed, turned, and pulled the tavern door closed behind him.

“Aye, and she might not.”

But the ribbon stayed in the box.

Just in case.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The grand parlor was awash in pale daylight filtered through lace curtains; soft, golden, and sterile. It had always felt more like a museum than a place to sit. Everything gleamed: polished cherrywood, velvet cushions the color of pressed violets, a harp in the corner that no one ever played. The scent of lavender and lemon polish clung to the air like obligation.

Castorice entered with her chin held high and hands demurely folded. She had changed into a modest sage-green day dress with a high collar and pearl buttons, her hair swept back into a tidy coil at the nape of her neck. The echoes of fiddles and wild laughter still lingered in the corners of her mind, but she buried them beneath practiced grace.

Her mother, the Duchess of Aidonia, sat with immaculate posture in her carved chair beside the tea service. She was dressed in a gown of dove-gray silk, her hair sleek and pinned with onyx combs. Her face bore the same serene severity as the portraits that lined the hall.

Her father, the Duke, stood by the window, a small silver letter opener in hand, as if still dissecting the latest correspondence. His gray eyes flicked toward Castorice when she entered.

“Darling,” the Duchess said, her voice clipped and sweet like chilled wine. “You’re prompt.”

“Of course,” Castorice replied, inclining her head. “Good morning, Mother. Father.”

She took the seat across from them, smoothing her skirts as the maid poured tea into delicate porcelain cups, white and rimmed in gold.

The Duchess waited until the maid had retreated before speaking again. “You’ve been…unusually occupied, these last few days.”

Castorice smiled, pleasant, unreadable. “Phainon has been visiting.”

“Yes, we’ve heard,” said the Duke, his tone almost teasing, though it landed with a weight. “The household staff seems quite taken with his charm. They say he’s been spending an inordinate amount of time in the library.”

“Books are a shared interest,” Castorice said lightly.

“Mmm,” her mother mused, adding a lump of sugar to her tea without taking her eyes off Castorice. “And I suppose Polyxia’s condition has improved enough to allow you more freedom.”

“She’s doing better,” Castorice said, carefully choosing her words. “Stronger, even if not fully well.”

“Good,” the Duke said. “She’ll be happy to hear the news about the Luofu delegation.”

Castorice paused in the act of lifting her teacup. “The Luofu delegation?”

“Lord Jing Yuan,” the Duchess said, setting down her spoon with a soft clink. “He’ll be arriving within the fortnight. A minor tour through the eastern provinces, but your father has seen to it that Aidonia is a convenient stop.”

Castorice set her cup down again quietly, properly. “I see.”

“You have not met him yet, have you?” the Duke asked, returning to his seat and folding one leg over the other. “He crossed our lands during the solstice season last year. He’s a fine young man. Powerful, polite. A family with impeccable ties to the southern coast.”

Her mother’s expression softened just slightly, as if offering sympathy. “He’s been making a name for himself with his clever trade deals, and he’s unspoken for.”

“So are most statues,” Castorice muttered before she could stop herself.

There was a pause, and her father arched a brow. Her mother didn’t blink.

“I beg your pardon?” the Duchess said in the silken tone that meant she had very much not found it amusing.

Castorice took a sip of her tea, carefully unrepentant. “Nothing.”

The room was quiet for a moment. Only the faint ticking of the ormolu clock filled the silence.

Then the Duchess sighed. “We know it’s not easy, darling. You’ve always been...a touch dreamy. But we can’t afford daydreams now.”

Castorice looked up, her eyes meeting her mother’s across the delicate rim of porcelain.

“Polyxia’s condition remains uncertain,” the Duchess went on. “We don’t know how long she’ll remain stable. You are her sister, and your path must be clear. Solid. Secure. A household of your own, a good match, an anchor for this family.”

Castorice swallowed the bitterness that had risen with her tea. “Of course.”

The Duke leaned forward slightly. “You’ve always been a good girl, Castorice. Your mother and I only want to see you happy.”

Their version of happiness sat wrapped in expectations, tied in brocade and formalities. It smiled with manners and bowed in silence. Castorice returned their smiles, because she knew the part. She knew how to wear grace like armor.

And still, in the corners of her mind, she heard laughter and music.

She excused herself soon after, with all the requisite courtesy. Her mother nodded in approval, her father patted her hand as she passed. Everything was in its right place.

And yet the moment she stepped into the hall, her breath left her in a quiet rush. The stillness of the corridor was suffocating. Every portrait on the wall seemed to watch her with the same ancestral expectation: composure, legacy, obedience.

Her footsteps echoed against the marble as she walked alone.

Each step further from the parlor felt like unbuttoning a collar too tight.

She didn’t know where she was going, but she needed air. Light. Something real.

Somewhere deep in her bones, the reel still pulsed like a secret beat.

TBC

Chapter Text

The tavern was humming by midday, filled with the rich smell of charred meat and sweet onions sizzling in a skillet somewhere in the back. Summer's end still clung to the air, warm and a little lazy, and the sunlight leaking through the windows painted long golden stripes across the stone floor and wooden tables.

Behind the bar, Mydei was wiping down a row of mugs with a rag that had seen better days, grinning like the devil himself while a regular named Nikodemos, already halfway into his second pint, tried to convince a barmaid that his prize pig had once won a kissing contest.

"Aye, and next ye’ll be tellin’ me she can waltz," Mydei muttered under his breath, earning a snort from Nessa, who was hauling a tray of cider past him.

"You know he’s just makin’ it up as he goes," she said, nudging him with her elbow.

"Aye, but I admire the commitment. If I had a copper for every lie I've heard in this place, I’d be king of the bloody continent."

Nessa rolled her eyes and disappeared into the crowd. Mydei tossed his rag over his shoulder, sloshed more ale into Nikodemos’ mug without asking, and leaned on the bar with the easy sprawl of a man who owned the world. Or at least this dim-lit corner of it.

The place was lively for midday. A pair of traveling musicians played a lazy tune in the corner, just a whistle and a lap harp, and two women were arm wrestling at a nearby table, their sleeves rolled and brows glistening. Someone had hung strings of marigolds over the beams, left over from the festival a few nights ago, still fragrant.

And yet…

His eyes drifted, unbidden, to a stool at the end of the bar.

The same stool where she’d sat.

Castorice, with her soft hands and careful posture, looking like a fawn that had wandered into a wolf’s den. All wide eyes and breathless wonder, like she'd never seen a place so messy, so alive.

And yet she'd smiled, she’d danced.

He remembered the way her cheeks flushed when she laughed, the way she looked at the dancers with such yearning, like the night was a story she wanted to slip inside and live for a while.

And her name. Not just Cas that Phainon had introduced her as.

Castorice.

Fancy as silk, that one.

He leaned on the bar, gazing at the empty stool like it might conjure her up again. Stars, she hadn’t said if she’d come back, and he hadn't asked.

Should’ve, he should’ve asked.

“You’re dreamin’, mate,” came a voice beside him. Lysias, the cook, stuck his head out from the kitchen window hatch. “Yer eyes’ve gone soft. Looks unnatural.”

“Shut it, Lysias,” Mydei said, not even looking.

“Was it that lass from the harvest dance?” Nessa called back, clearly eavesdropping.

Mydei rolled his eyes. “Ye’re all nose and no manners, the lot of ye.”

“Aye, but we saw how ye looked at her,” Nessa sing-songed.

“She weren’t what she seemed, that’s all,” Mydei muttered, grabbing a clean mug to keep his hands busy.

Lysias laughed from the kitchen. “Aye, and neither are you.”

Mydei grunted in response, lifting the mug to examine a smudge that wasn’t there.

She hadn’t been back. Probably wouldn’t be. What would a noble girl want with a barkeep? It had been a lark, a pretty night under festival lights. A dance. A smile.

Best not to let it get to his head.

But his eyes went back to that stool again anyway.

And that’s when the door opened.

The sunlight behind it was blinding. Someone stepped into the threshold, silhouetted, sharp, and for a heartbeat, the whole tavern seemed to still around him.

Mydei squinted.

Then his eyes widened.

“Well I’ll be…”

His voice trailed off as recognition crashed into him like a sudden gale.

The mug in his hand slipped an inch, and he caught it without looking.

Across the tavern, the figure stepped into the light, and Mydei’s breath caught in his throat.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The cobbled streets of the upper market bustled with genteel activity. Lace-gloved women strolled beneath parasols like drifting blossoms. Shopkeepers bowed low in front of well-dressed patrons, the air perfumed with baked apples, lavender soap, and sun-warmed silk. The morning was cool and bright, the kind of day noblewomen were expected to enjoy quietly, modestly, and with good posture.

Castorice walked a pace behind her mother, the Duchess of Aidonia, and their house chaperone, Madame Leucothea. Her gloved hands were folded neatly around a small satchel of coins, though her mind wandered far from frilled handkerchiefs and bone combs.

Polyxia would’ve loved this.

Her sister would have been chattering about everything; the texture of ribbons, the embroidery on the gloves, the subtle difference between sage and pistachio dyes. But Polyxia wasn’t here. The morning had been another slow one for her, her breath thin and weak, so she had insisted on Castorice going in her place.

“I’ll find something nice for you,” she’d whispered before leaving, tucking the blanket around her sister’s legs.

Polyxia had only smiled faintly. “Don’t bring me anything frilly. I want something strange.”

Now, Castorice scanned each storefront not for herself, but for her sister. A twisted silver hairpin shaped like a fish caught her eye, clever and odd. Perfect. She purchased it quickly and tucked it into her satchel before her mother could comment.

“Not something I would’ve chosen,” the Duchess said lightly. “But Polyxia always had…unique tastes.”

Castorice smiled politely and nodded, but her gaze snagged again, this time on a ribbon. It was a deep forest green, soft to the touch, matte, not shiny like the ones most noblewomen wore. It was the kind of ribbon a merchant’s daughter might wear in her braid, or a barmaid, or…

Someone dancing in a tavern under lanternlight.

“Do you like that one?” her mother asked, surprised.

“I do. It’s…simple,” Castorice said, brushing her fingers over the fabric. “I think it might suit me.”

“It’s dreadfully plain,” Madame Leucothea muttered.

Castorice’s heart fluttered. “I like it,” she said more firmly, and added it to her growing collection of purchases.

They moved on. Every now and then, her mother would pause to comment on a pair of earrings or the rise of a merchant’s prices, while Castorice’s eyes drifted elsewhere, past the jewelry stalls and into the alleys where real life shimmered.

Then something caught her eye; a small wooden carving on a merchant’s table, rough and unfinished, the shape of a lion mid-leap, with its mouth open in a roar.

It reminded her of him.

She didn’t know why. Mydei hadn’t spoken of lions or carved anything, but there was something about the boldness of it, the strength in its eyes. Her hand moved without thinking.

“What’s that for?” her mother asked as she noticed the tiny figure.

Castorice hesitated, then gave her most serene smile. “A charm. For luck.”

Her mother gave a disapproving little hum, but let it pass. “Be sure not to clutter your room with trinkets.”

They continued on toward the end of the street, where the crowd thickened near the square, and she immediately spotted the reason.

Phainon.

He was unmistakable, dressed not as a rogue or a conspirator but as the prince he truly was: deep royal blue cloak over his shoulders, rings glinting on his fingers, and the royal pin of House Khaslana shining like fire against his collar. At his side, just as unmistakable in polished steel and navy-blue velvet, was Dame Stelle.

Castorice's breath caught for just a moment. They didn’t look like the playful pair who had dragged her out to dance among commoners and laughed under tavern lights. They looked like a prince and his knight; handsome, dangerous, powerful.

Heads turned as they passed, people bowed. Phainon looked vaguely amused by the attention, while Stelle ignored it entirely.

“Prince Phainon,” the Duchess greeted, dipping her head with graceful dignity. “I didn’t expect to see you out so early.”

“Neither did I,” he said brightly. “But here I am, subject to the whims of my royal duties and the tyranny of a certain knight’s punctuality.”

Stelle made a soft sound that might’ve been a cough or a laugh, her expression schooled into impassivity.

“Would you care to join us, Your Highness?” the Duchess asked.

Phainon’s eyes flicked to Castorice with the barest hint of mischief. “If you’ll permit me, dear Aunt, I’d hoped to steal your daughter for a walk, if you’re nearly done.”

Castorice’s heart lurched. Her mother glanced between them.

“I suppose that’s acceptable,” she said after a pause. “Just be sure she’s not overtired. We have supper with Lady Aglaea’s household next week and preparations must be made.”

“We’ll be back long before then,” Phainon promised with an overdone bow.

As soon as they turned the corner and left her mother’s line of sight, Castorice exhaled, every muscle uncoiling beneath her silk coat. She let the breath go slowly through her nose, as if releasing some invisible corset she hadn’t even realized she was wearing.

Phainon gave her a sidelong look. “I could practically hear your spine snapping from tension,” he murmured. “Didn’t you enjoy all that gracious noblewomaning?”

She shot him a glare. “I was fine.”

“You were a statue carved out of anxiety.”

She tried not to laugh, but it slipped out, a soft huff of amusement. “At least I’m not the one who shows up looking like a portrait from a history book.”

Phainon swept a hand down his princely ensemble. “You wound me. This is current royal fashion.”

“It’s half velvet and all arrogance.”

“Ah, but tailored arrogance,” he said, grinning. “Don’t forget the detail work.”

They fell into step more easily after that. The bustle of the square faded behind them, and the air grew quieter in the shaded corridors of the upper court. Phainon’s expression shifted subtly, less bright, more thoughtful.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said after a moment. “Since the festival.”

“I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“Clearly. You bought a lion figurine.”

She blushed. “It was charming.”

“It was suspiciously charming.” He bumped his shoulder gently against hers. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing you don’t already know.”

“I actually don’t know much at all,” he said, tone softening. “I left you and Mydei alone for a good long while, and when I came back, you looked like someone had handed you the moon and asked if you wanted to keep it.”

Castorice looked down at the ribbon in her hand but didn’t reply.

Phainon’s voice dropped to something gentler. “You can tell me, you know.”

“I know,” she said. “It’s just…I don’t understand what’s happening yet. Not really.”

“That’s fair.”

He let the silence stretch between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence they’d grown up sharing on staircases with forbidden sweets, during long carriage rides home from court, in the hush before they were old enough to speak like adults but knew better than to act like children.

“I’ve never met anyone like him before,” she admitted at last, eyes still on the cobblestones. “He sees people. Not titles, not expectations, just people.”

Phainon hummed low in his throat. “That’s Mydei, all right. Infuriating, isn’t it?”

She smiled, and it was soft this time. “A little.”

“And you’re scared.”

“A lot.”

He stopped, and she stopped with him. When she looked up, his expression had changed again, still playful at the corners, but his eyes were sincere, steady.

“You’ve always been so careful,” he said. “Ever since we were little. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you reach for something just because you wanted it.”

Castorice looked away, the warmth in her chest tightening painfully. “That’s not how we were raised.”

“No,” he said. “But maybe we should’ve been.”

There was no bitterness in his voice, just quiet hope.

She blinked against the sudden burn behind her eyes. “Do you ever wish you could run away from all of it?”

Phainon didn’t answer immediately. He looked up at the rooftops, then at the bit of sky caught between the towers.

“I used to,” he said. “But then I found someone worth staying for.”

Her breath caught. She looked at him sharply. “You mean–”

“I mean what I mean,” he said with a smirk, and turned back down the path. “Come on. We should keep moving before your mother thinks I’ve lured you into a revolutionary plot.”

She followed, and after a beat, she asked, “You really think I should go again?”

“To the tavern?”

“Yes.”

Phainon turned his head, smiling one of those rare, gentle smiles she remembered from nights he’d snuck into the library to read with her when she couldn’t sleep.

“I think you should go wherever your heart tugs you,” he said. “Even if it’s toward someone you didn’t expect. Even if it terrifies you. Especially then.”

Her throat tightened.

“Tomorrow night?” he asked, lighter now, coaxing.

She nodded.

He grinned. “Splendid. I’ll let Stelle know to ready your armor.”

“Armor?”

“For your heart, obviously. You’re in very grave danger, my dearest cousin.”

She blushed, but didn’t look away.

And for the first time in days, the knot in her chest loosened, just a little.

XxxOxOxOxxX

“CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!”

The walls shook with the chant. Tankards banged against tabletops like war drums. A crowd surged around the center table where two very flushed, very determined men were locked in mortal combat over ale.

Castorice had barely stepped through the door before she was swept into a tide of noise and energy. Heat pressed in from all sides, thick with the scent of roasted meat, sweat, smoke, and spilled beer. The floorboards thudded underfoot, responding to dozens of stomping boots as someone struck up a tambourine.

“CHUG! CHUG!”

One of the competitors, a burly man with a wild beard, tilted his mug back and downed half its contents in a single gulp. The other, leaner but no less red in the face, tried to match him and failed spectacularly, sputtering foam down his chin as the room erupted into cheers and laughter.

Castorice stopped short, mouth slightly agape. “Are they trying to drown themselves?”

Phainon grinned. “No, just trying to outdrink each other. First one to pass out loses.”

“How…charming.”

“Tradition,” Stelle said solemnly, biting into a roasted pear she’d pilfered from a passing tray.

One of the contestants slammed his mug down, let out a triumphant belch, and raised his arms as the crowd erupted. Another round of drinks appeared as if by magic.

A freckled man with flushed cheeks and a loose grin turned toward them and spotted Castorice.

“Well now! Fresh face!” he shouted, loud enough to turn a few heads. “You ever tried one o’ these?” He lifted a foaming mug, staggered closer, and thrust it toward her like an offering.

“I…no, thank you, I–”

“Oh come on!” Another patron joined in. “One sip won’t hurt! ‘Specially if you’re goin’ to watch, you’ve got to taste the spirit o’ the place!”

Someone passed her a mug. It was warm in her hand, wet at the handle. She looked at it like it might sprout wings and fly away.

Phainon didn’t intervene. He was too busy snickering into his own drink.

“It smells like…bread and treason,” Castorice murmured.

The freckled man grinned. “That means it’s good! Now raise it!”

“Do I…do I toast something?”

“That’s optional!”

Castorice gave the mug a cautious sniff, wrinkled her nose, and raised it about an inch.

She barely had time to bring it to her lips before a hand closed gently over her wrist.

A familiar voice spoke close, low, teasing.

“Now what in th’ name o’ all drunk saints are y’ tryin’ to do to this poor lass, ey?”

Her head turned, and her heart tripped over itself.

Mydei stood behind her, one brow raised, lips curled into a smirk. He wore his usual black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a dusting of flour still on one forearm. His auburn-tipped hair was mussed like he’d just run a hand through them, and his sharp, golden eyes were half-shadowed by the candlelight.

“Oh, come on, Mydei!” one of the drinkers called. “She looked game!”

“She looked terrified,” Mydei replied, tone dry. He pried the mug from her hands with surprising care and handed it back. “Ye can’t go forcin’ drinks on folk who’ve clearly never touched anything harder than spiced water. Manners, lads.”

“She didn’t say no!”

“She didn’t say yes either,” Mydei said, one brow arched. “Y’know how consent works, or d’you need a lecture?”

There were some grumbles, a few chuckles, and then the crowd broke off into other distractions as the fiddler launched into another tune.

Castorice blinked at Mydei, cheeks blooming red. “Thank you,” she said, a little breathless.

He turned back to her fully, tilting his head. “They give y’ a fright?”

“Only a mild one,” she said. “I wasn’t going to drink it.”

“Ye looked like ye were holdin’ a firecracker.”

“I’m not…very good at being assertive,” she admitted.

“I noticed.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Lucky I like gentle things.”

At his words, her blush became a full-body heatwave.

Phainon appeared behind them, grinning like a devil. “Did I miss the mug-snatching? Mydei, you big romantic.”

“Stuff it,” Mydei muttered, but Castorice could tell he wasn’t really annoyed.

Stelle whistled through her teeth. “She really would’ve choked.”

“I would not have–” Castorice began, then faltered. “Well. Possibly.”

Mydei chuckled. “C’mon, princess,” he said under his breath, leaning in slightly. “Let’s get y’ somethin’ a little kinder on th’ tongue.”

She followed him toward the bar without question, her heart doing cartwheels.

The tavern had softened.

The frenzy of the festival hadn’t vanished, it still pulsed through the floorboards, rose in laughter and tambourine jingles from the back room, but here, at the bar, the noise faded into something cozy, something golden.

Castorice sat perched on a tall stool, hands wrapped around a clay cup that smelled of late summer. Mydei had poured her something called honey wine – thick, amber-sweet, and gently warm on the tongue – but she’d barely touched it.

She was too busy watching him.

He leaned against the counter, one elbow braced beside her, gesturing broadly with his free hand as he spun another tale. His accent curled and clipped like waves lapping the edge of a dock, rising and falling with every character he slipped into; an old sailor, a pompous merchant, a goat that refused to be bargained for. He was grinning as he spoke, clearly enjoying himself, his voice low and warm as hearth-smoke.

“And then the fool says – honest t’ gods, hand on heart – he says, ‘I thought that fish had wings!’” Mydei laughed, slapping the bar once. “And th’ bird flies off with half his lunch still hangin’ from its beak, smug as y’please.”

Castorice laughed, startled and delighted, nearly spilling her drink. “He really thought it was a, what, a flying fish?”

“He thought it was his fish,” Mydei said. “Didn’t rightly matter what the gods made it t’be.”

“Did he ever get another?”

“Only thing he got was a gull’s back end in his face when it flew off.” He gave a theatrical sigh. “A tragedy.”

She giggled, covering her mouth. “I don’t believe half of what you say.”

“Well, that’s the thing, innit? I never said any of it was true. I only said it happened.” He winked. “Truth’s a slipperier thing than folks like t’think.”

Castorice rested her chin in one hand, studying him over the rim of her cup. His face was animated in the low light, all cheek and crinkle-eyed charm, a smudge of flour still ghosting his jaw. He looked very different from anyone at court. There was no polish, no performance, except in the way he loved telling stories. Everything else was just…him.

“Do all tavernkeepers tell stories like that?” she asked.

“Nah. Most don’t know how t’spin a good yarn. Or they’re too tired by this hour to try.”

“You’re not?”

He shrugged. “Not when I’ve got someone listenin’ like you do.”

Her cheeks colored, and she looked down, smiling despite herself.

A moment passed before he tipped his head. “What about you, then?”

She blinked. “Me?”

“Aye. I’ve done all the talkin’. S’not fair.” He nudged her cup toward her. “Tell me a story.”

“I don’t know if mine are as entertaining…”

“Doesn’t have t’be. Tell me somethin’ real.”

That caught her off guard. She looked down into the honey wine, watching the light catch on the surface. Something real. No masks, no courtly poise. Just…her.

“I have a sister,” she said finally. “Her name’s Polyxia.”

“Pretty name.”

“She’s younger. Sickly, but sharp as a dagger when she wants to be. She has this habit of pretending to nap when guests come over, just to eavesdrop on conversations. She says she’s conducting ‘social research.’”

Mydei chuckled. “Smart girl.”

“She also once replaced our music tutor’s violin rosin with powdered sugar. Claimed it was to make the music sound sweeter.”

Now he laughed properly, bright and unguarded. “Gods, I like her already.”

“She’s always been more clever than me,” Castorice said, the smile softening on her lips. “I think I just learned to look the part better.”

“You don’t strike me as someone pretendin’,” he said, watching her.

She faltered at that. “Then you don’t know me very well.”

Mydei tilted his head, not arguing, just watching. There was a long pause, filled only with the distant crackle of the hearth and the hum of a slow fiddle song drifting from another room.

“I’d like to,” he said.

It was so quietly spoken she almost thought she imagined it, but when she looked up, his eyes hadn’t left hers.

She found herself smiling again, small and a little breathless. “Then I’ll have to think of better stories.”

“Y’don’t have t’think so hard, y’ know. Just talk.”

From the far corner of the tavern, a sudden shout rang out. “THAT WAS MY SIX!” followed by the unmistakable clatter of dice and Phainon yelling something about “sorcerous cheating.”

Castorice turned toward the noise, sighing fondly. “Should we check on them?”

“They’ll survive, they always do.” Mydei offered her a knowing smile. “But you’re welcome t’go if you like.”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “Not yet.”

And she stayed. Talking, listening, laughing, the honey wine untouched between them, slowly warming in the cradle of her hand.

XxxOxOxOxxX

Sunlight poured in through the tall mullioned windows, gilding the breakfast room in a warm, honeyed glow.

Castorice practically floated in.

There was something almost weightless in her step, a smile tugging softly at the corners of her mouth that she couldn’t quite tuck away. Sleep hadn’t found her easily last night but it hadn’t mattered. She’d lain awake in bed, her hands folded against her chest, reliving every moment of that slow, unexpected evening with Mydei: the rich timbre of his laugh, the way he leaned in when he spoke, the quiet intensity in his gaze when he listened. The stories they’d traded, the spark of realness between them…it had been more than just thrilling.

It had felt true.

“Good morning,” she said brightly as she entered the room.

Her mother, the Duchess, looked up from her tea. Her gown was pale lilac silk this morning, her hair elegantly twisted into a high chignon as always. “Goodness, Castorice,” she said with the faintest smile of approval, “you look positively rosy today.”

Her father, the Duke, glanced up from his folded paper. “Sunlight agrees with you, daughter.”

Castorice swept into her seat with all the practiced grace of a noble’s daughter, but her smile was warm and easy, natural. “I must’ve slept better than I thought.”

“A good night’s rest does wonders,” her mother said, reaching for the silver pot of tea to pour her a cup. “Perhaps you should sleep in more often.”

If only you knew.

Castorice busied herself arranging toast on her plate, still smiling to herself, quietly humming a bar or two of last night’s reel under her breath. Her hands brushed over her skirt pocket where the tiny trinket she’d bought in town – simple carved wood with a lion etched into it – still rested. She didn’t even know if she’d have the courage to give it to Mydei. But the thought alone filled her with a warmth she hadn’t felt in years.

“I must say,” the Duchess went on, dabbing her lips with a napkin, “you look very much like your younger self this morning, Castorice. Less…composed, perhaps, but lighter. Happier.”

She glanced up, and for the briefest moment, Castorice’s heart skipped. Did she know?

But no, her mother was simply smiling in that distant, admiring way she did when she thought she’d orchestrated something particularly clever.

Her father cleared his throat. “Speaking of happiness–”

Uh-oh.

“–we’ve just received a missive this morning. Very exciting news, actually.”

Castorice reached for her tea, the porcelain clinking lightly in her hand. “Oh?”

The Duchess leaned forward slightly, as if she’d been waiting for the perfect moment to spring this.

“We’ve received confirmation from the Luofu Embassy. The arrangements are official.”

Castorice blinked. “Arrangements…?”

Her father’s smile turned regal. “Your betrothal, Castorice.”

Her hand froze around her cup.

“Lord Jing Yuan,” her mother said delicately, “of the Xiazhou Luofu. Handsome, highly respected, and heir to one of the largest estates in the Southern Provinces. A perfect match.”

The tea cup trembled slightly.

“You’ll be formally introduced when his retinue arrives next week. We expect to begin official courtship before the midsummer gala.”

The sunlight no longer felt warm. It felt blinding.

She blinked at them both, lips parted. “I…I wasn’t aware we were discussing my–”

“We wanted it to be a surprise,” the Duchess said, ever so pleased with herself. “And we thought, since you’ve been in such a wonderful mood this morning, this would be the perfect time to tell you.”

A surprise.

Her breath caught in her throat. The honey wine, the music, Mydei’s hands wrapped around hers, the laughter, the closeness…it felt like something fragile in her chest had just cracked underfoot.

“But I–” She stopped herself.

They were both still smiling.

Of course they were.

They thought they’d given her a gift.

She forced herself to swallow. Her voice, when it came, was soft, even.

“Of course,” she said. “How…lovely.”

And she raised her tea cup with steady hands, even as something in her began to burn.

TBC

Chapter Text

The tavern smelled like smoke, hops, and the sting of over-polished wood.

Mydei stood behind the bar with a rag in one hand, scrubbing at a spot on the counter that hadn’t been there yesterday. Or the day before. Probably never existed in the first place.

He was trying very hard not to think.

A week and a half. Eleven whole days since the festival.

Eleven days since she’d last walked through the doors with that wide-eyed wonder like the whole damn world had bloomed in front of her.

Castorice.

He hadn’t let himself say her name aloud – not once – but it echoed in his skull like the tail end of a melody he couldn’t shake loose. He could still see her, clear as if she were standing at the bar again: chin tilted curiously, her cloak pulled tight around her shoulders, cheeks flushed from dancing or drinking or him, gods willing. He could still hear her laugh, shy at first, then brighter, still feel the weight of her in his arms as she stumbled through steps she’d never learned and followed him anyway.

And now?

Gone.

No warning, no farewell, not a whisper or glance.

He told himself it meant nothing.

Told himself nobles, for she surely was one, came and went as they pleased. Especially ones with moon-soft hands and polished voices that tried too hard to sound ordinary.

He scrubbed the bar harder.

A stool scraped somewhere behind him. Glasses clinked. Someone dropped a tray in the far corner with a startled yelp and a burst of laughter, but Mydei barely blinked.

The barmaid, Lyra, leaned against the post near the counter, eyeing him. “Yer gonna polish a hole through that countertop if ye keep at it.”

He didn’t look up. “Counter’s dirty.”

“Counter’s spotless.”

“It ain’t.”

Lyra lifted a brow, then turned her gaze toward the doorway, empty again. “Ye’ve been a right piece of work since the festival.”

“’m fine,” he said too fast.

“Right,” she said dryly, reaching for a pitcher. “That why ye snapped at poor Dimitrios fer breathin’ too loud?”

“He was breathin’ loud. Like a bellows chokin’ on soot.”

“You like him just fine when you’re not broodin’.”

“I’m not broodin’.”

She gave him a long look and didn’t argue, just poured cider into a tankard and moved off.

Another hour passed like a dragged boot through muck. Patrons came and went; miners, farmers, peddlers with sun-scorched shoulders and dusty boots. The same crowd, the same voices, the same jokes. He poured drinks, offered his usual teasing remarks, flashed that half-lazy grin that made people let their guard down. But none of it stuck.

His eyes kept flicking to the door. He hated himself for it.

He didn’t even know her real name, not really.

Not where she lived, not what her days looked like when she wasn’t sneaking off into the night, pretending the weight of the world didn’t hang off those slim shoulders.

He hadn’t even asked her to come back.

Maybe he should’ve.

Maybe –

The door creaked open.

He straightened before he could stop himself, rag frozen mid-wipe.

It was just a pair of old men in road-dusted coats.

He let the breath out through his nose, slow, as though that could steady the crackle in his chest.

She wasn’t coming back.

He knew it. He knew it.

But still…

Still, he caught himself glancing toward the corner stool, the one she’d claimed on her first night, like a man checking the same empty pocket over and over, hoping the coin might’ve magically returned.

“You alright, boss?” piped a younger server, Cleo, nervously balancing three tankards.

He blinked, barely hearing her. “What?”

She winced. “Just…you seem…not yourself.”

“I am myself,” he snapped, more harshly than he meant to. Her eyes went wide, and Mydei cursed under his breath. “Sorry,” he muttered, waving her off. “Go on. I’m fine.”

She hesitated, but she went anyway.

The tavern rolled on around him; boots scuffing against floorboards, laughter echoing like distant waves, someone beginning to pluck a stringed tune in the corner.

But inside Mydei, the noise faded.

He leaned forward, bracing both hands on the polished wood, staring at the grain like it might spell her name.

He didn’t know why it gnawed at him so deep. Why the thought of not seeing her again made something in his chest ache like an old scar reopening.

She’d probably gone back to whatever castle or manor she belonged to. Back to lords and dresses and tea with little silver spoons. This place – he – had been a game. A thrill.

But gods, he’d hoped –

He closed his eyes.

Just for a moment, he let himself remember the way she’d smiled at him.

Not the practiced noble smile, but the one she hadn’t meant to give; the soft, surprised one like she hadn’t known she was allowed to be happy.

He swore softly and threw the rag down.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The scent of rose oil and lavender powder hung heavy in the air.

Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, catching on the gleaming ivory frame of the full-length mirror where Castorice sat, still and docile, as three maids pinned pearl-dotted combs into the sleek folds of her hair. Her mother stood behind them all, stately and serene in pale pink silk, watching with eyes that saw everything.

“You must remember to curtsy slowly, not sharply. The Xiazhounese court favors grace over precision,” her mother said, voice clipped and cool, but not unkind. “They are an old culture, rich with their own forms of etiquette. You’ll seem foreign no matter what you do, but elegantly foreign is acceptable.”

“Yes, Mother,” Castorice said quietly.

A maid tightened the sash around her waist, and she gave no reaction.

“You must smile gently, but not foolishly. He is older than you, but only just barely, and highly respected. He has a reputation for wisdom, as well as…military skill. Do not be intimidated, but do not try to meet him as an equal either. He is a guest of this court, and a prospective match. He must see that you are the right choice.”

Castorice nodded again.

Words flowed past her like water.

Outside her body, she was poised, porcelain, a noble daughter carved from serenity and sweetness.

Inside?

The air felt heavy with memories that refused to fade.

The tavern, warm and loud and alive.
The brush of calloused fingers guiding hers.
The smell of worn leather and smoke and honeyed drink.
The gleam of gold in eyes that had stared at her like she was real, not precious.

Mydei.

She had barely slept since that last night. She had clutched her pillow and stared at the ceiling, heart full of things that made no sense. The ghost of his laughter was louder than the sound of her own voice when she practiced her lines for Lord Jing Yuan.

He had smiled at her like she mattered. Not for her name, not for her station, but just for being her.

And she’d left without a word.

“Castorice,” her mother said, and she blinked, pulled sharply back into the present.

“Yes?” she said quickly, straightening.

Her mother’s gaze sharpened, then softened a hair. “You’re distracted.”

“I’m…I didn’t sleep well,” she lied.

“Hm.” The Duchess turned back to inspect the final results of the dressing. Castorice wore soft cream silk with accents of seafoam green, subtle embroidery of cranes and pine along the hem and sleeves; dignified but youthful, meant to signal refinement without arrogance. The look of a daughter raised to be Queen, or something near it.

Her mother studied her a moment longer.

“You are beautiful, Castorice,” she said finally, and it almost startled her. Her mother did not say such things often. “You’ll do well. Just remember: your future is not only yours. It carries your sister’s, too.”

That landed with more weight than any of the combs in her hair.

Polyxia’s future.

The fragile thread that kept their family balanced.

Castorice clenched her hands briefly in her lap, unseen beneath the soft spill of her sleeves. She forced a smile.

“Of course, Mother.”

The Duchess leaned forward and kissed her brow. “Good. Lord Jing Yuan will be received in the east wing drawing room. Your father will meet us there shortly.”

And just like that, she was on her feet, floating forward as maids trailed behind to fuss with the fall of her skirts.

Every step felt like it belonged to someone else.

She moved through the wide marble halls like a swan, elegant and trained, the perfect daughter, the perfect bride-in-waiting.

But her mind…her mind wandered backwards.

To worn wood floorboards.
To laughter around the dice table.
To the warm press of a strong hand against the small of her back as she stumbled through a reel.

She could still feel the imprint of his hand, still taste the honey on her lips from the drink he poured for her.

“Lady Castorice,” a steward announced as they approached the doors.

The world stilled as the doors opened.

She stepped inside, calm as ever. But inside, somewhere past the layers of silk and schooling and royal expectation…

Her heart was a battlefield, and she wasn’t sure which side would win.

The drawing room of the east wing was a vision of muted opulence: pale gold wallpaper adorned with painted clouds, latticed windows draped in sheer organza, and a low table set with a pristine tea service of white jade porcelain. The scent of chrysanthemum and sandalwood drifted faintly in the air, a subtle nod to the guest’s culture.

Castorice entered with her chin held high, every movement slow, poised, and regal. Her mother walked just ahead of her, her posture iron-straight, her expression one of composed hospitality. A courtier’s mask perfected over years.

But when her eyes lifted to the man waiting near the window, Castorice faltered for the briefest, invisible second.

Lord Jing Yuan.

He was tall – taller than even Phainon – with long, moon-pale hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck, a few silver strands cascading over one shoulder. His robes, though foreign in cut, were breathtaking: pale gray with embroidered cranes in flight, the fabric shimmering subtly when it caught the light. A blade hung at his hip, ceremonial in this context but no less real.

It was his eyes that held her longest.

Golden, yes, but not molten like Mydei’s. Jing Yuan’s were cooler, reflective, thoughtful. The eyes of someone who saw too much and judged little.

He turned toward her fully, and she was struck again by how handsome he was; impossibly so, like someone carved from old stories. There was kindness in his expression, a gentleness that invited rather than demanded attention. But not…not heat. Not warmth. Not that wild, inexplicable tug that made her breath catch.

Still, she dipped into a perfect curtsey as her mother announced her.

“Lord Jing Yuan, may I present my daughter, Lady Castorice.”

“My lord,” Castorice said softly, eyes lowered. “It is an honor.”

When she rose, he was smiling.

“The honor is mine,” he replied, his voice a smooth baritone, deep, but not heavy. “And you may call me Jing Yuan, if you prefer. I suspect we will be seeing more of one another.”

Her lips curved politely. “If that is your wish…Jing Yuan.”

He inclined his head with gentle amusement and offered his hand. “Shall we sit?”

They moved to the tea table, her mother retreating to a side settee with practiced grace, far enough not to intrude, close enough to observe as a silent chaperone.

Jing Yuan poured the tea himself, a gesture that, in Castorice’s world, might have been seen as improper for a man of his rank, but he did it with such ease and quiet dignity that it felt natural. The warm, herbal scent of chrysanthemum wafted up between them.

“You’re quieter than I expected,” he said lightly after a few sips. “The rumors suggested Lady Castorice had a razor wit and a voice like a silver bell.”

Castorice blinked, then gave a soft laugh. “I’m not sure whether I should be flattered or wary of gossip.”

“You may be both. I tend to take court whispers with an entire fistful of salt.” He smiled again, tilting his head slightly, watching her with a gaze that was perceptive, but not invasive. “Though I do find it fascinating how many words are spoken about a woman whose actions are far more deliberate than her rumors imply.”

That startled her. “You’ve...looked into me?”

“I make it a point to learn about anyone I’m asked to consider as a potential match,” he said, honest and unbothered. “Your family is well-respected, and I’ve read the reports from Okhema. But I prefer truth over titles. So I asked around quietly. Your reputation precedes you, though in more measured tones than your cousin’s.”

That earned a breath of real laughter from her. “Phainon’s never met a conversation he didn’t want to dominate.”

“A fact I’ve now learned firsthand. I met him just yesterday. He seems fond of you.”

“And overprotective,” she muttered, before catching herself and straightening.

Jing Yuan didn’t seem bothered. “That’s good. Family should be protective. Especially of someone like you.”

Castorice tilted her head. “Someone like me?”

His smile was soft this time. “Someone who follows the rules so well, she may forget how to break them.”

That landed like a stone in her chest.

Because it felt true.

Too true.

The mask nearly slipped. She lowered her eyes to her tea and said, “And is that something you consider a flaw?”

“No.” Jing Yuan leaned back slightly, fingers curled around his cup. “It’s just something I try to notice. People who are good at silences often have the most to say.”

For a moment, Castorice didn’t know how to respond.

The room fell quiet, save for the distant sound of a harp being played in some nearby salon. Her mother remained silent, watching without watching.

Jing Yuan didn’t press. He simply sipped his tea and let the silence grow companionable.

And somehow, that made it easier.

Castorice looked back up, carefully composed.

“You’re not what I expected either,” she said at last.

He raised a brow. “Oh? What were you expecting?”

She gave a small smile. “Someone colder. More...grand.”

“Would that have made you feel safer?”

“I’m not sure,” she answered truthfully.

He seemed to accept that. “Well, I imagine this isn’t easy. Being told to meet a stranger with the expectation that your lives may intertwine for good.”

Her throat tightened. “No, It’s not.”

“If it helps…” he glanced toward the window, where wind stirred the silk curtains like ghosts. “I’m not here to chain anyone to a future they don’t want, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

That time, she couldn’t hide her surprise. “You don’t want to marry?”

“I don’t want to force a marriage,” he said gently. “Duty is important, yes, but I believe peace comes when both sides step forward freely. And I’m patient. If you need time…you have it.”

She looked at him – really looked at him –and for the first time since she entered the room, she felt something loosen in her chest.

Gratitude, respect, the start of trust.

He gave her a kind smile. “Friends first?”

She hesitated, then nodded.

“Yes. Friends.”

XxxOxOxOxxX

The light filtering through Polyxia’s windows was soft and golden, brushing the silks of the bed curtains with a gentle glow. The late-afternoon sun clung to the edges of the lace, painting quiet shadows over the bed where the younger sister lay reclined, her favorite velvet blanket tucked to her waist, a book forgotten in her lap.

Polyxia looked up the moment Castorice entered; no fanfare, no knock, just a gentle open and close of the door. Her eyes brightened immediately.

“Sister,” she breathed, then caught her expression and frowned. “You look pale.”

“I’m always pale,” Castorice murmured with a tired smile as she crossed the room. “You, on the other hand, have color in your cheeks again. The herbs must be helping.”

“I’m only flushed because Arsinoe tried to force another tonic on me.” She made a face. “It tasted like burnt wood and rotten ginger.”

Castorice laughed softly and sat at the edge of the bed, brushing a loose strand of Polyxia’s hair from her forehead. “Poor darling. I’ll speak to the apothecary again.”

Polyxia narrowed her eyes. “Don’t distract me. Something’s happened.”

Castorice sighed, as if her bones had aged years between breakfast and now. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped.

“I met him,” she said softly.

Polyxia didn’t ask who, she didn’t need to.

“Lord Jing Yuan?”

Her sister nodded.

“Well?” Her voice was light, but the searching in her gaze was sharp. “Is he dreadful?”

“No.” Castorice gave a small smile. “He’s...gentle. Kind. Extremely composed. I think he’s the kind of man everyone respects without fear. Intelligent, too.”

“And very handsome, according to Mother.”

“He is.”

Polyxia tilted her head. “But not the kind who makes your stomach flip?”

Castorice was quiet.

“That would be a no,” Polyxia said, sitting up a little straighter. “You look like someone just pressed a rose between the pages of your life and walked away.”

That startled a small, unbidden laugh from Castorice, but her eyes shimmered with unshed emotion. “You’re terribly poetic today.”

“I’ve been bored out of my mind for hours. I read three whole chapters of a dull history text before you walked in. I had to make something beautiful.”

Silence lingered for a moment. Castorice toyed with the edge of Polyxia’s sleeve, tracing the embroidery there with absent fingers.

“I keep thinking,” she said softly, “that this could be it. That this is the man they’ve chosen. That this is the end of the road for wondering, for hoping.”

Polyxia’s voice turned gentler. “Is it so terrible, if he’s kind?”

“No,” Castorice admitted. “That’s what makes it worse. I can’t resent him. I can’t even find fault in him. It would be easier if he were arrogant or cruel, but he’s...considerate. Respectful. He offered me friendship, and I believe he meant it.”

Polyxia was watching her now with that sharp, quiet intensity she wore whenever she sensed Castorice was about to say something unspoken.

“I could be happy with him,” Castorice said at last. “I could...learn to be. In time.”

“But?”

“I think I’ve already started dreaming of something else.”

She didn’t have to say it. The image was already rising between them of a crowded tavern, laughter in the air, calloused fingers brushing against hers, a pair of molten-gold eyes that made her heart flutter like it had never known rhythm before.

Polyxia reached out and placed a hand over hers.

“I know you,” she said softly. “You would burn for the people you love.”

Castorice closed her eyes. “I’d burn for you,” she whispered.

A silence fell, deep and aching.

“I’m the sick one,” Polyxia said gently, not without bitterness. “And still you carry the weight for both of us.”

“It’s my place.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“But it is.” Castorice turned to her, eyes clear but glistening. “You deserve comfort. You deserve to live in peace, without wondering if the medicines will stop, if the care will fade. If I marry him, if I join our house with his, I secure that. For both of us.”

Polyxia’s lip trembled, but she didn’t speak.

Castorice’s voice softened, low and unwavering now. “I can’t have both. Love and duty. I’ve always known that. But if I can give you even a fraction of the life you were meant to have, then the rest…it’s worth it.”

Tears welled in Polyxia’s eyes, and she blinked them back furiously. “I hate it,” she said, voice thick. “I hate that you even have to think like that.”

“I don’t mind.” Castorice smiled, but it was a sad, aching smile. “Not if it’s for you.”

Polyxia pulled her into a hug, as tight as her frail arms would allow. They held each other there, in the golden quiet, the weight of the world pressing just beyond the walls.

And for that moment, neither spoke again.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The mug clinked sharply against the wood as Mydei slammed it down, harder than necessary. Foam sloshed over the rim and onto his fingers. He cursed under his breath, wiping it off with a cloth that had already seen too much use.

It was the third time he'd cleaned the bar in the last half hour.

"Oi, Nessa," he called to a passing waitress without looking. "Tell Lysias to check the taps again. Last batch’s pourin’ funny."

Nessa raised a brow. “Already did. Twice.”

“Then do it a third time.”

She gave him a look, but walked off without comment.

Mydei exhaled, scrubbing a hand over his face. He didn’t want to admit he was listening for the door. He’d been doing that for three nights now; every creak, every burst of laughter, every gust of wind that rattled the sign outside made him look up like a man waiting for a ghost.

And still no sign of her.

Just as he turned back toward the shelves, the door creaked again.

Mydei’s head snapped around, heart jarring in his chest before he could stop it.

There, in the doorway, stood Phainon. Alone.

No violet eyes peeking from beneath a cloak, no nervous smile, no flutter of silk skirts.

Disappointment sat bitter in Mydei’s gut like bad brandy.

“Yer a bloody disappointin’ silhouette, y’know that?” he called out, forcing a smirk.

Phainon chuckled as he approached the bar. “And here I thought I was a welcome sight.”

“You’d be more welcome if there were two of you.”

Phainon eased onto the nearest stool, resting his forearms on the bar. “And if the other one were about this tall, with a laugh that made you forget to breathe?”

Mydei’s hand stilled on the bottle he was reaching for. Then, deliberately, he poured a drink and slid it across.

“No need t’be poetic about it.”

“Wasn’t trying to be. Just honest.”

The two men were quiet for a moment. The low din of early patrons filled the space; soft chatter, the scrape of chairs, the thump of mugs landing on tables.

“She hasn’t been back,” Mydei muttered, voice low.

Phainon didn’t answer right away.

“Thought maybe she’d just gotten busy,” Mydei went on. “Y’know, noble duties. Real life. But…”

“But it’s been too long,” Phainon finished gently.

Mydei’s jaw ticked. “Aye.”

He cleaned the same glass twice. Then, frustrated, set it down and leaned forward, arms braced against the bar.

“You here t’drink or t’tell me somethin’?”

Phainon’s gaze lingered on his friend’s face, the weariness in his eyes, the forced stillness in his shoulders.

“I’m here because I thought you deserved to know,” he said at last. “Before you heard it from a drunk with loose lips or some gossip slipping through your back door.”

Mydei’s brows drew together. “Know what?”

Phainon hesitated, just for a breath. “She’s to be betrothed. Officially. To Lord Jing Yuan of the Xianzhou Luofu.”

The words hit like a fist to the ribs. Mydei blinked, slow. His hands curled slightly on the bar.

“…Didn’t take ‘em long,” he said hoarsely.

“No. They’ve had him in mind for a while. He only just arrived for the formalities.”

Mydei huffed a bitter laugh, short and sharp. “O’ course he did. Gotta get the paperwork in before she wanders off with a tavern rat, eh?”

Phainon frowned. “It’s not like that.”

“No? Then what’s it like, Your Highness?” Mydei straightened, sarcasm creeping into the title. “They pull her aside between spoonfuls of jam and toast and say, ‘Surprise, darling, we’re sellin’ off yer heart like livestock’? Is that better?”

“She’s not being sold.”

“She’s bein’ locked up.”

Phainon’s eyes hardened. “That’s why I’m here, Mydei. To tell you, because she couldn’t and because you’re my friend. Because she didn’t want this, and she didn’t have a choice.”

Mydei exhaled through his nose, shoulders dropping. He looked away. “She always had a choice. It just weren’t ever hers t’make.”

Phainon looked at him, his expression heavy with things he couldn’t say; not yet, not with so many eyes around. “She’s not gone,” he said softly. “Not really.”

Mydei didn’t look up this time. His voice was quiet, but bitter as old whisky.

“She will be.”

TBC

Chapter Text

The sound of soft footfalls on the gravel paths mingled with birdsong and the gentle trickle of water from the marble fountain at the garden’s heart. Castorice walked beside Lord Jing Yuan, her posture graceful, hands folded loosely before her. A pair of attendants and a maid trailed them at a respectful distance, present enough to chaperone, distant enough to pretend privacy.

Aidonia’s famed gardens were in full bloom, summer teasing every flower to open; foxgloves in white and plum, hydrangeas in pale blue, and delicate clusters of wisteria spilling from the arches above. The scent hung rich and heavy in the warm morning air.

Castorice should have been admiring the beauty. She knew how.

But her thoughts drifted again; to laughter beneath warm tavern lights, to a low, rumbling voice teasing her in a commoner’s drawl, to rough fingers brushing hers mid-step. To a golden-eyed man with a crooked braid and a wild spark in his gaze.

“The Luofu is more temperate than Aidonia,” Jing Yuan was saying, his hands folded behind his back as he strolled beside her. “We have four seasons, but winter is mild, and spring lasts longer. The court gardens there are renowned in their own right, structured around harmony and balance. Even the koi ponds are designed to mirror celestial constellations.”

Castorice blinked, refocusing. “It sounds lovely. I imagine it must feel very peaceful.”

Jing Yuan glanced at her sidelong, his expression half-lidded and knowing. “It is. Though, like any court, peace can be more illusion than reality.”

She offered a soft, practiced smile. “You speak like a man who’s learned that the hard way.”

“I speak like someone who’s seen how masks move behind brocade.” He turned to her. “Though I’ve worn a few myself.”

That surprised her; both his candor and the gentle humor behind it. She met his gaze. His golden eyes were striking, certainly, but they held no mischief, no flame. No chaos.

And her heart stayed still.

“My Lord,” she said gently, “may I ask why you came here?”

“To Aidonia?”

“To court me.”

There was a flicker of something – amusement, perhaps – behind his calm façade. “You’ve asked directly. I appreciate that.”

He paused by a flowering peach tree, resting a hand against the bark. “Your name is known far beyond your borders, Lady Castorice. Not for frivolity or scandal, but for grace, wit, and a reputation of unwavering loyalty to your family. The Luofu court values strength through stillness. Dignity. Wisdom. I thought perhaps we might understand one another.”

She lowered her eyes briefly. “You speak of me as though I’m a statue in a hall.”

“No,” he said, quietly. “I speak of someone who carries far more than anyone sees.”

That caught her breath. She looked away, down at her gloves, at the way her fingers trembled faintly inside them.

“I won’t force you,” Jing Yuan said, stepping away from the tree. “You must know that.”

She looked back at him.

“I have no desire for a wife who walks beside me out of fear. Or obligation. If you tell me this is something you cannot abide, I will withdraw my suit. I promise you that.”

The words stirred something deep in her, and it was not love, not longing…but respect. A rare, solemn kind.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“But,” he added gently, “I hope you will give this a chance. Not just for duty, but for your own peace, too.”

They had stopped before a narrow arched bridge. Beneath it ran a stream dotted with lilypads, and the hum of bees drifted through the warm air.

Castorice let her gaze linger there for a moment.

“I…don’t know what I want,” she admitted, and the confession rang hollow in her own ears. “Except that I want my sister to be safe. My family to be at ease.”

He inclined his head. “That is noble.”

“But not necessarily honest?”

“It is,” he said. “Just not the whole of it.”

A breeze stirred the hem of her gown and teased strands of her hair. The perfume of peach blossoms curled around her.

He offered his arm once more. “Shall we finish our walk?”

She hesitated only briefly before taking it.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The water lapped gently against the rim of the ivory tub, warmth wrapping around Castorice’s limbs like a cocoon. Steam curled languidly into the air, softening the edges of everything; the marble, the silk screen, the painted ceramic jars. Her hair floated around her in lilac ribbons, and her skin glowed in the golden light of late afternoon, beads of water clinging to her collarbone, to the slope of her shoulder.

She had insisted on bathing alone.

The attendants had protested at first, but a single look – firm and tired – had made them retreat, bowing silently.

Now the room was hers.

And with no one to distract her, no voices or duties to pull her mind elsewhere, the thoughts came flooding in.

Jing Yuan’s voice. His calm, elegant speech. The way he had walked beside her in the gardens, as if neither of them were shackled to anything at all. His eyes, soft gold, like sunrise over distant rice fields. Gentle. Intelligent. Honest.

She liked him.

She admired him.

But…

She closed her eyes, sighing softly, and leaned her head back against the curved lip of the tub. Water slid down the curve of her throat, her lips parted.

But it wasn’t his voice she longed to hear.

Not his smile she saw when she let her mind drift.

No. It was a crooked grin, smug and charming and infuriating. The glint of mischief in gold-flecked eyes that weren’t calm and measured, but burning, alive, real.

Mydei.

The name echoed in the quiet.

Gods, how he had looked at her across that bar. The warmth of his voice, laced with that provincial drawl. The strength in his arms when he had steadied her during the dance, his callused hand against the small of her back, fingers curled gently but firmly like he knew exactly how to hold her.

Her chest rose sharply, and she sank further into the water, trying to bury the heat blooming across her skin.

She shouldn’t be thinking of him like this. Not now, not here.

Not while she was naked and alone and aching.

But still, she pictured it: his hand on her wrist as he pulled the mug away, the way his fingers had brushed hers, slow and deliberate, as though he’d wanted to hold on longer. The quiet walk around the square, the way his voice had softened as he listened to her, really listened. As if every word she spoke mattered.

She pressed her legs together beneath the water, mortified by the direction of her own thoughts, by the deep pulse of want she didn’t know how to name. A tremble fluttered low in her belly.

She longed for something more than duty, more than expectations and formal courtship and silk slippers on stone paths.

She longed to be seen. Touched. Wanted.

Loved.

The thought struck her so sharply it almost hurt.

She swallowed hard and let the steam wrap tighter around her, her hands drifting to the surface of the water, fingertips creating tiny ripples.

She thought of what it would mean to choose safety. To marry Jing Yuan. He would be kind, yes. Steady. A good match. She could care for him, perhaps, even come to admire him deeply.

But she would never burn for him.

She would never lie awake dreaming of how his voice might sound if he whispered her name in the dark.

She would never feel wildly, recklessly alive.

Her breath caught, and she brought one hand to her lips, pressing her fingers gently there, as though they might hold the storm inside.

She didn’t know what to do, but she knew she could no longer pretend that nothing inside her had changed.

Because she had tasted something; the first sip of freedom, of yearning, of joy unshaped by obligation.

And she couldn’t forget it.

No matter how golden her fiancé’s eyes were.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The tavern had quieted into the hush of late evening. Shadows stretched long across the walls, and the scent of smoke and spilled ale lingered in the air. The fire crackled low in the hearth. A few patrons lingered at the edges, quiet, nursing their last drinks, while the staff moved with the slow, practiced rhythm of closing.

Mydei leaned back against the inside of the bar, wiping down a mug more out of habit than necessity. His braid was slightly loose near the temple, a few strands of blonde hair clinging to his cheek. He hadn’t spoken much all night, not beyond what was required. The laughter he usually slung like a dagger had dulled, and even his teasing had been half-hearted.

So when the door creaked open with a familiar whistle of winter air, he didn’t even look up at first.

“Ye're late,” he muttered as footsteps approached. “Had time t’ polish yer pretty boots twice over, I reckon.”

“Well, I had to look respectable,” Phainon’s voice came back lightly. “You know how your barkeep manners can rattle a man of good standing.”

Mydei looked up then, arching a brow. “Didn’t rattle ye last time. Or the time before.”

Phainon shrugged, smile tugging at his mouth as he took the seat directly across from Mydei, his fine coat dusted with travel and his pale hair slightly tousled from the wind. “True enough. Still, figured you’d appreciate the effort.”

There was a beat of silence between them, long and companionable.

Then Mydei spoke again, voice softer, words edged with something unreadable. “How is she?”

Phainon didn’t have to ask who. “Holding up,” he replied, carefully. “She’s been doing what’s expected. Smiling when she’s supposed to, walking beside him in the gardens.”

Mydei nodded once, slowly, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around the mug. “…Is he a good man?”

“Yes,” Phainon answered, and there was no hesitation in his voice. “Jing Yuan is decent. Gentle. He listens to her, doesn’t pressure her. He’s the sort of man a mother would pray for their daughter to marry.”

Mydei let out a quiet breath through his nose. “But he ain’t what she prayed for.”

Phainon studied his friend a moment, then leaned forward slightly. “No,” he said softly. “He’s not.”

The words hung between them.

“She never wanted this,” Phainon added. “And you know that. Doesn’t matter how polite he is or how prosperous the Luofu might be. This was never her choice.”

Mydei’s jaw worked for a second before he set the mug down and turned away slightly, leaning his arms on the polished bar and staring out into the emptying tavern. The golden light flickered against his face, warming the edges of his sharp profile.

“I’ve been tryin’ not t’ think about her,” he said after a while, his voice rougher now. “Tryin’ to act like she were just another noble lass slummin’ it with a pint and a dance. But that ain’t what it felt like. Not to me.”

Phainon stayed quiet.

“I keep seein’ her,” Mydei went on, his accent thickening. “In the corner where she first sat, lookin’ like a fawn in a storm. In the sound o’ the damn music. In the bloody glass when I’m cleanin’ it. Hell, sometimes I turn round thinkin’ she’s behind me.”

His hands clenched. “And now she’s off bein’ fitted for a crown and a cold bed, when all I want is t’ see her laugh again. Not like a lady entertainin’ her suitor, but like she did here. With me.”

Silence fell again, deeper this time.

Then, Mydei turned to look at Phainon directly. There was something unguarded in his face, vulnerable, and fierce.

“I don’t know what I’m doin’,” he admitted. “But I can’t let it end like this. I can’t let her marry that man without at least tryin’.”

Phainon’s blue eyes sparked, like flint to tinder. He leaned back with a grin blooming across his face, one not of mockery, but approval.

“Took you long enough,” he said, and for the first time in days, Mydei saw a flash of his usual mischief.

Mydei raised a brow. “So you’ll help me, then?”

Phainon’s smile widened. “Of course I will. She’s my cousin. You’re my best friend. And this? This is finally getting interesting.”

Mydei’s lips twitched. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m a romantic,” Phainon replied with a wink. “With exceptional taste in dramas.”

Their laughter was quiet, but it lingered.

And in the flickering firelight, something shifted.

A plan was beginning.

A rebellion, born not of politics or war, but of something far more dangerous.

Love.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The garden was wrapped in a golden hush, leaves rustling in the breeze, petals bobbing in gentle agreement. A pair of doves nestled on the high stone wall that ringed the hedged courtyard, cooing softly. Beneath a blossoming apple tree, a low cushioned settee had been arranged with care, layered in soft throws and a shawl draped across the back for warmth.

Phainon held Polyxia gently in his arms, careful not to jostle her as he lowered her into the nest of cushions.

“Gently, cousin mine,” Polyxia murmured, breathless from the short journey. “Not all of us have thighs carved from marble.”

“Speak for yourself,” Phainon said, grinning as he adjusted a pillow behind her. “You’re feather-light. You’d fly off on a breeze if I let go too soon.”

Polyxia rolled her eyes but didn’t resist as he tucked the shawl around her. “You fuss more than my lady’s maids.”

“And yet I’m far better looking than all of them,” Phainon declared, then planted a kiss, loud and exaggerated, on her cheek.

She squealed with a laugh and tried to push him away. “Ugh! You still kiss like an overexcited goose.”

“That’s Prince Goose to you,” he said, flicking a curl of her hair. “And mind, you used to beg for kisses when we were younger.”

Polyxia wrinkled her nose. “I was six. I also used to eat mud.”

“Which is why your palate is so refined now,” Phainon said, eyes twinkling.

From a few feet away, Castorice knelt by the flower beds, watching them with quiet fondness as she trimmed back overgrown stalks. The scene was so lovely it made something ache in her chest; a yearning for simpler days, for when laughter came easily and no one spoke of duty over breakfast.

“You’re very strange today,” she remarked, walking over with her gloves in hand.

Phainon turned to her with innocent offense. “I am always strange. You’ll need to be more specific.”

She arched a brow. “Stranger than usual.”

Polyxia giggled. “He’s been acting like he’s hiding a secret.”

“Ah, now that is slander,” Phainon said, lounging dramatically beside Polyxia. “Here I am, simply bringing light and joy to your convalescence, and this is how I’m repaid?”

“With suspicion,” Castorice said, though she couldn’t help her smile. “Because you’re acting like you’re up to something.”

Phainon just winked, offering no denial.

“Hmm,” she said, narrowing her eyes but letting it go for now.

Polyxia leaned against the cushions, watching them with her own soft smile. “You’re staying the night, then?”

“I am. Arranged it with your parents,” Phainon replied casually, but a glint sparked in his eyes. “Seemed only right. Can’t leave before getting my fill of garden gossip and sisterly sass.”

“Your fill?” Polyxia asked. “You mean to gorge yourself?”

“Oh yes. I intend to be stuffed full of tea, scandal, and familial affection.”

She laughed again, lighter than she had in days, and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I’ve missed you.”

Phainon went still for a moment. Then he turned, brushing a curl back from her temple, and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, gentler this time, quiet.

“I’ve missed you too, little dove.”

Polyxia’s smile dimmed just slightly, but her eyes shone. “Do you think...things will be alright?”

Phainon looked at her, and for a second the mask slipped.

“They will be,” he said simply, sincerely. “In time. One way or another.”

Castorice watched the exchange, something knotting quietly in her chest. She had the uncanny feeling again, like Phainon was here not just to comfort them, but to do something.

He caught her gaze, and the twinkle returned.

“Now, no more melancholy,” he said brightly. “I demand tales. What have I missed? Who’s scandalized the maids lately? Has the cook finally banished that horrid lemon tart?”

Polyxia launched eagerly into a story, and Phainon listened with attention, laughing in all the right places, asking after the household staff by name, even mimicking their voices in a way that made both girls laugh until they cried.

For that afternoon, he was simply Phainon, their dearest cousin who always made things feel lighter.

XxxOxOxOxxX

Tap.

The sound was so faint, Castorice wasn’t sure she’d heard it at all.

She stirred in bed, groggy and disoriented, the lingering traces of sleep clinging to her limbs like morning mist. Outside her window, the wind whispered through the hedgerows. She stilled, listening.

Tap. Tap.

Her breath caught. That was no dream. Slowly, she sat upright, blinking in the moonlight that filtered through the gauzy curtains. Her heart began to thud against her ribs.

A bird? A branch? She told herself it was nothing but still, she slid out from beneath her embroidered covers, her silken nightrobe whispering at her ankles as she tiptoed across the room.

She hesitated before the window, fingers hovering near the latch.

What if it was some vagabond? A thief?

What if it was–

Tap.

She opened it.

A cool breeze kissed her face, sweeping into the room and there, below, half-shadowed by the moonlight and the climbing roses that framed the outer wall, stood a cloaked figure.

Her breath caught for even beneath the hood, she’d know that frame anywhere; the broad shoulders, the relaxed stance that somehow still brimmed with latent strength. And when he tilted his head up toward her, that hood fell just enough for her to see them.

Those golden eyes, gleaming like twin pieces of polished amber beneath the moonlight.

“Mydei,” she breathed.

He offered a crooked smile and lifted one hand in a silent wave.

Her heart leapt and tumbled all at once. “What…what are you doing here?” she whispered sharply. “You can’t be here!”

He pressed a finger to his lips and motioned for her to come down. She stared at him, utterly flabbergasted. He had to be mad.

“You can’t be serious–!”

She was still gaping at him when the door to her chambers creaked open behind her.

She whirled around, clutching at the window sill in fright only to see a familiar silhouette glide into her room.

“Phainon?”

Her cousin strode in without so much as a candle, completely at ease in the dark, cradling a delicate figure in his arms.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “You’ll wake the house.”

The moonlight spilled over him and over the girl in his arms.

“Polyxia?!” Castorice gasped. “What in the world–?!”

Polyxia grinned impishly from Phainon’s arms, eyes sparkling with mischief and delight. “Surprise!”

Phainon carried her straight to Castorice’s bed and carefully nestled her down into the nest of sheets. “She insisted on being the decoy.”

“Because,” Polyxia added with an exaggerated whisper, “I’m excellent at lying very still and looking like a tragic heroine.”

Castorice blinked at the two of them, thunderstruck. “You are both out of your minds.”

“We prefer the term ‘visionaries,’” Phainon said with a wink.

Castorice’s voice dropped into something frantic and hushed. “You dismissed the guards? What if we’re caught? What if Mydei is seen? If anyone recognizes him–!”

“They won’t,” Phainon cut in gently, his voice steadier now. “I sent my own men ahead and let your parents know that Stelle and I would oversee the night patrols. They trust me. And Stelle is out walking the grounds now. if anyone comes near, she’ll see them before they see you.”

“You’d risk all this – him – for me?” Castorice whispered.

Phainon looked at her and smiled gently. “I’d risk far more for you, Cas.”

Her throat tightened.

Polyxia, still smiling, reached out and tugged at her sister’s hand. “Go. Please. Tell me everything when you come back; what it’s like to run wild under the stars, what he smells like up close.”

“Polyxia!” Castorice hissed, scandalized.

“What? You know I’m right,” she sang, tucking the covers up to her chin with glee. “I want to live vicariously through you. I want details.”

Phainon was chuckling under his breath, already heading toward the door.

Castorice stood frozen for a long moment. Then, slowly, her hand went to her robe’s sash. She tied it tighter, squared her shoulders, and gave her sister a lingering look.

“You are impossible,” she murmured.

“I learned from the best,” Polyxia whispered, eyes glinting.

Castorice bent forward and kissed her sister’s forehead, then followed Phainon to the balcony. He offered her his hand and helped her climb out. Carefully, she navigated her way down the small stone outcroppings built into the manor’s outer wall – ones they’d used to sneak out in their younger days – until she reached the garden.

Mydei stepped out of the shadowed archway where he’d waited, arms crossed.

His golden eyes caught hers, and something in his face softened.

“Took ya long enough, princess,” he murmured.

Castorice rolled her eyes as she reached him. “You’re unbelievable.”

Mydei leaned closer. “An’ yet, here ya are.”

A grin tugged at her lips, despite herself.

Phainon called softly from above, “Don’t get her into too much trouble, barkeep!”

“Can’t promise that!” Mydei called back, grinning up.

Phainon disappeared with a salute, and the balcony emptied.

Castorice stood before Mydei, her breath catching as she looked at him in the moonlight; messy braid over his shoulder, scruff on his jaw, and something in his eyes that warmed her from the inside out.

“Where are we going?” she asked softly.

He offered his arm. “Where the night wants to take us.”

And she, for once, did not resist.

Down a winding path beyond the last whisper of the estate walls, beneath the veil of trees heavy with moonlight and dew, Mydei led Castorice to where his horse waited, tied and calm, its coat dark and sleek as the midnight sky.

She froze when she saw it.

“You brought a horse?”

He gave her a lazy smirk, pulling back the reins with practiced ease. “Thought ye might like the proper fairy tale treatment, princess.”

“I didn’t think I’d be swept off my feet quite so literally,” she murmured, eyeing the saddle.

“Well, I was gonna toss ye over my shoulder, but figured yer sensibilities might be a bit delicate.”

She shot him a dry look, but he only grinned wider.

Still, when he reached for her waist, she didn’t flinch. She let him lift her into the saddle with ease, her hands curling around the leather pommel. And then he swung up behind her, one arm snaking past her waist to gather the reins, the other bracing around her to steady them both.

Her breath caught as she felt the solid warmth of him at her back, his chest pressed lightly to her spine, his arm caging her in. She wasn’t used to this kind of closeness. Not the dangerous kind. Not the real kind.

His voice, low near her ear, felt like heat in the dark.

“Hold on.”

Then they were off trotting through the night, hooves thudding softly against the packed earth, their shadows gliding like ghosts beneath the canopy of stars.

Castorice leaned into him only slightly at first, but the rhythm of the ride lulled her, and soon, she let herself rest against his chest, letting his presence anchor her.

They didn’t speak. The quiet between them wasn’t heavy or strained; it felt like part of the night itself, as if it belonged there, wrapping around them like the cloak Mydei wore.

And then, after what felt like a dream stretched out on horseback, he gently tugged on the reins.

“Almost there.”

They dismounted near a rise that dipped into a quiet hollow; a hidden basin of land surrounded by whispering trees and blanketed in indigo wildflowers. The lake nestled at the center shimmered like glass, catching the silver of the moon and flinging it back across its rippling surface. Fireflies danced in the air, winking in and out of sight like stars come to visit the earth.

Castorice stepped forward, wonder painting her face. “It’s like…something from a painting.”

Mydei tied the horse loosely to a nearby tree, then returned to her side. “Not many folk know about it. Thought ye might like it.”

“I love it,” she whispered, breathless. “I…how did you find this place?”

He shrugged. “Been comin’ here since I was a lad. Place always felt…honest. Quiet. Figured ye’d appreciate that.”

She turned toward him, her expression softened by the moonlight. “Thank you.”

He didn’t reply. Just tilted his head, eyes dark with something intense.

Together, they made their way into the field of flowers, letting the petals brush against their hands, their clothes. The scent was light and floral, laced with dew and the hush of night.

They lay down side by side on a soft patch of grass where the stars could see them, shoulders touching, arms brushing whenever one of them shifted.

Castorice tilted her face toward the sky, eyes wide and gleaming. “There, see that cluster?” She pointed upward. “That’s Eros’s Lament. Supposedly named for a prince who gave his heart to a goddess and was cursed to live forever watching her from the sky, but never able to touch her again.”

Mydei turned on his side to face her, propping his weight up on one elbow.

She continued, gesturing higher. “And there, that arc? The Maiden’s Promise. It’s said that if you make a vow under its curve, the stars will hear it and keep it.”

“You believe all that?” Mydei asked, not unkindly.

“I don’t know,” she said, smiling softly. “My mother thought it was nonsense. She tried to make me read political histories and etiquette books instead. But I liked these stories better.”

“I can see why.” His voice was quiet now, almost reverent. “They suit ye.”

She turned her head and found him watching her, not the sky. His golden eyes were fixed on her face, studying it like it was something holy. The curve of her brow, the parting of her lips, the starlight reflecting off the curve of her cheek.

His hand moved before he could think better of it. He brushed a loose strand of hair away from her temple, fingers trailing across her cheekbone, his thumb lingering there just a moment too long.

Her breath hitched.

“Ye’ve got a look on ye,” he murmured, voice low, “like yer tryin’ real hard not to disappear.”

She didn’t move. “Maybe I am.”

He swallowed. “Why?”

“Because,” she whispered, “I don’t want to wake up from this.”

Silence fell, fragile and full.

“Mydei…I’m betrothed to another man.”

“I know.”

“Jing Yuan is kind. Smart. Everything I should want. Everything I should choose.”

“But?”

“But he doesn’t make me feel like this.”

The words hung there between them, suspended like the stars overhead.

Mydei exhaled, slow and steady, then lay fully down beside her, closer now.

“Tell me what ye want, Castorice.”

She turned to face him, their noses nearly touching. “I want to be free. I want to matter for who I am, not what name I carry. I want someone to look at me and see me.”

“I do.”

Her lips parted, eyes wide.

“I see ye, princess,” he said again, voice raw and low. “Every moment yer in the room, I see nothin’ else.”

She reached for his hand, twining her fingers with his.

“Mydei…” Her voice trembled.

His thumb traced the back of her hand, slow and reverent. “Say the word, an’ I’ll steal ye away. Tonight. We can ride past the edge of the map.”

She closed her eyes, torn, breathless.

“I can’t…not yet.”

He nodded, aching. “Didn’t think ye could.”

“But I wanted to hear you say it,” she whispered. “I needed to know you would.”

He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

“I’d move the stars for ye, Castorice. Just say the word.”

TBC

Chapter Text

They lay there beneath the stars, their fingers laced together, neither willing to break the moment. The lake shimmered beside them like it knew a secret, and the fireflies swirled lazily above, casting fleeting golden trails in the dark.

Mydei had stopped watching the sky completely. Instead, he watched her.

She was quiet now, her eyes tracing constellations but her mind clearly somewhere else, somewhere closer, somewhere that looked suspiciously like him.

“I used to dream about nights like this,” Castorice said softly, her cheek half-pressed to the sleeve of his tunic. “Before my days became all duties and betrothals. I’d sneak books into bed, and read stories of common girls and warriors, of stars, of stolen kisses and impossible choices…”

She turned her head toward him, their faces nearly touching again, her voice barely a whisper.

“I never thought I’d be the girl in the story.”

Mydei smiled faintly. “Ye always were. World just forgot to tell ye.”

The sincerity in his voice undid something in her.

She reached out and brushed her fingers against the side of his jaw, tracing the braid along his temple. His eyes fluttered half-closed at her touch, golden irises catching every flicker of moonlight like embers on the verge of flame.

Then, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his cheek.

It was soft, barely there, but it stopped his breath all the same.

“I should go,” she said gently, after a moment. “Before the sun catches me here and makes it vanish.”

He nodded slowly, but didn’t move right away. When he finally sat up, he lingered at her side, reluctant in every motion.

She stood, brushing wildflower petals from her skirts, her eyes on the lake one last time.

At the horse, he helped her into the saddle again, this time more quietly, more slowly. The silence wasn’t cold; it was tender, wrapped in the weight of everything unsaid.

As they rode back beneath the dying stars, Castorice leaned into him again, but this time, her fingers found his, resting over the reins.

Neither spoke and only when they reached the outer fringe of the estate did Mydei pull the horse to a stop, just behind a tall hedge and out of sight of any wandering eyes. The sky was paling now, a faint silver brushing the horizon.

He helped her down, held her there a moment too long.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For tonight. For…giving me something that felt like mine.”

“It was yours,” he murmured. “Every minute.”

Then he reached for her hand again and kissed it – knuckles, palm, wrist – slow and purposeful, like he was memorizing it.

Castorice swallowed hard, eyes shining. “Wait.”

She reached into the folds of her cloak and pulled something small out a ribbon. Soft, deep forest green. The one she’d bought in the market and hidden from her mother.

“This is all I can give you right now,” she said, pressing it into his hand. “But I want you to have something to remember me by.”

His fingers closed around it, rough thumb brushing over the delicate fabric. His throat worked silently as he removed the leather strip holding his braid together and retied it using her ribbon.

“A promise, then?” he asked.

She nodded. “I’ll come back. I don’t know when, but I will.”

He stepped back into the shadows. “I’ll be waitin’, princess.”

And just as she turned toward the side gate, Phainon was already there, waiting like clockwork, cloak drawn up, smiling like the devil with a secret.

“Took your time,” he whispered with a wink. “I thought I’d have to come find you both and start coughing dramatically.”

Castorice stifled a laugh, glancing once more over her shoulder, but Mydei was gone.

Only the soft stirring of wind in the trees remained, and the feel of his kiss still burning on her hand.

Above, the stars faded but not entirely.

XxxOxOxOxxX

Castorice padded softly through the quiet halls, Phainon beside her like a wraith in royal silk, his footsteps ghost-silent across the rugs.

They moved like children who’d snuck sweets from the kitchen, half the thrill in not being caught, the other half in simply doing what they weren't supposed to.

As they reached the corridor near her chambers, the familiar scent of roses and beeswax polish filled her nose.

“I still say this was madness,” she whispered to Phainon, the hem of her cloak sweeping behind her.

“You say that,” he murmured with an impish grin, “but you’re glowing like the moon itself just kissed your cheek.”

Castorice blushed and smacked his arm.

Gently, Phainon opened the door to her chambers, and the soft flicker of a single candle greeted them. Polyxia lay bundled beneath the sheets, just as they’d left her, but her dark lilac eyes that so much resembled Castorices’ were wide and alight with mischief.

“Oh, finally,” she whispered with a grin. “I was about to start snoring just to keep up the illusion.”

Castorice rushed to her side and dropped to her knees beside the bed, reaching for her sister’s hand.

Polyxia took it, squeezing tight. “Well? Was it wonderful?”

Castorice bit her lip and nodded, eyes shimmering. “More than I imagined.”

Polyxia beamed. “Tell me everything.”

“Later,” Castorice promised with a laugh, “after I change and climb in beside you.”

Phainon chuckled and stepped back toward the door, giving them their moment. “I’ll let you two darlings whisper away the rest of the night. If anyone asks why Polyxia is in your bed instead of her own, we’ll say she simply wanted to sleep beside her sister like old times.”

“Like old times,” Polyxia echoed dreamily.

He paused at the door, glancing back once. “Sleep well, both of you. And Cas…” His smile softened. “You deserve happiness. Don’t ever forget that.”

With that, he slipped from the room, silent as a shadow.

Castorice quickly shrugged out of her cloak and changed into a soft nightgown, cheeks still flushed from everything she’d lived that night. When she finally slipped beneath the sheets, Polyxia rolled onto her side to face her.

“Well?” her sister pressed, eyes sparkling.

Castorice giggled, hiding her face in the pillow. “It was like something out of a dream. He took me to a lake. There were fireflies and wildflowers and stars, and…”

Polyxia gave a muffled squeal and tossed a pillow lightly at her. “And?!”

“And…he kissed my hands, and held me on the horse, and…” Castorice hesitated, then whispered, “He looked at me like I was real. Like I was mine.”

Polyxia’s expression turned tender, the excitement mellowing into warmth. She reached over and brushed her sister’s hair gently from her cheek.

“I’m so happy you had this night, Cassie. You’ve always given so much to everyone else. You deserve a little rebellion...and a little magic.”

They lay there in silence for a few long moments, their breathing soft, their hands clasped between the sheets.

And when Castorice finally drifted into sleep, her dreams were filled not with noble halls and duty-bound steps, but with golden eyes and wildflowers under moonlight.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The morning light slanted through the tavern’s shutters like honey pouring over old wood, golden and thick, catching dust motes mid-drift. The familiar scent of bread toasting in the kitchens mingled with the sharper tang of dried citrus peel and spiced cordials warming by the fire. It was early still – too early for patrons – but Mydei liked the quiet.

He rolled down his sleeves behind the bar, tying off the cuffs before reaching for the cloth to polish the mugs stacked near the tap. The hearth glowed low and comfortable, soft embers still licking at yesterday’s ash.

A whisper of soft fabric brushed his cheek as his braid moved along with his head and he paused, reaching up to fidget with  the edges.

A plain thing, soft and simple, but he knew the hands that had picked it for him, knew the warmth in her cheeks when she’d offered it to him with a shy, fluttery smile, and the tremble in his fingers as he’d taken it.

Unconsciously, Mydei grinned, just a little.

“Ah-ha!” came Lysias’ voice from somewhere near the kitchen. “He’s smilin’ again!”

“I was startin’ to think the scowl was permanent,” Nessa teased, walking past with a basket of fresh bread and a wink. “You even sleep last night, boss, or were you just dreamin’ of soft hands and noble perfume?”

Mydei rolled his eyes but didn’t protest, not this time. He polished the cup a little too hard.

“Aye, don’t let it go to your heads now,” he muttered, a lilt in his voice that hadn’t been there in days. “If y’ lot spent less time gawkin’ at my face and more time scrubbin’ the tables, we’d be ready for the day before the sun’s all the way up.”

“You sound like you’ve swallowed sunshine,” Lysias said, peering around the archway. “Should we be worried?”

But Mydei didn’t snap. Just chuckled low in his throat and kept working. The tavern was still and warm, and for the first time in days, something in him felt settled. As though the tide had rolled back and left something gentle behind.

That is, until the door creaked open.

Too early.

He frowned.

The bell above it gave the softest chime, and cool morning air slipped into the tavern like a warning.

His head lifted, the cup stilled in his hand.

The figure stepped through the threshold with no hesitation, boots silent against the planks, a tall silhouette against the grey-blue light. Cloaked, hooded, the sort of presence that made the room feel suddenly smaller.

Mydei’s jaw tensed, his whole body did.

“You,” he said, not loudly but the word carried weight. He placed the mug down with deliberate care. “What’re you doin’ here?”

The figure did not answer immediately.

“Y’re here too early t’be thirstin’. Unless y’woke up cravin’ my honey wine,” Mydei went on, voice sharpening. “And if not that, then I can guess.”

The figure stepped further into the tavern, pushing back his hood just enough to meet Mydei’s gaze. Not entirely, though, never fully. A shadow still clung to his features, like a secret refusing to be spoken.

“You’ve been gone a long time,” the man said, his voice calm and even, yet not unkind. “Long enough to start pretending you belong here.”

“I do belong here,” Mydei said coolly. “I’ve made sure of that.”

The man tilted his head, studying him, not quite pity, not quite approval.

“You always were good at running,” he said. “Better still at hiding.”

“I’m not runnin’. Not anymore.”

“And yet, you’re still not where you should be.”

The tension snapped like a bowstring inside Mydei’s chest. “If y’ came here to drag me back, don’t bother. I’m not goin’. I’ve got my life. I’m done with all that.”

“I didn’t come to drag you,” the man replied. “I came to warn you. You can’t outrun your name forever. Something’s changing. You’re needed. And soon.”

Mydei’s mouth thinned. He reached out, steady hands adjusting a bottle on the shelf behind him with more force than necessary. “Don’t come here again,” he said quietly. “Not unless y’want to ruin everythin’ I’ve built.”

The man paused, just long enough for the silence to stretch taut, then turned slowly back toward the door.

“Take care of the girl,” he said without looking back. “There’s not much time left for pretending.”

And then he was gone.

The door closed with a whisper, but the cold he left behind lingered, curling in the corners of the room like frost just beneath the floorboards.

Mydei stood behind the bar, knuckles white around the edge of the counter, golden eyes locked on the door.

The edges of the ribbon swayed gently against his cheek.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The gardens of Aidonia spread before them in serene splendor, a tapestry of meandering paths, swaying willows, and flowerbeds blooming in soft pinks, creams, and golds. Marble statues of mythic lovers and celestial beasts peeked out from clusters of lavender, and dragonflies danced along the glimmering water of a nearby fountain. The air was light and warm, touched with the scent of wisteria and honeysuckle.

A shaded corner of the park had been claimed for their midday picnic. The royal servants had laid out a fine blanket of silken thread, scattered with embroidered pillows. A basket filled with cheeses, honeyed tarts, fresh grapes, and slices of roasted fig bread sat open at the center. Polyxia leaned back against a mound of cushions, sunlight catching in her pale hair, a flush of health in her cheeks that had been absent for far too long.

She was laughing, a sound as rare and sweet as birdsong.

“You’re not serious,” she said, eyes bright with disbelief. “You wrestled a…what was it? A snowbear?”

“A young one,” Jing Yuan replied, lips quirking as he poured her a delicate cup of tea. “Barely taller than a carriage. I wouldn’t recommend it, even so.”

Polyxia gasped, mock-scandalized. “And you came out of that with nothing but a torn sleeve?”

“Perhaps a few bruises to the ego,” he said with a good-humored shrug.

Castorice sat beside them with her legs tucked neatly beneath her, watching her sister with a soft smile, her heart full. Polyxia hadn’t laughed like this in weeks. Her skin glowed with warmth, her laughter bubbling from a place of ease. Jing Yuan, for all his stateliness, had a gift for charm, and he spoke to Polyxia not with pity but interest, never once looking at her as if she were made of glass.

Seeing that alone made this outing worthwhile.

“I think you’ve gained a loyal admirer,” Castorice whispered to him, nodding discreetly toward her sister.

“She’s delightful,” Jing Yuan replied softly. “Bright, sharp-tongued. I see where you get it.”

Castorice chuckled under her breath, shaking her head.

“I saw a sweets vendor near the gates when we arrived,” she said after a moment, nudging her sister lightly. “Shall I fetch us some candied fruit before the sun steals all my strength?”

“Oooh, yes! The peach kind, if they have it,” Polyxia grinned, sitting straighter.

“I’ll go with you,” Jing Yuan offered immediately, rising with easy grace and brushing a stray leaf from his shoulder. “Can’t have you facing crowds and sweet-stalls alone.”

“I’ll be fine here,” Polyxia chimed in, waving a hand. “I’ll hum something embarrassing until you return. Go, get me sugar.”

Castorice glanced at her, worried. “Are you sure you’ll be alright by yourself for a moment?”

“I’m not going anywhere. You can still see me from the stall, can’t you?”

True enough, the stand was only just across the path, the bright orange awning fluttering in the breeze.

“Alright,” Castorice relented. “We’ll be back shortly.”

The pair crossed the grassy path, their voices soft and laughter low as they disappeared into the gentle press of the midday crowd.

Polyxia tilted her head back to catch the sun. She sighed, brushing invisible crumbs from her skirts and letting the warmth soak into her skin. A breeze stirred the wisteria branches and her heart felt light in a way it hadn’t for a very long time.

“Watch out!”

The voice rang sharp and sudden.

Polyxia’s head whipped to the side, just in time to see it: a large hound barreling across the path, paws pounding, tongue lolling as it veered with frightening speed directly toward her.

Her breath hitched in fright. Too fast, too big, there wasn’t time to move, nowhere to run.

She curled into herself, arms crossing over her head as instinct took over. She could hear someone shouting her name; Castorice, distant and panicked.

Then, nothing.

No impact.

No weight crashing into her.

Only the sound of a sharp yelp, the snap of fingers, a low murmur, and then silence.

Polyxia slowly opened her eyes.

A towering figure stood before her, one strong hand gripping the hound by the scruff of its thick neck, lifting it just enough to keep its paws from digging into the grass. The beast whimpered, suddenly docile, its energy dissipated like smoke.

The man set it down gently, murmured something beneath his breath in a foreign tongue, and the hound stilled completely at his side.

He turned to her.

Tall, broad-shouldered, roughly hewn like a statue from darker stone. His coat was fine, but worn at the edges with travel and age, dust still clinging to his boots. A sword hung at his side, the hilt intricate but clearly used. His skin was tanned, and his hair – dark red like coals cooling in ash – was tied back in a low ponytail that still managed to look disheveled in a rakish sort of way.

His face…

Sharp jaw, sloped cheekbones, a scar tracing from his right temple, crossing the bridge of his nose, and cutting cleanly through one silver eye. Another smaller scar curved his bottom lip. Those eyes – steel-gray and piercing – met hers with quiet curiosity.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice low and smooth, with a slight foreign accent she couldn’t quite place.

Polyxia blinked up at him, her heartbeat finally starting to slow.

“I…I…No. I’m fine. Thank you.”

He offered a hand to help her up, and she took it.

Large fingers closed around her slender ones carefully. He pulled her up with almost no effort, steadying her with a touch to her waist before stepping back.

“I apologize,” he said. “She got away from the boy holding her lead. Still a pup. Clumsy.”

Polyxia tried to find her voice, a flush blooming in her cheeks.

“I…I’m grateful. Truly. If you hadn’t been there…”

“I’m glad I was.” He offered her a faint, lopsided smile. “Gnaeus.”

She stared at him, and it took her another heartbeat to remember herself.

“Polyxia,” she murmured, brushing a curl behind her ear. “Lady Polyxia of Aidonia.”

He inclined his head politely. “An honor, my lady.”

She was completely and utterly awestruck.

He smelled faintly of cedarwood and smoke, and he stood like he’d fought in wars. His voice had the timbre of distant thunder, quiet but reverberating.

“Would it be forward of me to ask if you’re often in the habit of saving maidens in distress?” she asked, her voice a touch breathless.

Gnaeus smiled, just a little. “Only when fate insists.”

TBC

Chapter Text

Polyxia stood beneath the flowering arbor, still lightly clutching Gnaeus’s hand where he’d helped her up. His palm was warm, calloused, but not rough, fitting for a man who knew both hardship and restraint. His silver eyes flicked over her carefully, as if verifying her well-being for himself, not trusting the truth to spoken words.

“You’re sure you’re not hurt?” he asked again, his voice gentler, less guarded. His accent was faint, the kind born of travel across many borders, sanded down by time and adaptability.

She shook her head. “I promise. A little shaken, but…thank you. You moved so quickly.”

Gnaeus gave a modest shrug. “Dogs like that don't mean harm, but they forget themselves.”

“It was so big,” Polyxia murmured, trying to still her heartbeat.

“You were brave,” he said, his voice low. “Most would’ve screamed.”

“Oh, I was screaming,” she laughed nervously. “Just not very loudly.”

He cracked the faintest smile, the scar on his lip bending slightly. “You held your ground.”

Polyxia blinked, touched by the praise. She looked up at him – taller by a full head at least – and studied the way the breeze moved through his dark red hair, the strands caught in late sun. His expression was unreadable, as though everything he thought was kept behind a wall built stone by stone.

“Gnaeus,” she repeated his name softly, as though trying it on her tongue again. “Are you from Aidonia?”

He hesitated for barely a moment. “No,” he replied, then offered nothing more.

Polyxia tilted her head. “Are you just passing through?”

His lips quirked. “Perhaps.”

Before she could ask more, a sharp cry broke through the crowd. “Polyxia!”

She turned and her heart lifted as Castorice burst through the veil of onlookers, Jing Yuan at her heels.

“Polyxia!” Castorice cried again, running forward and catching her younger sister in a fierce embrace. “Are you alright? I saw the dog and I couldn’t get to you – ”

“I’m alright,” Polyxia assured quickly, hugging her back. “He…he stopped the dog. He saved me.”

Only then did Castorice lift her head, lilac curls askew, and meet Gnaeus’s eyes.

She straightened instinctively. “Then you have my deepest thanks,” she said with poise, her voice clear but warm. “Sir…?”

“Gnaeus,” he said with a short bow. “Only Gnaeus.”

Jing Yuan stepped forward next, composed but grateful. “My thanks as well. That was quick thinking, and no small feat.” He extended a hand, which Gnaeus shook, though not stiffly. “You must allow us to treat you to dinner in gratitude. You’ve done our family a great kindness.”

Gnaeus’s silver eyes drifted to Polyxia, lingered…and then turned back to Jing Yuan. “There’s no need. I was in the right place at the right time. That’s all.”

“Still,” Castorice pressed, “at least allow us to –”

But Gnaeus stepped back, subtly but firmly disengaging. “It’s best I move on. But I’m glad she is well.”

He looked once more at Polyxia, this time, longer, softer.

And Polyxia, normally bashful around strangers, found herself stepping toward him without meaning to, one hand rising slightly, as if to catch the moment before it left.

“I…I hope we meet again,” she said quietly.

He gave a half-nod, the kind that meant perhaps, or I hope so, too, though he didn’t say it aloud.

Then Gnaeus turned and walked away, the dog obedient at his heel. The crowd parted instinctively for him, and within moments, he vanished into the park’s greenery like mist folding back into the hills.

Castorice looked between Polyxia and the fading figure, something moving behind her eyes.

Jing Yuan said nothing, but he noticed it too; the way Polyxia watched after him with something in her face that had not been there before.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The sun had dipped below the edge of the horizon by the time the carriage began its gentle roll through the forested roads back to the estate. Inside, the light was soft, filtered gold through the gauzy curtains and the ride was smooth enough that the quiet thrum of the wheels against the packed dirt lulled Polyxia into a gentle sleep.

She leaned into her sister, a slight smile still lingering on her lips, her breath slow and even. Her head rested against Castorice’s shoulder, dark purple lashes fluttering every so often with dreams.

Castorice didn’t move, afraid even the smallest shift would wake her. She turned her head slightly, breathing in the faint scent of lavender in Polyxia’s hair, and let her hand gently cradle her sister’s beneath the blanket laid across their laps.

Jing Yuan, seated across from them, watched the two in silence. The lantern glow caught the sharp elegance of his features; golden eyes steady, handsome face framed by white tresses, hands folded loosely over one knee. He didn’t speak until Castorice looked up and met his gaze.

“She had a good time today,” he said softly, as if reluctant to disturb the fragile hush.

Castorice nodded, her voice just above a whisper. “She hasn’t smiled like that in weeks.”

“She’s stronger than she looks,” Jing Yuan offered.

“She has to be,” Castorice murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from Polyxia’s temple. “She’s endured more pain than most ever will. And still, she laughs. Still, she tries. Sometimes I think she’s stronger than me.”

Jing Yuan didn’t argue. Instead, he let the moment breathe, let the quiet settle again before he said, “You love her deeply.”

“More than anyone,” Castorice replied immediately, fiercely. “She’s…she’s everything to me. I don’t know who I’d be without her.”

Jing Yuan nodded once, slow and understanding. “And so you carry the weight for her.”

Her throat tightened. “I have to,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “I’m the firstborn. It’s my duty to keep our family steady. She’s too delicate for the weight. So it falls to me.”

She looked down at Polyxia again, her voice quieter still. “I’d marry anyone, live any life, sacrifice any part of myself if it meant she’d be safe, comfortable, happy.”

She felt Jing Yuan’s gaze on her. “You shouldn’t have to carry that alone,” he said after a moment. “But I understand why you do.”

Castorice looked up. “You do?”

He smiled faintly, one side of his mouth curling. “Responsibility isn't foreign to me. Neither is sacrifice.”

Their eyes met and something passed between them; mutual understanding, a shared loneliness.

“I won’t pretend to know what the future holds,” Jing Yuan said gently. “But know this: I will never be the kind of man who takes your freedom lightly.”

Castorice blinked, stunned by the softness of his words.

“I know we may be bound together in time,” he went on, his voice like steady rain on leaves, “but I will never bind you.”

She didn’t speak, only nodded, slowly, the lump in her throat too large for words.

Outside, the world faded into twilight. The wheels turned onward, the road winding steadily home. And in the quiet warmth of the carriage, Castorice leaned just slightly more into her sleeping sister, one hand curled protectively around hers, while Jing Yuan looked out into the darkened trees and said no more.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The tavern was in full swing, but Mydei wasn’t behind the bar.

Lysias had taken over for the night, a towel slung over his shoulder and a crooked grin aimed at the regulars, and Nessa kept the floor moving with practiced ease. Laughter rolled out from the hearth, mugs clinked, and music drifted faintly from a bard tuning his lute in the corner.

Mydei, however, had long stepped into the night.

The wind was cool, brushing past his cloak like the fingertips of ghosts. He walked with purpose down the main lane of the lower city, past shuttered shops and alleys that knew his boots well. But as he turned left past the baker’s gate, then right into an old garden path overtaken with ivy, his steps slowed.

The cobblestones here were half-sunken, the scent of moss and old rain thick in the air.

He didn’t bother knocking.

There was a lantern set on a crumbled stone wall. Its flame flickered with unnatural steadiness, never bowing to the breeze. Mydei followed its glow through the dark, through the tangled trees behind the disused chapel.

There, waiting beside the roots of an ancient oak, stood the man.

“I figured ye’d be here,” Mydei said, voice flat.

“Of course you did,” the man answered, his tone smooth, neither warm nor cold. “You know I don't appear without purpose.”

Mydei’s jaw tightened. “You’ve got a damn funny way o’ showin’ it. Stormin’ into my tavern like that.”

The man tilted his head slightly. “I gave you time. Years of it. I watched you build a life here, one pint at a time. But time, Mydei, is a favor I can’t grant any longer.”

Mydei stepped closer, his golden eyes narrowed in the moonlight.

“If ye came to drag me back, ye’ll find I ain’t as obligin’ as I used to be.”

“I told you, I didn’t come to drag you anywhere,” the man said simply. “I am here to warn you, Mydeimos.”

The man turned slightly, just enough for a sliver of his face to catch the light; sharp cheekbone, a glimpse of steel-gray, a defined jaw. His voice, low and certain, carried more weight than a tavern full of shouting men.

“There’s unrest at home.”

Mydei’s shoulders went rigid.

“She’s holding on. But not for much longer.”

A gust of wind stirred the trees, tossing the branches like unsettled hands.

“She?” Mydei asked, though he already knew.

The man’s voice softened. “Your mother.”

Silence stretched long between them.

“She’s in danger, Mydei. From within. The embers have grown teeth while you were gone. I’ve held what I could, but she’s vulnerable. And your name…” He glanced over. “Your name carries more weight than you’d like to admit. Even now.”

Mydei looked away. The pain in his chest was old, familiar.

“I left that all behind,” he muttered, more to himself than to the other man. “Left him behind. Left the throne. I was never–”

“You were never meant to vanish,” the man interrupted. “You were meant to return when it was time.”

“I made a life,” Mydei snapped, suddenly fierce. “I bled for it. I ain’t that boy anymore. I ain’t–”

“Then be the man she raised,” the figure said quietly.

The words struck deeper in his chest. Mydei stood there for a long moment. The wind tugged at his braid, the lantern flame swayed for the first time.

“Why now?” he finally whispered.

The man’s answer was soft. “Because someone else is coming. Someone who won't ask nicely. And if he gets there first…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, he didn’t need to.

Mydei took a step back, one hand curling into a fist at his side.

“I ain’t decided nothin’,” he muttered, throat tight. “But if ye’re right…if she’s in trouble…”

The man gave a nod. No smile, no victory in his stance, only patience.

“I’ll wait,” he said, then turned, his cloak folding as he vanished into the tree line once more.

Mydei stood alone beneath the oak, breath shallow, the weight of his bloodline settling over his shoulders like a cloak he’d sworn never to wear again.

But embers, left unchecked, became wildfires.

And something inside him – something deeper than memory, older than fear – whispered that his time in hiding was nearing its end.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The scent of fresh bread and honeyed figs drifted warmly through Polyxia’s bedchamber.

Sunlight spilled through gauzy curtains, casting golden patterns on the quilt that covered Polyxia’s lap. The tray between them held a pot of tea, slices of melon, a soft wheel of cheese, and flaky pastries still warm to the touch. A breeze stirred the embroidered canopy above the bed, and the gentle chirping of birds filtered in through the open windows.

Castorice buttered a croissant with practiced elegance, then looked across the tray at her sister who was not eating.

Polyxia sat propped up by cushions, her fingers absently tearing small pieces from her pastry and rearranging them on her plate into a vague approximation of a flower. Her gaze was distant, dreamy.

“Poly,” Castorice said lightly, “I’ve known you since before you had teeth. That is the face of someone who is quite far from this room.”

Polyxia blinked, then flushed. “What? No, no, I’m just…thinking.”

“Thinking, hmm?” Castorice sipped her tea and gave her sister a sly look over the rim. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain red-haired stranger with a jaw that could crack stone?”

Polyxia sputtered and nearly dropped her cup. “I…Cassie!”

“Aha!” Castorice laughed, setting her teacup down. “I knew it. You’ve barely said a word all morning, and your cheeks go pink every time you hear a bark in the distance.”

Polyxia tried to look stern, but it was hard when her entire face was red.

“I was nearly trampled by a dog, thank you,” she muttered. “It’s perfectly reasonable that I might be…a little startled.”

“Oh, of course,” Castorice said, nodding solemnly. “And it’s perfectly reasonable that you can’t stop smiling when you talk about your rescuer.”

“I am not smiling.”

“You are smiling.”

Polyxia groaned and buried her face in her hands, muffling her words. “I don’t even know anything about him. Just his name. Gnaeus.”

“A fine name,” Castorice said gently. “Strong.”

“He had the kindest eyes,” Polyxia said softly, lifting her face again. “Not soft, not exactly, but…they looked at me like I was a person, not a porcelain doll.”

Castorice’s teasing faded into quiet sympathy. She reached across and gently took her sister’s hand.

“I know what you mean,” she murmured.

“I’ve never seen him before,” Polyxia went on, eyes glassy with memory. “Not at any of the court events. And he wasn’t dressed like a noble, but he…carried himself like one. Like someone who’s seen war.”

Castorice tilted her head. “You noticed all that?”

Polyxia gave a sheepish smile. “I may have…peeked once or twice while you and Lord Jing Yuan were talking with him.”

“Oh, only once or twice?” Castorice teased again, giving her sister’s hand a squeeze. “Shame. I thought you were going to give me something juicy.”

“Stop!” Polyxia laughed, then covered her mouth like she’d said something terribly improper. “I barely spoke to him! He just held the dog and asked if I was alright and then…oh, then he smiled. Cassie, I swear, I forgot my own name when he smiled.”

Castorice pressed a hand to her heart dramatically. “Gods save us. He’s disarmed you.”

“He rescued me.”

“Same thing.”

They both broke into giggles, clutching each other’s hands like they were children again, hiding from nursemaids under heavy blankets.

When they settled, Castorice brushed a strand of hair from her sister’s brow and gave her a fond, wistful smile.

“You’re allowed to be enchanted,” she said. “Just…take care with your heart.”

Polyxia’s eyes searched hers. “And you, Cassie? Are you being careful with yours?”

That silenced her for a breath. Then Castorice gave a small, tight smile and reached for her tea again.

“That’s a story for another morning.”

The last of their laughter faded into a peaceful silence, the kind that only settled between people who knew each other bone-deep. Polyxia leaned her head on her sister’s shoulder, and for a moment, they just sat there, content in each other’s company, the soft ticking of the clock and the birdsong outside their only soundtrack.

Then, gently, Polyxia broke the silence.

“You haven’t said much about him.”

Castorice blinked. “Who?”

“Mydei.” Polyxia tilted her face up, brows raised. “Don’t play coy.”

Castorice stared ahead for a moment, then gave a soft, rueful laugh.

“You see too much.”

“I always have,” Polyxia said simply. “And I know what I saw that night, when you snuck back into bed after your little midnight adventure. I may have helped orchestrate your escape, but you forget I know your face.”

Castorice felt a heat rise in her cheeks. She glanced down at the folds of the blanket and smoothed them with a nervous hand.

“It was…just a walk,” she said carefully.

Polyxia snorted. “Did he kiss you?”

Castorice’s hand stilled, and she didn’t answer right away.

“He kissed my hands,” she whispered, voice almost reverent. “Like I was something rare. Like he didn’t want to let me go.”

Polyxia’s expression softened. She took her sister’s hand and gave it a comforting squeeze.

“Do you love him?”

“I…” Castorice swallowed. “I feel like I do. I have never felt anything like this before. I want to see him all the time, and lose myself in his eyes, and his words, and his hands. Surely this is love? It has to be. But it’s not easy. He’s…” She trailed off, unsure how to put it into words.

“He’s not Jing Yuan.”

“No,” Castorice said, her voice quieter now. “He’s not. And Jing Yuan is…kind. Gentle. A man who listens, who understands. He’s done nothing to make me dislike him. If anything, he’s trying to be someone I could grow to care for.”

Polyxia nodded slowly, thoughtful. “So what are you going to do?”

Castorice looked at her sharply.

Polyxia’s eyes searched her sister’s face with painful earnestness. “What does your heart want, Cassie? Forget me. Forget the court. Forget Father’s ambitions or Mother’s instructions. Forget the vows and titles and who’s a prince or a barkeep. What do you want?”

“I want you to be safe,” Castorice said immediately, her voice sharp, too quick. “I want you to be comfortable, to be cared for, to never want for anything again. I want to make sure no one ever tells you no just because you’re ill, or weak, or because you were born second and not first.”

Polyxia didn’t flinch. She listened. Then she said, softly, “That’s what you want for me. But what about for you?”

Castorice opened her mouth, then closed it. Her throat felt tight.

She stared out the window for a long moment, watching a pair of birds dart through the branches of the orchard. And in her mind’s eye, golden eyes flickered through the leaves, warm hands on her waist, laughter echoing under stars, a lake like a dream and flowers blooming where he laid his hand.

“I want…to choose,” she whispered finally. “I want to be loved, not purchased. I want to feel what it’s like to live without a cage.”

Polyxia leaned closer and wrapped her arms around her.

“I want that for you too,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “Cassie…I may be fragile, but I’m not your burden. You don’t have to give up your whole heart just to keep me safe.”

Castorice clutched her tighter, her chin trembling.

“But if I don’t,” she said hoarsely, “then what does it all mean?”

Polyxia smiled against her shoulder. “It means you still believe love is worth the risk.”

XxxOxOxOxxX

The tavern pulsed with its usual late-evening rhythm; glasses clinked, laughter bounced from beam to beam, and the scent of roasted meat and spiced honey mead hung in the air like a comforting blanket. Mydei stood behind the bar, a damp cloth in hand, wiping down a row of mugs while subtly watching over his staff. His braid had slipped slightly loose, gold eyes gleaming beneath the flicker of lantern light. For once, the world felt right, lighter.

That is, until the front door swung open, letting in a gust of cool air and a familiar voice.

“You’ve got too much peace in here. I had to come ruin it,” said Phainon as he strode in, brushing dust from his shoulders.

Mydei snorted. “Peace? In this place? Don’t flatter yourself. It was already loud ‘fore you walked in.”

Phainon slid onto a stool, grinning. “Still, I must be the most handsome thing to pass through that door tonight.”

“I’ll let the roast pig know it has competition,” Mydei replied, setting a tankard in front of him. “Drink?”

Phainon waved it away. “Tempting, but I’m not here for the mead.”

That got Mydei’s attention. He leaned a forearm on the counter. “Oh?”

“Actually,” Phainon said, looking over his shoulder toward the back door, “I was hoping you could step outside with me for a minute. There’s…something I want to show you.”

Mydei raised a brow. “Right now? Can’t it wait ‘til I’m not running a full house?”

Phainon’s eyes twinkled, but there was something behind it, something more serious.

“It’s important,” he said simply. “Won’t take long.”

Mydei sighed through his nose and threw the rag down. “Fine, but if someone lights the mead barrels on fire while I’m gone, I’m blaming you.”

He gestured to one of his trusted barhands, gave a few sharp instructions, then rounded the bar and followed Phainon through the back door.

The night air hit his face like a splash of cold water. Behind the tavern, lanterns were dimmer, shadows longer. A figure stood a short distance away, cloaked and still. Stelle leaned against the wall nearby, arms folded across her chest, looking far too smug for her own good.

The moment Mydei appeared, she straightened. “My part’s done,” she said simply. Then, with a glance at Phainon, added, “Try not to break anything, you two.”

Phainon only grinned and gave Mydei a mock bow as she disappeared into the dark alley beside the building and he followed a step behind.

Which left Mydei and the hooded figure alone.

For a beat, nothing happened, but then the hood slid back, and moonlight caught on the soft glint of lilac hair.

“Hi,” Castorice said quietly.

Mydei stood there, breath held like he'd been punched. For a moment, he couldn’t speak. Just stared at her, like he’d stepped into a dream and was afraid to move in case it broke apart.

“Cas,” he breathed, barely louder than the wind.

And then, suddenly, his arms were around her.

She gave a startled little gasp as he lifted her, spun her in a slow circle like he was grounding himself in the fact that she was real. Her hood slipped off her shoulders entirely, and her laughter bubbled up between them, soft, breathless, alive.

When he set her back down, his hands didn’t leave her waist. His forehead lowered to hers, and he let out a shaky chuckle, breath warm against her cheek.

“Gods, look at ye,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion. “I thought I’d gone mad, hopin’ this’d happen again. You, standin’ here, smilin’ like that.”

Her hands rested lightly on his chest. “Well, someone took me on a moonlit horseback ride and disappeared into the mist like something out of a storybook,” she whispered. “What choice did I have but come find you again?”

“Aye, that’s my brave girl.” He smiled, lopsided and boyish. “Could’ve been a trap.”

She raised a brow, amused. “Was it?”

Mydei leaned back just enough to look at her properly, golden eyes full of something quiet and deep. He shook his head slowly. “Nah, it’s worse. ‘Twas a wish.”

“A wish?”

“Mine.” His voice dropped to almost nothing. “One I was too much of a fool to believe might ever come true.”

She went still under his hands. The wind rustled her cloak, tugging at the fabric. Mydei’s thumb brushed against the back of her waist, like he was memorizing her all over again.

“Cas,” he said again, low and sure, “I don’t know how any of this ends. I don’t have fancy words or noble titles. But I know one thing, and I know it with every inch of me.”

His hand lifted to her face, knuckles brushing her cheek like a feather’s touch.

“I’ll fight for ye. I’ll find a way…any way…to make ye free. I don’t care how high the walls or who’s sittin’ behind ‘em. You deserve to choose. To breathe. To live.”

The look she gave him – soft, luminous, overwhelmed – might have shattered a lesser man, but Mydei only tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, fingers lingering.

“You don’t owe me a thing, lass,” he murmured. “But I’m here. If ye want me, I’m yours to find.”

Castorice didn’t trust her voice. Instead, she rose to his tiptoes, heart fluttering in her chest like a bird, and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

“For luck,” she whispered. “Or whatever it is you need most when you start to forget what’s worth fighting for.”

“Ye,” he said hoarsely. “You’re what I’m fightin’ for.”

And there, in the quiet dark of the alley behind his tavern, where no eyes watched and no rules dared intrude, they stayed a moment longer.

TBC

Chapter Text

The drawing room was quiet, save for the soft clink of porcelain as tea was poured into delicate, gold-rimmed cups. Sunlight streamed through tall windows dressed in pale blue silk, casting long, regal lines across the polished floors. The scent of rosewater and lavender hung gently in the air, drifting from a nearby vase overflowing with fresh blooms.

Castorice sat straight-backed on the settee, hands folded neatly in her lap, as her mother and father regarded her with expressions both warm and weighty.

“I have wonderful news,” her mother, Lady Eutychia, said at last, clasping her hands together with a pleased little nod. “We’ve decided to host a ball next week, in Lord Jing Yuan’s honor.”

“A proper Aidonian affair,” her father, Lord Theocles, added, smoothing a hand down his carefully pressed doublet. “The finest musicians, the best vintages. Nobles from every corner of the capital will attend. It will be a splendid evening.”

Castorice's lips parted slightly. “A ball?”

“Yes, dear,” her mother said, voice carefully light. “A celebration. And…if all goes as planned, it shall also mark the formal announcement of your engagement.”

The words landed with a hush that swallowed even the soft clink of tea. For a heartbeat, everything seemed to still, the golden beams of light, the swaying of the drapes, the breath in her lungs.

Her smile stayed fixed, almost too still.

“I see,” she murmured.

“You’ve done so well, Castorice,” her father said with a proud smile. “You’ve been graceful, respectful, and devoted; everything a daughter of our house should be. Lord Jing Yuan has spoken highly of you. He is an honorable man, and this alliance –”

“– Will secure our family’s future,” her mother finished, eyes glimmering with pride. “Your sister will want for nothing. Neither will you.”

Castorice nodded. Or at least, her body did. Her voice barely made it out. “Of course.”

Inside her chest, a cold knot began to form.

A ball. An announcement. Dresses and smiles and music, polite eyes and raised goblets and her name spoken in the same breath as engaged.

It was happening.

Not in theory, not in soft, abstract conversation, but now real, looming, locked behind silken threads and courtly smiles.

Her mother leaned forward and placed a hand gently over hers. “I know this has happened quickly, but it is a good match. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do,” Castorice replied, the words coming automatically. They sat hollow in her mouth, heavy like stones.

“Then you must look your best,” her mother went on. “We’ll have your fittings start tomorrow. I’ve already sent word to Lady Aglaea to prepare her finest silks. Something in moonstone blue, perhaps. Something timeless.”

“We trust you,” her father said. “To represent our name with honor. To make this house proud.”

Castorice bowed her head faintly. “Of course.”

Her mother smiled again and patted her hand. “Go on, darling. Take some time to yourself before supper. You’ve earned it.”

She rose to her feet and curtsied as gracefully as ever, but as she stepped out into the hallway, her hands clenched tightly around the folds of her skirts, her breath caught in her throat like a thread pulled too tight.

A ball.

An engagement.

A future she hadn’t chosen.

She walked, not sure where she was going, only knowing that the sun had never felt quite so sharp on her skin, nor the corridors of her house quite so quiet.

It was all beautiful, all gilded.

And suddenly, none of it felt like hers.

Castorice walked with measured steps through the corridor, her gown whispering over the marble floors, her head held high. Servants passed her with practiced bows, and she nodded as if nothing inside her was screaming.

Out through the side gallery, she stepped into the open air, past the terraces, the sculpted hedges, past the gentle trickle of the eastern fountain where vines bloomed in obedient coils.

Further still, beyond the formal paths, she found herself ducking beneath the arched lattice of an overgrown arbor, where the roses were allowed to grow wild and untamed. Here, deep in the shade of an old laurel tree, the world fell away. The manicured beauty of the estate could not reach this hidden pocket of green.

Only then did she let the breath slip from her lips like a cracked sob.

She collapsed to her knees beside the old roots, her skirts spilling around her in a heap of moon-pale silk, hands braced on the earth. Her fingers dug into the moss and loam, as though grounding herself might stop the ache blooming in her chest.

Tears spilled freely, silent at first, then ragged. Her shoulders shook, and she pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound, as if someone might still hear.

She had done everything right.

Every curtsy, every careful word, every practiced smile. She had played the part, borne the weight, stood in every place she was meant to stand.

And yet…why did it feel like the walls were closing in?

Why did it feel like she was being dressed for her own burial in lace and silk?

She tilted her face up toward the open canopy, the blue of the sky beyond blurred by tears, and a whisper escaped her lips, tender, broken, a single name.

“Mydei…”

She said it again, quieter, as if speaking it might summon him, as if the wind might carry it to wherever he was.

“Mydei…”

She thought of his hands, rough and steady, the heat of his palm when it brushed her cheek, the strength of his arms as he’d held her beneath the stars.

The fire in his golden eyes when he’d whispered, “You’re what I’m fightin’ for.”

And suddenly the thought of the ballroom, of swirling gowns and polished shoes and wine-drenched congratulations, became unbearable.

She would have to smile while her soul frayed at the seams.

She would have to dance while her heart stayed behind in a field of flowers, under a night sky, in the arms of a man no title could name.

Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks, and she bowed her head, hands curled tight in her lap.

“Please,” she whispered, trembling. “Please don’t let this be the end.”

Somewhere, far above, a dove cooed, a leaf danced on the breeze, and the ache in her chest throbbed in quiet rhythm with the earth beneath her.

She sat there, tucked in the arms of an old laurel and her grief, holding onto the fragile hope that love – real love – might still find a way.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The city was alive with its usual rhythm, cobblestones warm underfoot, sunlight scattering across tiled roofs, and the scent of roasting almonds and citrus drifting on the breeze. Market stalls bustled along the avenue, their colorful awnings fluttering like banners, while the watchful eyes of noble guards kept a comfortable distance, their presence enough to scatter would-be thieves without chasing away curiosity.

Phainon strolled through the heart of Aidonia beside Lord Jing Yuan of the Xiazhou Luofu; silver-haired, gold-eyed, draped in the soft folds of pale brocade. Jing Yuan cut an effortless figure, a quiet storm behind a composed exterior. Regal, with the confidence of someone who did not need to remind anyone of his power.

Phainon, by contrast, wore his wealth and strength like sunlight; easy, brilliant, and laced with mischief. But beneath his charming words lay a steel-sharp wit, and his smile never quite touched his calculating sapphire eyes.

The two of them were drawing attention, as such men always did; nobles on display, princes without crowns.

“You’ve grown quite fond of the Aidonian gardens,” Phainon said, sidestepping a cluster of children racing past with ribboned sticks. “I’ll admit, they pale next to the famed cloud pavilions of Luofu.”

Jing Yuan smiled faintly, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. “They have their charm. Wisteria and memory, as you say here. It’s the sentiment that cultivates beauty, not just soil.”

“Spoken like a poet,” Phainon chuckled, tossing a silver coin toward a street musician strumming a slow ballad.

“Only when it suits me,” Jing Yuan replied. “Diplomacy, after all, is a dance of words before it becomes a clash of swords.”

“Is that your approach, then?” Phainon asked, voice smooth but testing. “Dance first, only fight if cornered?”

Jing Yuan’s eyes turned toward him, “I find people reveal more in silence than in shouting. It’s a rare man who listens well. Rarer still, one who sees.”

“I must confess,” Phainon said, waving away a hawker offering sugared almonds, “when word first arrived that the famed General of the Luofu himself would be crossing the continent to visit our quiet little kingdom, I half-expected someone sterner. Older. More...beard.” He grinned, blue eyes alight with mischief. “Instead, we get a man who makes half the court blush into their tea.”

Jing Yuan arched a brow, amused. “If it is a crime to arrive without a beard, I do hope the law is lenient.”

“Oh, it is. As long as you’re handsome without it.”

Jing Yuan gave a quiet chuckle. “I see you speak for the court then, cousin of Lady Castorice.”

At that, Phainon’s smile faded into something more thoughtful. “She’s family. I make it my business to know what’s said and unsaid alike.”

“Wise of you.” Jing Yuan’s gaze flicked toward a pair of noblewomen stepping aside to let them pass, their whispered admiration as subtle as rustling leaves. “Your cousin is...complex.”

“She is,” Phainon said. “She was born into a storm, and she’s spent her life learning how to stand still in it.” He slowed his pace slightly. “I hope you know she didn’t ask for this. The ball, the titles, the expectations. They’ve always clung to her like cobwebs in spring.”

Jing Yuan was silent for a beat, letting the thought settle. Then he said softly, “I have no intention of forcing her into anything. I may be a stranger here, but I’m not without honor.”

Phainon nodded, watching him sidelong. “You may be a foreign lord, but I’ve seen enough to know you don’t throw your weight around needlessly. That said…” and here his voice dropped slightly, a subtle warning in the lull of the market’s rhythm, “…if Castorice were to ever feel unhappy, trapped, or dishonored in any way, I hope you realize that I will not sit idle.”

Jing Yuan met his gaze with measured calm. “I don’t doubt it.”

There was something sharp in the silence that followed, but it didn’t last long. A trumpet blared in the far-off square. Children shouted. A street performer spilled a cascade of marbles.

The world moved on, as it always did.

Jing Yuan broke the quiet first. “It must be difficult for you, standing between your cousin’s happiness and your duty to your House. Do you believe she would choose happiness...if given the chance?”

Phainon hesitated but then smiled faintly, a touch wistful. “I think she would. I just don’t know if she thinks she’s allowed to.”

Before Jing Yuan could reply, he paused in his step. His head tilted subtly, and his tone lowered, though it remained calm. But before the air could grow too thick between them, Jing Yuan’s gaze shifted across the square.

They had just passed a fountain – old marble, lion-mouthed and ringed with ivy – and Jing Yuan paused, his head tilting slightly.

“Curious,” he murmured.

Phainon arched a brow. “Something catch your eye?”

Jing Yuan nodded toward the far edge of the square, where a figure stood half-shadowed by the market’s edge. Tall, broad shouldered, roughspun shirt rolled at the sleeves, and sun-warmed skin kissed by labor. His auburn hair was tied loosely at the nape, a braid curling down the side of his face.

But it was the eyes that held him; burnished gold, sharp with focus, watching him as if measuring him, sizing him up.

“That one,” Jing Yuan said calmly. “The man near the olive cart. He’s been watching us for some time.”

Phainon followed his line of sight, and his heart skipped just slightly, just enough to notice. Mydei stood exactly where he shouldn't.

Bold, that one.

But Phainon recovered quickly. His expression remained light, unconcerned.

“Ah, just a curious commoner,” he said with an airy wave. “Probably dazzled by the cut of your coat. Or the shine of your boots.”

Jing Yuan didn’t answer immediately. He studied the man a moment longer, head tilted in thoughtful repose.

“Perhaps,” he said at last, voice mild. “Or perhaps some faces carry more purpose than they first appear to.”

Phainon smiled, wide, bright, and careless. “Now who’s waxing poetic?”

Jing Yuan met his gaze, and for just a moment, the edge of the general beneath the diplomacy flickered behind his golden eyes. He knew something lingered beneath the surface, he just didn’t know what.

Not yet.

But he let the matter drop, falling back into the rhythm of their walk.

Phainon chuckled under his breath and clapped a hand to the general’s shoulder.

“Come now, my lord. Let me buy you something sweet from the copper stall, proof we’re still men and not just masks.”

As they walked on, Jing Yuan glanced once more over his shoulder.

The man was gone, but the impression remained, like a phantom weight in the air.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The Aidonian sun barely crowned the horizon, yet already the estate was alive with motion.

Servants hurried through arched corridors, their arms laden with velvet, satin, and lace. The scent of beeswax polish and fresh-cut lilacs hung thick in the air. Doors swung open and shut, voices rose above one another; seamstresses arguing over thread colors, maids dashing from the kitchens with trays of sugared pastries to appease anxious noble tongues, florists arriving with great bundles of orchids, ivy, and snowberries for the centerpiece arch.

“Not there, to the left! The garden roses go by the entrance!” barked Lady Eutychia, Castorice’s mother, gesturing sharply as she crossed the drawing room like a storm on legs. “And tell the musicians not to play the ‘Violet Waltz’ until after the formal announcement! It’s bad luck otherwise.”

“Yes, my lady!” came the hurried chorus of acknowledgements from flustered attendants and court stewards trailing in her wake.

In the northern wing, Castorice was passed from one room to the next with barely a moment to breathe.

One hour she was stood on a pedestal while three tailors tugged and pinned a cascade of champagne-colored silk around her waist, the next, she was spun before gilded mirrors as a hairstylist weaved delicate braids and pearl-pinned loops into her dark hair.

“She needs more blush,” murmured one.

“No, not too much! The general prefers a softer look.”

Her ears buzzed with it all. Compliments, critiques, and endless opinions. She nodded when spoken to, held still when asked, but her thoughts were far, far away.

She thought of Mydei’s arms lifting her into the air. The way his eyes had crinkled when he smiled at her, the hush in his voice when he said he’d do everything to free her. Her fingers twitched with the memory of how he had pressed his lips to her knuckles, how she had clutched the ribbon from her own hair and tied it around his wrist like a silent promise.

“Miss Castorice,” one of the dressmakers said gently, pulling her back to the present. “Are the sleeves too tight?”

“No,” she answered quickly, blinking back to reality. “It’s...fine.”

The final design was breathtaking; a sweeping gown of golden silk and tulle, reminiscent of a midsummer sunrise, with a bodice embroidered in silver filigree and pearls that glimmered like dew. A ribbon, a slightly deeper shade of gold, was tied about her waist in a perfect bow, strikingly reminiscent of the one now tied around someone else’s wrist.

“Stunning,” said Lady Eutychia as she swept into the fitting room, her expression finally softening. “You’ll outshine every other girl in the room. As you should.”

Castorice gave a practiced smile. “Thank you, Mother.”

“And remember, tonight is not just a celebration,” Eutychia continued, walking a slow, circling path around her daughter. “It is a statement. You are a daughter of Aidonia, and tonight you will stand beside Lord Jing Yuan as his future wife. Everyone will see it. Everyone must see it.”

“Yes,” Castorice replied, folding her hands neatly in front of her, but her heart whispered a different name.

As her mother left to oversee another crisis in the ballroom, Castorice remained in the silence of the dressing chamber. The gown shimmered around her like golden armor.

But beneath it, her ribs ached from the weight of everything she was meant to carry.

When she finally stepped out of the chamber and into the corridors, the house felt like it was bursting at the seams.

Somewhere downstairs, a quartet rehearsed the opening waltz on their strings, the same melody repeating for the fifth time as the cellist cursed under his breath. A servant dropped a tray in the west hall, followed immediately by the sound of Lady Eutychia’s voice rising in outrage. The smell of roasted meats and sugared almonds wafted up through the stairwell like a siren’s call to indulgence.

But in Polyxia’s room, there was only the soft rustle of fabric and the quiet sigh of someone exhaling peace.

Castorice stood behind her sister, carefully working a brush through the cloud of fine, silvery hair that spilled over Polyxia’s shoulders like moonlight. The smaller girl sat nestled on her cushioned bench, wrapped in a soft cream robe, her slender hands folded in her lap.

“You don’t have to do this,” Polyxia said for the third time, watching her sister’s reflection with a small smile. “Shouldn’t someone be powdering your nose or lacing your corset too tight by now?”

Castorice gave a gentle hum of amusement. “Let them wait. I needed a moment that doesn’t smell like panic and lavender polish.”

“And you thought my room was a refuge?” Polyxia teased, though her voice was light and warm. “I’m flattered.”

Castorice smiled, catching her gaze in the mirror. “I thought my favorite girl deserved to be the most beautiful at the ball. Even if I’m being shoved onto center stage.”

Polyxia wrinkled her nose, but the blush that rose to her cheeks was unmistakable.

“I already made peace with being your pale, fragile shadow.”

“You are no shadow,” Castorice said firmly, setting down the brush and picking up a small glass pot of rose-colored balm. “You are the moon. Gentle and radiant in your own right.”

Polyxia’s expression softened, eyes lowering as her sister gently dabbed the balm onto her lips with careful fingers.

“Besides,” Castorice added, “what if a certain scarred gentleman happens to attend tonight? I think he ought to see the very best of you.”

Polyxia flushed deeper, pulling the collar of her robe up around her cheeks with a tiny groan. “Don’t start. I haven’t even had a moment to think about that since we got back.”

Castorice only grinned. “Now who’s blushing?”

“I’ll tell Mother you’re misbehaving,” Polyxia threatened, though her voice held no real weight.

Castorice laughed softly and leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to her sister’s hairline, right above the brow. “Tell her. I’ve already accepted my fate.”

There was a knock at the door, followed by one of the ladies-in-waiting peeking in. “Lady Castorice, they’re ready to dress you now. We must begin, or your hair will lose its set.”

Castorice nodded but lingered one more moment, tucking a lock of Polyxia’s hair behind her ear.

“You’ll be dressed next,” she said. “Be kind to the maids, won’t you?”

“I always am.”

“Good.” She took a final look at her sister. “You’re beautiful, Polly.”

“So are you.”

They smiled at each other, two pieces of the same soul, and then Castorice turned, shoulders already stiffening as she walked out the door and back into the carefully constructed whirlwind waiting to claim her once more, but her steps felt steadier.

Because for one small moment, in one quiet room, she had remembered what mattered most.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The chandeliers blazed with golden firelight.

Each of the thousand crystals caught a spark and flung it into the air like scattered stardust, painting the marbled floor with shimmer. Musicians played from the gallery above the dais, and their music, measured and elegant, floated like silk across the expanse of the ballroom. Every column was wrapped in garlands of white lilies and pale blue delphinium, while footmen in matching livery moved like clockwork through the crowd.

The ballroom was a sea of silken masks and whispered guesses, faces half-veiled in feathers, jewels, and secrets.

Castorice stood beneath the light, radiant, and utterly still.

Upon her face, she wore a delicate silver mask shaped like outstretched wings, the edges feathered in down-soft silk, the eye-holes rimmed with tiny, glinting crystals. It was ethereal, otherworldly, like a bird of starlight.

On her arm stood Lord Jing Yuan, who looked as if he’d stepped directly from a painting; tall and poised in the traditional finery of the Luofu. His deep blue robes were layered with silver trim and embroidered with sweeping cloud motifs and peony blossoms, the wide sleeves edged in white. A thin silver chain held his long hair back from his face.

His mask, in contrast to Castorice’s, was a simple half-mask of deep blue lacquer with silver detailing, shaped like stylized storm clouds curling over his brow and cheek.

“You look as though you’ve been turned to stone,” he murmured, voice low enough to not carry.

Castorice blinked, startled, and finally exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“Do I?” she asked.

“You do,” he replied with a small smile, eyes on the crowd ahead. “An exquisitely carved statue, perhaps, but one nonetheless.”

“I’m only trying to remember the list of names my mother drilled into me,” Castorice muttered. “House this, Lord that, cousin of some Duchess who only eats candied citrus in spring.”

Jing Yuan chuckled quietly. “Ah, yes. The most powerful political figures of the realm.”

She tilted her head toward him, just slightly. “You mock them.”

“I do,” he said pleasantly, then added more softly, “but not you.”

His voice lowered further, the tone becoming something careful. “I know this must be overwhelming. I also know you did not choose this. I’m not here to cage you, Castorice.”

She didn’t answer at first. Her gaze slid across the ballroom, over the glittering nobles in jeweled silk and elaborate masks, the murmuring lords and ladies already watching them, the whispered expectations wafting like perfume. Her stomach coiled tight.

“I’m not sure that matters,” she said quietly.

Jing Yuan turned his head slightly, gold eyes resting on her face. “Then allow me to remind you of something that does.”

He extended his arm a little more, drawing her a half-step closer, so they stood not just side by side, but together.

“You are not alone,” he said simply. “Even if this match is made by others, how we walk it is ours to decide. Together or apart. Friends or strangers. That part no one dictates but us.”

Her throat tightened. Castorice didn’t speak for a long moment, but she allowed herself to lean just the faintest inch closer into the warmth of his presence. He was not Mydei, and he would never be, but he was kind, gentle. He would not crush her under the weight of duty.

“You’re very good at this,” she said, trying to summon a smile. “This whole...politics through kindness thing.”

Jing Yuan’s eyes glinted with quiet amusement behind the curve of his mask. “I practice it often. It seems to have its uses.”

Before she could reply, the herald stepped forward to the top of the stairs, his voice ringing out across the hall.

“Presenting Lady Castorice of the House of Aidonia and Lord General Jing Yuan of the Luofu!”

A cheer went up from the crowd and Castorice straightened, setting her shoulders back. She let the smile return to her lips, even as her fingers twitched with hidden nerves against her skirts.

Jing Yuan leaned in just before they stepped forward and whispered, “Breathe.”

She did, and together, they walked down the stairs.

As Castorice descended the last step with Jing Yuan at her side, the crowd parted in waves. Everywhere she turned, she met masked faces, painted smiles behind gilded façades, ladies bejeweled like idols, lords decked in velvet and lacquered pride. Every movement she made was a performance, every gesture under scrutiny.

She dipped her head and smiled.

And smiled.

And smiled.

She greeted Lady Derenda, whose golden cat mask curled into a proud grin that never quite reached her eyes.

“My dear, you’ve bloomed,” the woman cooed. “How fortunate your parents are! You’ll make a stunning bride. The Luofu must be ever so pleased.”

Castorice smiled with all the sweetness required of her. “And I thank you for your generous words, my Lady. You look radiant, as always. The lavender suits you.”

She did not say it made the older woman look like a plucked grape. She thought it, though.

As she moved on, a pair of sisters brushed close to her; Lady Elyne and Lady Hellen, whispering behind matching swan masks with exaggerated beaks and glinting black feathers.

“Such a darling little courtship,” one of them said, just loud enough. “Though I’d imagined a war hero of the Luofu might’ve preferred someone more...exotic. Or at least spontaneous.”

The laughter that followed was feather-light, insincere and venomous.

Castorice kept her posture perfect, her expression serene behind her silver wings.

She drifted from conversation to conversation, exchanging endless pleasantries: whose cousin married whom, whose gardens had the earliest tulips this year, which northern duchy had begun shipping saffron in bulk. She nodded, she sipped, she offered practiced commentary and waited for nothing.

Even Jing Yuan, for all his quiet strength and attentive composure, couldn’t shield her from it entirely. They were both meant to be seen, that was the point.

And yet, Castorice began to feel...hollow. As though she were watching herself from above, her body dressed in silk and pearls, her face hidden behind a shimmering mask, while her soul stood somewhere behind the doors, barefoot in the grass.

She thought of the tavern, of the firelit laughter that filled it.

Of Mydei’s voice, thick with accent and mirth, shouting to be heard above a room full of joy. Of the sweet, sticky scent of spilled cider and roasting meat, of clinking glasses and music not composed for display, but for life. Real music, that made you stomp and twirl and forget the rules. Music where no one watched if your smile was crooked.

She thought of that night by the lake, of the flowers, of the fireflies.

Of Mydei’s hands on hers, calloused and real and and grounding.

Here, every touch was measured, every word, rehearsed, and every expression she wore was just another layer of paint on a mask she hadn’t agreed to don.

The orchestra changed its tune, something light, courtly, and far too clean.

“Would you care to dance?” Jing Yuan asked beside her, his voice gentle, offering a thread of reprieve.

Castorice blinked, looked at him and then looked past him.

The ballroom stretched endlessly before her like the belly of a beast that had already begun to digest her.

“Perhaps later,” she said softly, and for a moment, her gaze lowered. “I just need some air.”

He didn’t press. He merely inclined his head, and said, “Take what you need.”

She slipped away from the dais before her mother could stop her. One hand lightly gathered her skirts, and the other clutched tightly to the memory of freedom; of a tavern, of fireflies, of golden eyes that saw her not as a jewel to be set, but as a flame to be held.

And all the while, behind her, the ballroom glittered on, blind and deaf and hungry.

TBC

Chapter Text

Polyxia sat near the edge of the ballroom, tucked into the curve of an alabaster column wrapped in lilies. A silver goblet of watered wine rested lightly in her hands, untouched. The music floated on; bright, airy, waltzing. She listened, but did not rise. She had danced exactly once this season, and that had been enough to remind her body of its limits.

The gown her mother had chosen for her was a soft rose-gold with off-the-shoulder sleeves, adorned with petals of tulle that whispered as she moved. Her mask, delicate and blush-pink, was shaped like a moth’s wings, filigreed in pale gold. Pretty enough, decorative enough.

And yet…

She sat still, her back straight, her breaths shallow.

All around her, lords and ladies drifted through the ballroom like painted ghosts, silken arms entwined, voices lilting with flirtation, mouths hiding behind jeweled masks. Laughter came in little bursts of polite restraint, and every smile was an echo of someone else’s.

She watched a pair sweep across the marble in effortless motion, spinning, laughing, radiant, and a longing ached sharp in her chest.

She’d wanted it once. Not the masquerade, not the politics. Just that...nearness. That soft warmth that came from being chosen, wanted.

But who would ever choose her?

A sickly girl with hollow lungs and fragile limbs, a footnote in the grand tale of her family.

A sigh escaped her lips before she could stop it, heavier than she'd meant.

Then a voice, low and warm, sounded from behind her shoulder.

“You sigh too beautifully for a night like this.”

Polyxia froze.

She knew that voice.

Even through the elegant modulations of formality, even behind a mask, she knew.

Slowly, her heart hammering against the fragile birdcage of her chest, she turned her head and looked up.

A tall figure stood just behind her, half-leaning against the column like it cost him nothing. His mask was sleek and obsidian-black, shaped like a raven with fine silver etchings at the edges, sharp at the beak, proud along the brow. Beneath it, only the curve of his mouth was visible, but it smiled, wry and familiar.

Gnaeus.

He was dressed in midnight-blue, a high-collared coat embroidered in black thread so fine it caught the light only when he moved. His hair was neatly tied back, but a strand had come loose and drifted across his temple. He looked, in every way, like he belonged here, like some forgotten noble of old, shadow-born and starlit.

Polyxia tried not to gape.

“Sir Gnaeus?” she whispered, though she already knew.

He dipped his head in an elegant half-bow. “In the flesh. At your service, my lady moth.”

Her lips parted in surprise, then curved almost involuntarily. “You’re not supposed to call me that in public.”

“Good thing I’m masked then, isn’t it?” he said, eyes dancing behind the raven’s gaze. “Besides, I had to be sure you recognized me. Can’t have you mistaking me for one of those dreary courtiers who drone on about the price of winter pears.”

Her breath caught. “You…” she said before catching herself, then recovered with the lightest curve of her lips. “I suppose I should thank you. Again.”

He tilted his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Only if you mean it.”

Polyxia straightened slightly, cheeks warming beneath her mask. “You look different,” she said after a moment.

Gnaeus looked down at himself as though surprised to find he was still wearing a jacket. “Do I? I cleaned up for once.”

She smiled, the sound of him tugging at something quiet in her chest.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, softer now.

“Crashing a masquerade,” he said easily. “Couldn’t let the nobility have all the mystery and overpriced wine.”

Her brow arched delicately. “You weren’t invited?”

“Let’s say I came by...informal channels,” he said, then leaned in slightly, voice lowering as if to share a secret. “But I’m on my best behavior. Haven’t stolen a single canapé.”

Polyxia laughed, surprised again by how easily he pulled it from her. “I don’t think you’re supposed to admit that to a lady of the house.”

“Good thing I’m not talking to just any lady,” he said, and then continues, more quietly, “Besides, I was hoping I’d find you.”

Her breath fluttered again.

They stood in silence for a few seconds, the noise of the ballroom just distant enough to feel far away.

“You look...” Gnaeus hesitated, eyes meeting hers through the thin veil of his mask. “Lovely.”

Polyxia lowered her gaze, heart ticking unsteadily. “That’s kind of you.”

“Not kind,” he said. “True.”

A moment passed, tender and unsure. Not quite a step forward, but not standing still either.

She dared a glance at him, lips parting just slightly. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“I wasn’t sure I’d be able to find you,” he admitted. “Big city. Masked faces. But...yours wasn’t hard to spot.”

Polyxia tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, trying to keep her smile from becoming too obvious. “I’m not usually hard to miss,” she said wryly. “People tend to notice the girl who can’t stand for more than a few dances.”

“Well, lucky me,” he said, voice warm. “I’m terrible at dancing.”

She laughed again, soft and bright. “Is that your way of saying you’re going to keep me company for a while?”

His smile widened, just a fraction. “Only if you’ll let me.”

“I suppose I could be convinced,” she said, and with great care, she gestured to the seat beside her.

He took it without fanfare, folding easily into the shadows with her.

And as the dancers spun on and the orchestra played its golden, glittering tune, Polyxia sat beside a man she barely knew and found that, for once, it wasn’t the closeness that frightened her.

It was the hope.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The marble tiles of the balcony were cool beneath her shoes, the air outside a balm after the cloying perfume and gilded noise of the ballroom. The garden below shimmered in moonlight, wreathed in mist that clung low to the hedgerows and statuary like ghosts reluctant to leave. A gentle breeze stirred the trailing ends of the silk ribbons on her sleeves.

Castorice exhaled slowly through her nose, her back to the doors, her gloved hands braced against the railing as if she might hold the whole world at bay.

Her mask rested lightly on her face. It was beautiful, like everything else tonight. Beautiful, and suffocating.

She could still hear the music drifting from within, something glittering and buoyant meant to put people at ease. But it sounded like a lie to her. All of this did.

The wind carried the scent of night-blooming jasmine and candle smoke. She let herself close her eyes for a moment. Just a moment longer.

A voice interrupted the fragile silence.

“Beg pardon, my lady.”

Castorice flinched before turning, her expression carefully neutral. A young servant bowed just inside the open doors, eyes politely lowered. He looked vaguely apologetic.

“Yes?” she said, her tone far gentler than she felt.

“Her Grace the Duchess sent me to fetch you. She says it is time.”

Castorice didn’t need to ask what for.

Her fingers curled tighter around the balustrade. She counted to three in her head, then five. Then she straightened slowly, smoothing invisible wrinkles from the skirts of her gown. She lifted her chin.

“Very well,” she said.

With measured grace, she stepped past the servant and back into the glow of the ballroom.

The hush of her reentry was subtle but tangible, like a ripple in still water. Whispers followed her behind masks, glances that slid like blades off her skin. She met none of them.

Her mother stood waiting by the musicians’ dais, resplendent in her own right, her silver mask feathered and fierce, her posture perfectly regal.

“Darling,” she said, her smile razor-sharp with approval and expectation. “There you are. Come. It’s time for your first dance.”

Castorice inclined her head slightly, every movement as fluid and elegant as she’d been trained to make it.

“Of course, Mother.”

“Lord Jing Yuan is waiting,” her mother added, voice lower now, almost confidential. “Remember, every eye will be on you. Smile. Float. Be divine.”

The orchestra began to shift, strings rising, harps like falling stars.

Castorice nodded once. She touched her mask to make sure it was secure, lifted her chin again, and turned toward the center of the floor.

Jing Yuan waited there in his ceremonial robes and when their eyes met, he offered his hand without a word.

And with the practiced grace of a daughter born to performance, Castorice placed hers in his.

They stepped forward into the light, toward the music, toward the part of the night she could not avoid.

But her heart, somewhere far behind the mask, remained clenched in her chest like a fist refusing to open.

The orchestra’s first note shimmered through the ballroom like moonlight striking glass, and Castorice moved in perfect time beside Jing Yuan as they took their place in the center of the marble floor. The crowd had parted around them, and all eyes were on the pair beneath the chandeliers.

Jing Yuan bowed, precise and courtly. Castorice curtsied, her skirts whispering around her ankles, her silver-threaded mask catching the golden light.

The dance was a traditional one, meant to open formal balls, slow, poised, full of gliding circles and gentle turns that displayed the partners’ grace. Jing Yuan moved with practiced ease, guiding her with the lightest pressure at her waist and fingertips. He was calm, centered, like a still pool amidst the evening's chaos.

“Breathe,” he murmured once more as they turned. “You haven’t, since we stepped into the light.”

Castorice let out a quiet breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and cast him a small smile. “You’re very good at knowing when I’m unraveling.”

“I’m observant,” he said, his tone teasing but quiet. “And I rather enjoy seeing you un-unraveled, if that makes sense.”

“Not even slightly,” she replied, letting a breath of laughter escape her. “But I appreciate it regardless.”

They turned again, his hand steady beneath hers, her skirts flaring like soft smoke.

“Thank you,” she said more sincerely this time, her voice barely audible over the music and the watching crowd. “For all of this. For being kind. For helping me through it.”

Jing Yuan looked down at her, and just for a moment something softened in his gaze, something warm and wistful that tugged faintly at the corners of his mouth.

“I would always help you,” he said. “That is what friends do.”

She smiled, genuine, and a little sheepish. “Then you’re an excellent friend, Jing Yuan.”

For a moment, something flickered behind his golden eyes, something not quite friendship at all. But he didn’t speak it aloud, and Castorice, turning her gaze to the glittering crowd beyond them, didn’t seem to notice.

As they danced, other couples slowly took to the floor, filling in the open space with swirling silk and masked faces. The ballroom began to breathe again around them, bright with the sheen of motion, the perfume of bodies moving close.

Still, Jing Yuan’s attention stayed entirely on her.

“Do you want to slip away again when the song ends?” he asked quietly, his tone touched with warmth. “Or are you ready to be hunted by all the ambitious bachelors in the room?”

Castorice huffed under her breath. “Gods, don’t remind me. I’d rather spar with swords.”

He chuckled. “And I’d wager you’d win.”

They shared a final turn, the music beginning to descend into its closing measures, drawing them toward the last graceful step.

But before Jing Yuan could ask for another dance, a figure emerged from the crowd.

Tall, and broad shouldered, draped in crimson and gold, the color of embers at the edge of night. His coat was a striking, foreign cut, military in bearing, opulent in detail, and his black boots gleamed like obsidian. His mask was hard to mistake: a lion wrought in jeweled filigree, fierce and gleaming, catching the firelight in its polished mane. And though his long auburn-tipped hair had been tied neatly back, a single braid hung beside his jaw.

Castorice froze for the briefest breath, her fingers still lightly resting in Jing Yuan’s hand.

The lion-masked man bowed low, with all the gravity of courtly custom.

“May I?” he asked, voice low, rich with an accent that curled around her like a lover’s touch.

Jing Yuan turned toward him slightly. His golden eyes, ever watchful, narrowed a fraction behind his silver mask.

Castorice couldn’t breathe.

She knew that voice. Even through the music and the masks and the hum of the world watching, she knew it.

Mydei.

TBC