The east wing had not been this polished in years.
Carpets combed and beaten. Chandeliers lit in mid-afternoon gloom. The long table dressed with silver-laced runners no one would touch. Someone had even ordered the garden trimmed, though the scent of fresh-cut rosemary could not mask the mildew that clung to the outer stone.
Thalric entered late.
Deliberately.
He moved without apology, one hand on the cane, the other trailing along the banister like a man measuring a room by its weaknesses.
Three figures turned as he stepped through the threshold.
Prince Albrecht stood first—firstborn, sword-polished, soft-palmed. He offered a half-smile, the kind nobles wore to funerals. "Well. The dead walks."
Prince Cedric didn't look up from his wine. "I thought the summons was only for blood heirs."
"That includes him, Cedric," said the third: Prince Rowan. Taller. Stern-faced. Uncomfortably quiet. "Whether you like it or not."
Cedric snorted.
Thalric said nothing. He walked to the far end of the table, not taking the seat offered but resting against the tall back of it, one boot planted for balance.
He was studying them.
Not as brothers.
As variables.
Albrecht, with his charming voice and lack of scars, reeked of diplomacy. He dressed like a man who expected portraits made of him.
Cedric, the second son, was a vulture in velvet—quick to mock, quick to lose interest. His cup had been refilled twice before Thalric had sat.
And Rowan… the youngest, only three years older than Percival, watched like a man trying not to flinch before thunder.
"So," Albrecht began, adjusting his cuffs. "The invalid lives. The Queen writes. The staff whispers. And you, dear brother, look as if you've forgotten how to blink."
Thalric finally spoke.
"Perhaps. But I remember how to listen."
A pause. Cedric chuckled.
"How poetic."
Rowan broke the silence. "Why now? Why pretend you care to join us? We haven't seen your face in years."
"I didn't come to join you," Thalric replied, voice even. "I came to remember what a family is supposed to sound like."
That stung. Even Cedric blinked.
"We've all changed," Albrecht said lightly. "And change, I suppose, is our only constant."
Rowan stood. "Enough of this." He turned toward the inner corridor. "When the Queen calls, I'll answer. Not before."
He left with a stride measured in stone.
Cedric drained his cup and muttered something under his breath before following.
Only Albrecht remained, smiling with a little more effort now. He crossed the room in silence and passed Thalric a small leather-bound notebook.
"What is this?"
"Percival's," Albrecht said. "You left it behind in your quarters a few years ago. Mother insisted we keep it for the record. I thought... well, I don't know what I thought."
Thalric didn't take it.
Albrecht laid it gently on the table and nodded once before turning to leave.
When Thalric was alone, he opened the notebook.
It was half empty.
Pages filled with half-drawn battle formations. Childish sketches of soldiers. A dream list: titles he would never bear.
Royal Cartographer. Palace Falconer. Chancellor of Smoke.
Good son.
Thalric closed it and left it behind.
He wasn't here for notebooks.
He wasn't here for forgiveness.
He still didn't know why he was here.
Only that this farce of family continued to orbit him—and he was done pretending the performance mattered.
Not until it proved itself useful.