The carriage wheels rattled against the cobbled road, iron-rimmed and heavy with the weight of dusk. Beyond the window, the last light of the sun spilled in ribbons of red and gold, sliding across the rooftops and dying on the horizon.
Vaelen leaned back, though his shoulders stayed taut. His eyes lingered on the two guards riding at the flanks of the carriage, their armor catching the fading glow. Why is he summoning me now…? The question gnawed at him, sharp as the rhythm of the horse's hooves. What could possibly matter enough for Father to call me back at this hour?
By the time the carriage slowed, the sky had deepened into a bruised violet. Lanterns along the castle walls had already been lit, their flames shivering in the wind. The gates yawned open as if awaiting him, and the banners overhead snapped in the evening breeze — the crest of the Royale house stitched in silver thread that caught the last of the light.
As Vaelen stepped down, the courtyard shifted to life. Guardsmen stamped their boots in unison, a line of polished steel and disciplined breath. Attendants bowed low, voices rising in formal greeting. A fanfare broke from the upper balconies, brass horns cutting sharp through the quiet dusk, their notes ringing across the stone.
The great doors of the castle swung inward, spilling amber light across the steps. The scent of burning incense and fresh oil drifted out with the warmth.
Vaelen exhaled once, steadying himself, and strode forward beneath the weight of eyes watching from every corner. The welcome was grand, ceremonial — but he knew his father. Summons were never without reason.
And this one… felt heavier than all the rest.
He entered the grand hall.
It was already alive — nobles murmuring in clusters, courtiers bowing, servants weaving like threads between the tables. At the far end, on a throne of dark stone veined with gold, sat the King.
His father.
The prince's golden eyes swept the chamber as every head turned. His steps slowed, deliberate — each echo of his boots cutting through the hush. A faint, courtly smile touched his lips. Just enough warmth to pass. Just enough to fool them all.
"Your Grace," someone murmured, bowing low.
Others followed in ripples, the crowd bending like reeds in the wind as he passed.
The King's pale, hawk-sharp gaze narrowed.
The prince's smile only deepened — silk and poison.
Prince (smooth, deferential, bowing):
"I beseech thee — what illustrious affair compels my most esteemed father to summon his humble son before him?"
Translation: "What oh-so-important reason made you call me?"
A few courtiers stiffened at the flourish in his tone, unsure if it was reverence or mockery.
King (coldly, with faint approval):
"A magnificent feast shall be convened anon. Thou shalt attend to its preparations forthwith."
Translation: "Banquet soon. You handle it."
Whispers broke along the walls — a prince ordered to arrange a feast? Some raised brows, others hid smirks behind jeweled hands.
Prince (soft laugh, tilting his head, still bowing):
"But verily, my lord — thy word is decree. Yet…"
He straightened a fraction, golden eyes faintly amused.
"…what, pray tell, dost thou wish me to accomplish? That I may render mine utmost service unto thee."
Translation: "Sure, but what exactly do you mean?"
A hush fell — the kind where everyone was pretending not to listen, yet every ear strained.
King (with a dismissive wave):
"The hall of assembly, the roster of esteemed attendees, and such matters of import. I am beset with… other obligations."
Translation: "Figure it out. I'm busy."
Several lords exchanged sharp looks, but none dared speak. The silence grew thick, broken only by the rustle of silk and the faint crackle of the braziers.
Prince (bowing lower, voice honey-sweet):
"Alas. As thou dost decree, so shall it come to pass. Thy will, evermore."
Translation: "Fine. Whatever you say."
King (leaning back slightly, faint smirk):
"That's my boy…"
The words rippled through the court like a challenge thrown. Some courtiers shifted uncomfortably; others stared hard at the floor, unwilling to meet the prince's gaze.
The prince's smile remained flawless as he murmured back, just loud enough:
"Evermore, Father."
Translation: "Always, Father."
He stepped away with perfect calm, adjusting his gloves with meticulous care as he withdrew from the King's sight. The courtiers parted instantly, bowing deep, though their whispers began the moment his back was turned.
And only once the heavy doors shut behind him did his smile fracture into something sharp and bitter, his golden eyes gone cold as steel.
Under his breath, too soft for anyone but the shadows to hear, he muttered:
"That's your boy? Gods help you… when your boy finally buries you."
His gaze slid toward the tall window as he walked, steps echoing against the marble. Beyond the glass stretched the velvet night — stars scattered like dust, and high above, the two moons glimmered in their eternal dance.
"They say when Luthienn and Zephyros draw close, dreams find their way into truth," he murmured, eyes catching the pale shimmer and the golden glow. "But there is more to them than beauty. I once read…"
The words slipped into memory, half-recited, half-whispered:
Long before kings raised banners or planes were bound by altars, the heavens bore witness to two lights.
Zephyros — the elder, golden moon. His radiance cut through the dark like a blade, watchful and unyielding. Where he shone, truth could not hide, and kings swore their oaths beneath his gaze.
Luthienn — the younger, silver moon. She drifted softer across the skies, weaving dreams and veiling secrets in her pale glow. Lovers whispered prayers to her, and poets swore her light could heal even a wounded soul.
The priests claimed the two were not merely moons, but siblings torn from the same god at the dawn of creation — one tasked to watch, the other to soothe.
Together, they governed the tides of fate: Zephyros with command, Luthienn with mercy. And though mortals only saw two moons drifting silently above, the wise whispered: "It is their quarrel that turns the heavens, and their harmony that keeps the world from falling apart."
Vaelen exhaled, a long sigh clouding faintly against the cold glass.
"I dream of peace," he muttered, voice low, "yet all I ever chase is chaos."
His gaze lingered one last time on the twin moons before he turned away. "Enough. I must return to my mansion."
Footsteps approached, followed by a voice at his back.
"Your Highness, the carriage is ready. Would you… be willing to accept my company?"
Vaelen did not turn. His reply was curt, sharpened like a blade:
"No."
And without another word, he strode into the night, leaving the question — and the one who asked it — behind.
✦✦✦
The corridors stretched long and silent, shadows swaying with the torchlight as he passed. His footsteps echoed softly, measured and unhurried, the marble floors carrying each note like a muted drum. The gold and crimson banners on the walls stirred faintly in the draft, whispering secrets of wars and kings long gone.
As he walked, his thoughts slipped elsewhere.
Velza.
Still buried in her book, still curled in the library's quiet glow.
"Let her sleep there," he muttered with a low laugh. "At least that'll keep her off my chest for a night."
The humor lingered only for a moment before fading back into silence. He reached the gates of the outer court, where the cool air swept against his face.
There, standing just beyond the steps, was an old man waiting patiently beneath the lanterns. His cloak sagged heavy on narrow shoulders, and his back was bent with years — yet his eyes, sharp and steady, gleamed like flint in the dim light.
The old man bent slightly, beginning a bow.
Before he could lower further, Vaelen stepped forward and caught him gently by the shoulders.
"Elder," he said firmly, a rare softness threading his tone, "No bows. I won't have you breaking your back for me."
The man blinked up at him, surprised — then straightened slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his weathered mouth.
"Thank you, Your Highness. Let's get you home."
"Yes," Vaelen replied simply.
He stepped into the carriage, the leather creaking beneath him as the door shut with a muted thud. The horses stirred, and soon the wheels rolled over cobblestones, carrying him away from the castle's looming silhouette.
Through the narrow window, the city stretched in shadow and light. Lanterns swung from iron posts, their flames bending in the evening wind. Shop fronts stood shuttered, but faint traces of life still lingered — a pair of drunks stumbling out of a tavern, a priest snuffing out candles at a shrine, the low murmur of late-hour merchants securing their wares.
He leaned slightly, gaze lifting past the rooftops. Above it all, the twin moons hung clear in the sky.
Zephyros — golden, sharp, unwavering.
Luthienn — silver, softer, veiled in drifting clouds.
They kept their silent vigil, together yet apart. And for a moment, he wondered if they mocked him. A prince torn between the duty pressed upon him and the quiet rebellion gnawing inside his chest.
What if Velza truly left her post? If someone else was assigned in her place? Another shadow at his side, another pair of unyielding eyes tracking his every move. Velza's curiosity was… irritating, yes — but it was also a flaw he could use. Her questions, her distractions, gave him cracks of freedom no other guard would ever allow. With someone new, that space might vanish entirely.
His golden eyes narrowed, reflecting the moons as if catching both lights at once.
Without moving from his seat, he spoke — calm, certain:
"Turn. Head toward the library. The one on 106th Street."
The old man flicked a glance over his shoulder, then gave a quiet nod. With a tug on the reins, the horses shifted, the wheels grinding as the carriage veered onto a narrower road. The lantern light swung with the turn, and once more the night closed around them — deeper, quieter, and far less forgiving.