The day before the gathering arrived with the scent of lilacs and earth, the kind of spring morning that felt stitched together by soft winds and half-formed memories.
At the Walter estate, Myron stood before his desk, fingers tapping absently against a closed book. The letter from Begonia lay folded beside it, neat, but clearly reread more than once.
He didn't pack much, just enough to be polite. A few essentials, nothing extravagant. His eyes drifted toward the rack of cloaks by the wall, all in muted shades of navy, charcoal, and forest green.
As he debated which looked the least like he'd wandered in from a tribunal, a voice called from the doorway.
"Go with the dark green."
His younger cousin stood there, arms crossed. "Makes you look less like you're attending a council meeting and more like you're actually part of a spring gathering."
Myron gave a quiet sigh. "Remind me again, Richard, why I'm even going."
"Because you were invited. And because you pretend you don't care, but you always do."
He didn't argue. Just turned back to the desk and, after a pause, reached for the green cloak.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he opened the drawer to his left.
Inside was a small, slim volume, old poetry, its cover worn at the edges. Begonia had mentioned it months ago in passing, during one of their drier debates that had somehow, inexplicably, wandered into metaphors and the moon.
He hadn't said anything then. But he'd tracked it down the very next day.
He brushed off a bit of dust, thumb grazing the spine.
"It's just a gathering," he murmured to himself. Still, the book found its way into his satchel.
Just in case.
At House Woods, Begonia meticulously rolled a blanket and stuffed it into a bag. Her sister watched from the doorway, clearly amused.
"Are you expecting a battle or a bonfire?"
"I'm expecting Astor," Begonia replied dryly, though the corner of her mouth twitched.
She paused for a moment, then carefully slipped a small book of poems into the side pocket, one Myron had mentioned once in passing.
"And maybe," her sister said lightly, "a conversation that doesn't involve verbal fencing?"
Begonia didn't respond right away. She just closed the bag, lips pressing into a composed smile.
"It's just a gathering," she said. But her hands lingered on the strap a moment longer than necessary, as if, for once, she was looking forward to simply being, without performance or pretense.
At the Veltorin Estate, afternoon settled soft and golden over stone courtyards and glass-latticed halls.
In Irene's chambers, the usual hush was replaced by rustling fabrics and the clatter of trunk latches. Two attendants bustled around her, sorting through cloaks and boots while Irene inspected a row of folded sashes.
"Should I take the navy or the plum one?" she asked, holding both to her shoulders in front of the mirror.
"Plum flatters better in firelight," one of them offered.
"But navy looks more mature," said the other.
Irene narrowed her eyes, then tossed both into the open travel case. "We're not going to a council meeting," she muttered. "It's just a night off."
Across the wing, Seren's quarters were quiet in contrast. Afternoon light filtered through tall windows, catching on the glint of steel clasps and folded coats as he laid them into a small travel bag, precisely, efficiently. No attendants, no fuss.
He paused at the window, rolling his sleeves halfway as he looked out toward the faint ridgeline of trees far off.
Somewhere beyond those woods, the Ashcroft estate sat guarded by stone and pine.
Just friends. Just a pause from duty.
He reached for a worn leather satchel, more practical than stylish and added a slim book and a flask into it.
From the desk, he picked up the invitation again. A formality. Irene had already replied for them both.
Still, he glanced at it once more, then folded it and slipped it into his coat pocket.
"Let's hope they have good wine," he murmured.
Then he shut the bag with a clean, final motion, like drawing a line beneath a sentence.
Astor packed nothing with any sense of urgency. He flung a coat over one shoulder, stuffed a flask into one pocket, and a pouch of salted almonds into the other.
Dominic passed him in the corridor, pausing briefly. "Are you preparing for a gathering or smuggling yourself into a market fair?"
Astor grinned. "Same thing, if you do it right."
Dominic carried a small bag, nothing extravagant, just what was needed. He dressed plainly, but deliberately. His cuffs were straight, boots polished. He paused briefly near the mirror, adjusted his collar, then walked on without looking back.
Acacia's bag sat neatly on her bed, half-zipped. A soft cloak folded over the side, a worn book tucked inside, along with an extra pair of gloves. It was still a day away, but the castle was already humming with a quiet energy, the kind that clings to early spring.
She sat by the window as the breeze stirred the budding trees across the Ashcroft estate. She didn't know if she was nervous or quietly excited.
She closed her eyes briefly, grounding herself.
A quiet glance. A courteous smile.
Fleeting impressions, really, but somehow, they lingered.
Meanwhile, far off at the Seymour estate, preparations had begun. Rooms were being made ready, lanterns unpacked, a garden terrace swept clean of old leaves for firepits and cushions. Begonia had written: "Nothing fancy. Just a warm night with people who don't need a reason to laugh."
Friends would be arriving tomorrow. The Woods, the Veltorins, the Walters. And of course, the Ashcrofts.
For once, there would be no formalities. No eyes watching for a misstep.
Just a pause. A breath. A night off.
Next day, by midmorning, the estate roads bustled with quiet excitement.
One by one, the grand carriages of each noble house rolled out, polished to gleaming perfection and stacked with an odd mix of luggage, some dainty and light, others suspiciously overprepared as if someone had packed for a week instead of a night.
Velvet cloaks fluttered, servants rushed to secure last-minute items, and someone from House Woods was already arguing about forgetting their boots. The air held a peculiar kind of anticipation, not the tense kind that came before war or politics, but the unruly spark of something far more dangerous: unchaperoned nobles gathering for a night off.
They were headed for the Seymour estate and with them, they carried laughter, mischief and the promise of chaos wrapped in elegance.