In the middle of raucous laughter and spilled wine, a quiet melody drifted into the air—soft, lilting, almost too pure for the chaos of the great hall.
Kael turned his head, eyes narrowing.
At the edge of the festival firelight stood an old man, cloaked in tattered robes, hunched over a strange stringed instrument. Though his hands trembled with age, his music was flawless. But it was his eyes that struck Kael—ancient, clear, and quietly blazing, like stars buried beneath dust.
Kael raised a goblet and called out, "You there. Play that again, but closer to the fire—and with wine in your veins."
The old man chuckled and shuffled closer. "Only if Your Majesty shares the first drink."
Kael smirked, handing him the goblet. "Done."
The man sat, strumming once more, and the music washed over the table like morning mist. Even Tavo stopped mid-boast. Ilya sighed and leaned back, and Rashad offered a rare smile.
They shared stories, drinks, and jokes. The old man fit into their chaos like he'd always belonged.
Later that night, Kael whispered to himself, "You're no ordinary musician."
The old man looked at him through the firelight and replied softly, "Neither are you, boy king."
And then he played again.
To be continued...