The moment Rowan and Aelric stepped inside, the air shifted, warm and heavy, as if the hall had only just noticed their absence. But Rowan's eyes no longer drifted over chandeliers or tapestries. He was searching and It didn't take long.
A group of boys lounged near a gilded pillar, laughing too loudly, their postures dripping with the arrogance of youth born to power.
Aelric noticed Rowan's gaze sharpen and gave the faintest nod. Together, they crossed the hall.
The boys stiffened the instant they saw the prince walking with Rowan at his side. Uneasy glances darted between them, their whispers faltering. The leader's smile twitched, though he forced it back into place. His mind raced. Had Rowan told the prince? If so, they were finished.
Rowan stopped in front of them, his voice even, carrying just enough to be heard. "Say again," he said, "what you were saying earlier."
The leader blinked, feigning confusion. "What are you talking about?"
"You know it." Rowan's eyes bored into him, steady as stone.
The boy gave a thin laugh, glancing around as though the question itself were absurd. "I don't."
By now, curious nobles had begun to drift closer. The music faltered; conversation dimmed. A circle widened around them, the air thickening with anticipation.
Rowan's voice cut through the silence. "Do you want me to repeat your words for you?"
The boys shifted. One swallowed hard. Another's hand twitched at his sleeve. Fear flickered across their faces, but still they clung to silence.
Rowan didn't hesitate. His words rang out, calm but sharp enough to draw blood. "They called me a fake prince. They said I wasn't welcome here. That I should stay away from Prince Aelric."
The crowd stirred, scandalous whispers rolling through the hall like a wave.
Aelric's face darkened, his hand lifting in fury. "How dare you?" His voice cracked like a whip, echoing off marble and gold. "To insult the royal family under this very roof. You dare deny it?"
The boys stammered, heads bowing, hands wringing, but their leader clung to silence.
"Guards!" Aelric barked, pointing with righteous fire. "Take them. Let them taste punishment for this disrespect!"
But before the words could be carried out, another voice cut through the air."Stop."
The command was calm, smooth, and it froze the room.
From the crowd, a young boy emerged. Surrounded by attendants, his presence was a shield, his silence heavier than a hundred voices. His steps were measured, his expression a practiced balance of charm and steel.
"Prince Cyrus," someone whispered, and the crowd parted at once.
Cyrus stopped before them, eyes sweeping the scene as though the hall itself belonged to him. Then his gaze settled on Rowan. For a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold its breath beneath the weight of his attention.
"So," he said with a faint smile that curved like a blade, "this must be Prince Rowan. At last, we meet. Forgive me for not seeking you sooner. I have been busy."
His bow was shallow, more acknowledgment than respect. The way his eyes lingered, cold and appraising, made it clear he did not see Rowan as an equal but as something to be weighed, judged, perhaps dismissed.
Only then did he turn to Aelric, his voice smooth, almost bored. "And what is this commotion, brother?"
Aelric's jaw tightened, but he answered without hesitation. "They insulted Rowan. Called him a false prince, unworthy to stand beside me. I will not let such contempt go unpunished."
Cyrus hummed softly, lips twitching in a smile that suggested amusement rather than concern. He glanced toward the pale-faced boys before returning his gaze to Aelric. "And yet, brother, how can you speak of punishment without proof?" His tone dripped with confidence, the cadence of someone certain his words were law. "It is, after all, only talk. Words against words."
The crowd murmured.
Then his eyes cut back to Rowan, sharper now, as though the younger prince were being weighed like a sword at market.
"You would understand this, would you not, Rowan?" Cyrus asked smoothly, arrogance simmering beneath his charm. "That justice cannot rest on whispers alone. Anyone could claim to be insulted, but what separates truth from accusation without evidence?"
He spread his hands as though the matter were simple, undeniable. "Surely, you see the wisdom in that."
Rowan stood still, every eye pressing against him. He could feel Aelric's anger beside him, the nobles' whispers swirling like smoke, Cyrus's gaze cutting like steel.
"True," Rowan said at last, his voice low but steady. "Words can't prove anything."
The silence thickened.
Rowan's gaze slid from Cyrus to the sneering boys, his eyes hard as flint. "Then let's do it the old way. A duel. The one who wins is right, and the one who loses is wrong." His lips curled, not in humor, but in something darker. "I didn't like the idea of punishment anyway. What I want is to see them beg for forgiveness."
The hall froze. Every whisper died, as if the chandeliers themselves had stopped their gleaming dance to listen.
Then, breaking the tension, Aelric laughed. A bright, sharp laugh that rang off the marble and made the crowd flinch.
"Good!" he declared, eyes flashing as he clapped Rowan's shoulder. "A duel it shall be. Tomorrow, we'll hold it properly, with witnesses. Then everyone will know who speaks the truth."
Murmurs spread through the hall, anticipation sparking like kindling to flame.
But Cyrus only smiled, expression languid, amused, dangerous. "Tomorrow?" He shook his head slowly. "No, brother. It should be today."
Aelric blinked. "Today? But this is a royal ceremony, meant to honor—"
"—my departure," Cyrus finished smoothly, his eyes glinting. "Exactly. I leave for the Crownlands tonight, and I would hate to miss such a delightful spectacle." His smile widened, sharp as glass. "Why waste tomorrow, when we can savor the fun now?"
Aelric's brow furrowed, lips parting to argue, but Cyrus only raised a hand, his tone silk-soft yet carrying the weight of command."Why not, brother? This ceremony is dull enough as it is. A duel will make it memorable."
His gaze slid back to Rowan, a predator watching prey, or perhaps prey watching a predator. "Wouldn't you agree?"
The commotion grew. Above, carved balconies ringed the chamber, and one by one, the most important guests stepped forward, drawn by the spectacle.
From the balcony, a deeper voice joined him. "I agree."
Heads turned upward. Duke Thalnor leaned on the railing, sharp eyes fixed on Rowan."The matter has already caused a stir. Better to end it swiftly. Let the boy prove himself, or be humbled."
A dangerous murmur swept through the nobles.
Rowan, feeling their gazes burn, only lifted his chin. His voice was steady, cutting through the noise. "I agree. The earlier, the better."
The hall erupted, half in shock, half in thrill.
But above them, on the highest balcony, the King had arrived. His presence alone drew silence. Cloaked in gold and authority, he stood with thunder in his eyes, staring not at Rowan, but at Ember at his side.
"This is your doing," he said, his voice like a blade's edge. "If you had told me from the start, this spectacle would never have unfolded. And now? What if Rowan loses? His confidence will be broken, the mocking will grow worse. I will not allow this."
Ember did not flinch. "What I did was for the best. Unless you wish for him to be mocked forever, he must stand for himself. You cannot protect him always."
Then her gaze shifted. Someone was approaching through the shadows. Ember tilted her head toward him, her voice steady. "Also, Rowan will win. If you doubt me, you can ask him."
The King's eyes narrowed as he turned. Bors was approaching. It was clear Ember had summoned him in advance, anticipating the King's reaction.
"Bors," the King demanded, his voice raw with authority. "What do you think? Can Rowan win this?"
The old knight folded his arms, his expression calm, eyes steady on his pupil below. "I cannot say for certain, for I know nothing of his opponents' true ability," Bors replied. "But Rowan is the most talented child I have seen. Unless those boys are far more skilled than they appear, Rowan will win."
The King exhaled slowly, his anger easing into silence. The weight of worry began to lift. If Bors said it, then it was truth enough.
He ordered quickly, "Arrange a duel. Move the guests to the small arena."
Turning back to Ember, his voice dropped low, edged with both frustration and reluctant respect. "Of course. You planned all of this, didn't you? Future ruler of Nirathal…"
"How many times I have to—" Ember began, her voice sharp with annoyance.
"Then do something about Cyrus's personality. You know this cannot go on." The King cut her off, sharp.
Her expression hardened, though her tone stayed sharp and measured. "His biggest problem is the arrogance that comes with his talent. That arrogance will be shattered in the Crownlands. The rest… I will take care of." Then her gaze flicked briefly to Duke Thalnor on the balcony. "But you, Father… your attention should be on him."
The King gave a slow nod, his eyes lingering on Ember, heavy with pride, love, and annoyance.
Below, the hall was still electric, the duel already branded into every whispering tongue.