The banners of Stonecrest fluttered against the wind as Lord McCain's men gathered in the lower courtyard, preparing the final stretch for their return. The round table had concluded. The last arguments had been laid out, the final scrolls sealed. Now, only farewells remained.
Lord McCain stood beneath the portico, his cloak catching in the breeze. The hard lines of age carved deep across his face, though his back was as straight as the steel longsword at his side.
Roran approached, not in armor but in his usual casual drape of fine black cloth and a belt slung too loosely over his hip. His dark hair was windswept, his smirk familiar—but tonight, it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"You're leaving without a final drink?" Roran asked.
"I've stayed too long already," Lord McCain replied, his voice flat as stone.
Roran gave a half-laugh. "Careful, Father. Someone might think you don't enjoy my company."
Lord McCain's brow twitched. "Your company is a reminder of everything Stonecrest is not."
Roran's smirk faltered—but only for a second. "How poetic."
They stood in silence for a moment, the wind pressing against the tension between them.
"I suppose this is the part," Roran said lightly, "where you lecture me about legacy again?"
Lord McCain's eyes narrowed. "You bear our name. Our blood. That should mean something."
Roran leaned a shoulder against the stone pillar. "It does. Just not what you want it to mean."
McCain stepped closer. "One day, the tides of the realm will shift. Damon will not always be king. When that day comes, you must know who you are, Roran. Whose son you are."
Roran looked away, jaw clenched. "I know exactly who I am."
His father said nothing else as he mounted his horse in one smooth motion. The hooves of Stonecrest's riders echoed into the distance.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Later that day, Neriah sat in the garden gallery, the breeze combing through the climbing jasmine vines. She was thumbing through a scroll when she heard the unmistakable sound of boots—loud, deliberate, and annoyingly confident.
"Oh gods," she muttered before looking up. "You're my tester today, aren't you?"
Roran grinned. "Lady Neriah. What a delight. You wound me with your tone."
"Wait," she said, rising to greet him. "Are you even qualified for this."
"I am the court's whisperer," he replied, sweeping into a bow. "Which means I know everything about everything—especially about how to survive in this hornet's nest of a castle."
She smiled. "And today's lesson?"
"Deception," he said, twirling a scroll between his fingers. "Court politics. Lies. Smile when you're being lied to, laugh when you're being insulted, and always—always—know who poured your wine."
"Comforting," Neriah muttered as she sat back down.
Roran sat across from her, the scroll now forgotten as he leaned in. "You're doing well, Neriah. Better than I expected."
She arched a brow. "You expected me to fail?"
"I expected you to break. You didn't."
Neriah's gaze softened slightly, but she tried to hide it with a shrug. "It's still... a lot."
"I know." He looked away briefly. "I've seen a lot of girls come and go through these halls. Married into titles. Swept up in crowns. Not many last."
"You think I'll last?"
He smiled, and this time it was real. "You'll endure. Maybe even thrive. You've got fire in you. Hidden behind the ribbons and silks, but it's there."
They were quiet for a beat, the breeze tugging at the pages on the table.
"Tell me," Neriah said slowly, "what do people say about me? You're the whisperer. You must know."
Roran tilted his head. "Some say you're too soft for Arkenfall. Too gentle. Too easily shaken."
Neriah exhaled, unsurprised.
"But," he added, "others say the King hasn't smiled this much since the wars ended. That his eyes follow you like a moon he's afraid to lose."
Her face flushed with quiet color.
"You don't have to be fierce to be strong, Neriah," Roran said, standing again. "There are different kinds of armor."
She nodded, thoughtful.
The lesson went on from there—though calling it a "lesson" felt generous. Roran had a habit of veering into tangents, most of them irreverent and half-sarcastic. Yet despite his theatrics, Neriah found herself enjoying it more than she expected. He had a way of talking about the court like it was a tavern stage—full of actors, pretense, and clumsy liars who didn't know when to shut up.
"You see that lord from Caldrith Vale?" Roran asked, gesturing vaguely across the garden terrace. "The one with the neck like a turkey? Never trust a man whose jowls move before his lips do."
Neriah burst out laughing. "That's a terrible rule!"
"It's a perfect rule," he insisted, wagging a finger. "Also, anyone who calls themselves 'a humble servant of the realm' is neither humble, nor serving anyone but themselves."
He leaned forward conspiratorially. "And if someone tries to give you a gift with too many vowels in the description—'exquisite,' 'rare,' 'unsurpassed'—it's either cursed, stolen, or ugly."
"You're impossible," Neriah said, grinning.
"True, but useful. That's what Damon says." Roran paused. "Well, not in those exact words. He usually uses harsher words."
At the mention of Damon, Neriah's smile faltered—just slightly. She picked at the edge of her sleeve, trying to disguise it.
Roran didn't notice. Or maybe he did and chose to ignore it, breezing on with another story about a scandal involving misplaced fruit tarts and a jealous lord's wife.
But for Neriah, Damon's name echoed louder than Roran's ramblings. Every time he brought the King up—offhanded jokes, half-grumbles about him being too sarcastic or too disciplined—her thoughts slipped away from the conversation and wandered toward the memory of him.
The way he looked at her when she wasn't expecting it.
The way his voice dropped when he spoke only to her.
The way his eyes had changed the night of the execution—hard, cold, unreadable.
And the way they'd softened again when he visited her chamber that night.
She tried to focus on Roran's lesson, she really did. But Damon lingered in her mind like ink spilled across parchment. A distraction, yes—but not an unwelcome one.
She wished Roran would stop mentioning him—not because she didn't want to hear about him, but because every time he did, her heart twisted just a little, pulling her thoughts away from courtly deception and back to the man she hadn't spoken to properly in days.
Still, she laughed when Roran mimicked one of the old councilmen in a nasally voice and tried to walk like a duck.
"You should teach theater," she told him between giggles.
"I do," he replied with mock seriousness. "Every time I walk into a meeting."
And so the lesson continued—half whispers, half laughter, and entirely unlike any other session she'd had in Arkenfall. But somewhere beneath it all, Damon's name lingered quietly in the back of her mind… and her heart