The terrace buzzed with soft chatter and clinking cutlery as the group settled in, the late afternoon sun casting a warm golden hue over everything it touched.
"Did you see that tub in our bathroom?" Sienna said between bites of saffron rice, her voice animated. "I could float in that for hours and still not hit the edges."
"It's not a tub, it's a small pond," Irene replied with a mock-serious nod. "I think I saw koi fish in it."
"That was probably your reflection," Astor chimed in with a grin, juggling a tart between his fingers before catching it dramatically.
Beside him, Myron shook his head. "That tart had a family."
"Not anymore," Astor said solemnly, taking a victorious bite.
Lyra, seated between Acacia and Begonia, let out a soft laugh. "I warned the kitchen to prepare extra today. You lot eat like you've been starved for weeks."
"We have been," Dominic said mildly, slicing through the grilled fish with deliberate precision. "Some of us have siblings who ration breakfast like it's a military drill."
Acacia raised a brow at him, unimpressed. "I offered you my toast last week. You pushed it back like I'd poisoned it."
"I'm not saying it was poisoned. I'm saying the possibility existed."
The table broke into a fresh wave of laughter, light and unforced. Even Seren smiled into his glass of cucumber water, while Irene looked quietly pleased watching everyone unwind.
Begonia leaned over to Acacia, whispering, "I think this might be the first time since winter started that everyone looks… relaxed."
Acacia nodded, the corners of her mouth lifting. The sun, the food, the ease of old friendships and shifting dynamics, it felt like a pocket of warmth had opened in the season's fading chill.
From the far end of the table, Lyra raised her glass. "To survival, stolen tarts, and temporary truces."
"To Lyra's questionable guest list," Argan added.
"To no more talk about training or duels for at least two days," Begonia said quickly.
They clinked glasses and mugs together, crystal, ceramic, and one chipped metal cup that Astor insisted on using "for charm."
And just like that, the afternoon unfolded into something soft and golden and almost weightless.
As the sun began to dip, casting long shadows through the Seymour estate's ivy-laced windows, they trickled back inside, into a broad, warm common room shared by their wing of the estate. Books and blankets cluttered the couches. Someone lit the hearth without asking. Someone else kicked off their shoes and flopped onto a pile of cushions.
"Alright," Astor announced, now sprawled upside down over the arm of a velvet chair, balancing a sugar biscuit on his nose, "since we're all behaving like civilized people for once, I say we ruin that immediately."
"By doing what?" Dominic asked dryly, arms crossed as he leaned against the stone mantel.
"Games, of course," Lyra said brightly, already tugging her gloves off. "Indoor kind. No weapons. No magic. No political jabs."
"Doesn't leave you with much to say, does it?" Myron murmured into his tea.
She waved a dismissive hand. "First up, 'Two Truths and a Lie.' Best played when you half trust everyone and mildly suspect betrayal."
Argan sighed, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "This won't end well."
"Which is why it's perfect," Astor declared.
The group settled into the mismatched seating, on rugs, footstools, and couches. They played until their cheeks hurt from laughing. Astor's outrageous lie ("I once got mistaken for a prince and lived in a palace for three days") turned out to be true, while Begonia's supposed dislike of romantic poetry earned her an avalanche of teasing. Acacia's round stumped everyone, her smile too unreadable, her delivery calm enough to cast doubt on all three statements.
Next came "Memory Trail," a ridiculous story-building game. By the end, it involved a duck with a monocle, a runaway pastry cart, and someone shouting "For Addicted!" in a flower market.
Irene, who had remained mostly quiet throughout the last game, leaned back against the cushions with an unreadable expression, absently twirling the end of her braid. Just when the room began to settle into a lull, her voice cut through with a touch of mischief.
"How about one last game?" she said, her gaze flickering to each of them. "Silent Clues. One person acts, everyone guesses. No words allowed."
Astor, who had been dramatically lounging with a pillow over his face, sprang upright like a man summoned by fate. "My time has come," he declared, pushing back his sleeves with exaggerated seriousness. "Finally, a stage worthy of my brilliance."
"Oh no," muttered Dominic under his breath, earning a muffled laugh from Begonia, who had already slumped sideways across the sofa, clearly delighted.
"I'm scared," Irene deadpanned.
Argan raised an eyebrow, gesturing toward the empty space near the fireplace. "Fine. You perform there. Who's guessing first?"
"I think we all are," said Lyra, amused, already scribbling possible clue topics onto little pieces of parchment. "But no acting out anything scandalous, Astor. I will kick you out of your own room."
"Have some faith in me," Astor huffed, clutching at his chest as if deeply wounded. "I'm a gentleman."
"You're a menace," Acacia mumbled around a yawn, earning a soft laugh from Irene beside her.
"Myron goes after Astor," Begonia added, nudging the Walter heir with her foot. "No escaping."
"I never agreed to that.."
"Too late," Lyra interrupted cheerfully, dropping the folded clues into a bowl. "We're rotating by couch position. Which means after Myron, it's Argan."
Astor stood up and cracked his knuckles dramatically. "Prepare to be dazzled."
What followed was nothing short of chaos. His first act, meant to be a "dragon trapped in a teacup", involved so much flailing that Lyra had to wipe tears from her eyes from laughing too hard. When he tried to mime "potion-making gone wrong," he accidentally knocked over a vase (which, thankfully, was empty), and Argan nearly fell off the armrest trying to dodge it.
"You call that a potion? That looked like you were being attacked by invisible bees," Dominic said, trying hard not to smile.
"Hey, art is subjective," Astor retorted.
Even Myron, who had been cautiously quiet all day, cracked a smile as he took his turn, attempting "a squirrel hiding from a royal inspector," which somehow became legendary by the end of the night. Irene, it turned out, was surprisingly good at acting, her rendition of "a noblewoman pretending to faint to avoid marriage" left the entire room howling.
By the end of it, everyone was in stitches, cheeks flushed from laughter, sides aching. Acacia lay curled against one of the cushions, eyes shining with amusement, warmth spreading somewhere deep inside her chest, something fragile but steady.
The night deepened, but the laughter lingered long after the last round of Silent Clues.
When the group finally wandered out to the estate's private gardens, the air was crisp but not biting, the kind of chill that invited firelight and closeness rather than retreat. Servants had already prepared the space according to instructions: a low-burning bonfire flickered in the heart of a stone-paved clearing, ringed with wide cushions and warm blankets. Lanterns floated above them like lazy fireflies, and soft music drifted from a charmed lyre that hung suspended on a tree branch, plucking itself.
The fire crackled, sending up sparks that danced with the stars. Blankets had been thrown across the grass in a loose circle, and the warmth of the flames warded off the last lingering chill of spring.
Dinner had been served outdoors, a relaxed affair with grilled vegetables, herbed meats, roasted potatoes, and warm rolls. But it was the dessert that truly delighted: skewered marshmallows held over the fire, their sugary edges turning golden and crisp before being devoured between soft laughter and stolen glances.
They had dispersed, some nestled under trees, others lounging on thick blankets strewn with half-eaten fruit and marsh mellows. Laughter floated through the night like the lingering trail of a shooting star, but it felt far away from the firepit.
Astor lounged beside Lyra, elbow resting on his knee as he watched her marshmallow catch fire, again. "That's your third crispy victim," he murmured, smirking. "What are you trying to do, summon fire gods or just impress me with your lack of technique?"
Lyra didn't miss a beat. "I could say the same," she said, flicking a glance at his own stick. "Yours just took a swan dive into the coals."
He looked down with exaggerated offense. "That was a strategic sacrifice. The fire clearly responds better when I play hard to get."
She rolled her eyes, but her lips curved. "Right. You charm the flames now?"
"I charm what I want to," he said, leaning a little closer, voice low. "With varying degrees of success."
Lyra arched a brow. "And tonight?"
He grinned. "Too soon to tell. But I'm feeling lucky."
She shook her head with a soft laugh, but didn't pull away. Their knees brushed. The firelight cast gold in her hair, and for a moment, the air between them held still, like a breath waiting to be exhaled.
Near the firepit, the quiet held a different kind of weight.
Acacia sat cross-legged on a velvet cushion, hands extended toward the flickering flame. The firelight kissed her skin in waves of amber and shadow. Argan lounged beside her, one arm draped over his bent knee, the other busy skewering a marshmallow like it owed him answers. On her other side, Seren sat upright, his posture taut, almost deliberately so, like stillness was something he'd practiced.
"I never liked these," Seren muttered as Argan's marshmallow briefly caught fire. Argan blew it out with a dramatic huff.
"They're sweet," Acacia said quietly, reaching for one herself. "That's the point."
Seren gave a slight shrug. "They burn easily."
"Like people," Argan added with a smirk, popping the blackened marshmallow into his mouth. "That's what makes it fun."
Acacia glanced at him, half amused. "You enjoy chaos, don't you?"
He tilted his head toward her, the firelight catching the edge of his grin. "Only when it's honest."
Seren's voice cut in, low and measured. "Or maybe you just like to feel something, even if it hurts."
Argan didn't look away. "Better than feeling nothing at all."
Silence stretched between them. Not the awkward kind, this one simmered, like something deep beneath the surface had stirred but hadn't yet risen.
Acacia broke the quiet, her gaze flicking to the fire. "Some people don't know how to stop burning. Even when no one's watching."
Neither of them responded immediately.
Then Seren said, softer, "And some of us… keep dousing the flame, thinking it'll make us easier to love."
Argan's expression faltered, just slightly. Acacia felt it. The shift.
He looked away first. "Alright," he said, voice lighter but not untouched, "before this turns into a tragic sonnet, how about we do something reckless?"
Acacia looked at him. "Reckless how?"
"Lantern tag," he said.
Argan clapped his hands and leapt to his feet. "Alright, I declare a game!"
Acacia looked up, blinking as the sudden energy broke the quiet.
"Lantern tag," he said with a grin, already pacing backward toward the open stretch of moonlit grass. "Like ribbon tag except with floating lanterns. Chase, snatch, survive. Winner gets bragging rights and a dare of their choosing."
Seren gave him a long look. "You just made that up."
"Which makes me the only expert," Argan shot back cheerfully.
He whirled around and cupped his hands around his mouth, calling out toward the scattered group near the tree line: "Sienna! Irene! Lyra! Astor! Begonia, Myron yes, even you, Dominic, get over here! Lantern tag. It's happening!"
Irene perked up instantly, abandoning her drink. Astor shouted something unintelligible but enthusiastic. Begonia groaned dramatically and dragged Myron along, who looked only mildly alarmed. Even Dominic, half-reluctant, pushed off the tree he'd been leaning against and strolled over, arms crossed and unimpressed, but there.
Acacia stood slowly, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt, the fire's warmth now replaced with a pulse of anticipation.
"You're playing too," Argan told her, pointing.
"I never said I wouldn't," she replied, chin tilted just enough to make him smirk.
A handful of glowing paper lanterns, soft orange and pale gold, were conjured from a nearby basket. They hovered low, enchanted to float just out of reach, bobbing gently like fireflies teasing the earth. Each had a long silk tail trailing behind.
"The rules," Argan announced grandly, holding up one of the lanterns, "are simple: grab as many as you can before time's up. No magic. No tripping people, looking at you, Lyra. Last person holding a tail gets to make someone do something ridiculous. Or scandalous. Up to you."
Sienna was already rolling up her sleeves. "Oh, this is going to be chaos."
"That's the point," Argan replied.
He caught Acacia's eye as the others took their places on the field. The lanterns began to scatter, drifting like playful spirits across the open space.
"Ready?" he asked her quietly.
She gave a small nod.
"Go!"
The lanterns shot upward, tails fluttering, and the group exploded into motion.
Irene darted past Begonia, who shrieked and swatted the air. Astor lunged for a tail and missed by inches, tumbling into Myron, who caught him with a groan of, "I should've stayed by the fire."
Seren moved like a shadow, controlled and fast, eyes scanning the air. His hand reached for a tail, and collided with Argan's. For a moment, both froze, fingers brushing.
Acacia, breathless and laughing, snatched one herself and glanced sideways. She caught Seren looking at her, not at her lantern, but her.
Argan, noticing, smiled but it didn't reach his eyes. He turned away and charged after another lantern, calling back, "Careful, girl, you're a target now!"
"I'm not afraid of a challenge!" she shouted back, hair whipping behind her.
The field had dissolved into laughter and lunging limbs. Lanterns soared higher, dipping low just enough to tease. Silk tails shimmered in the moonlight like moving threads of fate.
Somewhere near the edge of the group, Begonia leapt for a lantern and promptly collided with Myron.
"Oof, watch it!" she gasped as they both stumbled, her hands gripping the front of his coat to steady herself.
"I could say the same to you," Myron muttered, his ears already pink.
Begonia looked up, and for a moment, they were too close, her fingers still curled into his lapel. The lantern drifted right past them, forgotten.
Then she smirked. "You're blushing, counselor."
"I am not," he said, a little too quickly, stepping back but not before she leaned closer and whispered, "Next time, try catching the lantern, not me."
She spun away before he could recover, her braid flicking his shoulder, and Myron stood there, visibly recalculating the trajectory of his entire night.
Across the grass, Irene sprinted after a lantern, her laughter carrying in bursts. Dominic watched her weave effortlessly between bodies, her hair lit gold by the flickering lights.
He didn't mean to move after her. Not really. But then she looked back, just once, and grinned at him, eyes sparkling.
"Come on, Your Seriousness," she called, "don't tell me you're losing to Astor!"
"I'm not playing to win," he muttered, but followed her anyway.
Moments later, she lunged and tripped. Not hard, but enough to send her sprawling onto the grass with a surprised yelp.
Dominic caught her elbow before she fully hit the ground. "Careful."
Irene blinked up at him, suddenly breathless though not from running. His hand lingered at her waist a moment too long before he cleared his throat and looked away.
"You alright?" he asked stiffly.
"Perfectly fine," she said with a slow, teasing smile, brushing grass off her skirt. "Though I didn't know chivalry was part of the game."
He didn't reply, but his ears turned red all the same.
The game spun on, light, wild, messy. Under the laughter and glowing lanterns, something else simmered:
A glance that lingered too long.
A brush of hands not entirely accidental.
A silence between three hearts, pulsing louder with every missed catch.
And the lanterns floated on, trailing silk and unspoken things.