(POV: Leonardo)
The rain had long since stopped, but the cobblestones outside the Alcázar still shone slick under the late afternoon light. The banners over Madrid's palace fluttered lazily in the breeze, golden lions stitched into crimson fields. Leonardo reined in his stallion just short of the main gate, his eyes sweeping over the guards in their breastplates and crested helmets.
Mateo rode up beside him, the clink of his sword belt carrying in the cool air. "No te preocupes, hermano," he murmured, leaning in with a faint grin. "Tonight, you're not the commander who bled in Asturias. You're the King's honored guest. Try to look less like you're preparing to storm the gates."
Leonardo smirked, dismounting in one smooth motion. "Old habits," he said, passing the reins to a waiting stable boy. The boy dipped his head nervously. "Gracias," Leonardo added, his voice softer now, before turning back to Mateo. "And you? Will you manage to keep your tongue in check when the wine flows?"
Mateo feigned offense. "I'm a model of restraint." He glanced toward the massive oak doors, their iron hinges worked into the shapes of rearing horses. "Still, if half the rumors are true, Soria will be watching us tonight."
Leonardo's gaze shifted toward the guards flanking the entry. "Let him watch." He adjusted the belt at his waist, the familiar weight of his sword against his hip. Even on nights meant for celebration, he never went unarmed.
The heavy doors groaned open at their approach. Warm light spilled out into the courtyard, carrying with it the sounds of lutes, laughter, and clinking goblets. The scent of roasting game and spiced wine was so thick it seemed to coat the back of his throat.
Inside, the great hall glittered. Gold banners hung from carved beams high overhead, their tassels brushing the tops of towering marble columns. The air was alive with the rustle of silk gowns and the deep rumble of noblemen's voices. Servants moved like shadows, weaving through the crowd with silver trays balanced in steady hands.
Leonardo's boots clicked against the polished floor as he made his way forward, Mateo just behind. Heads turned—some in greeting, others in calculation. He caught snatches of conversation in Spanish, and more than one in the clipped tones of Chichewa, the latter spoken by foreign envoys gathered along the edges of the room.
At the far end of the hall, beneath an arch embroidered with the royal crest, King Carlos III stood in a half-circle of advisors. His robe was deep blue velvet, the collar lined in white fur, a gold chain resting across his chest. The moment the King's eyes met Leonardo's, the conversation around him seemed to fade.
"Mi hermano de armas," the King called warmly, his voice carrying over the music.
Leonardo went to one knee at the base of the dais. "Majestad," he said, bowing his head.
The King stepped forward, a hand resting briefly on Leonardo's shoulder before drawing him up. "You have returned from Asturias with honor, as always. Tell me—did the rebels see reason, or only your steel?"
Leonardo allowed a faint smile. "Mostly the steel, Majestad." That earned a low chuckle from the King and a few murmurs from the gathered nobles.
The King gestured for him to stand at his side. "You fought not just for the crown, but for the unity of Spain. That will not be forgotten."
From the corner of his eye, Leonardo caught the glint of another man's gaze. Don Soria stood half-shrouded in the shadow of a marble column, his goblet raised in silent acknowledgment. His mouth curved upward in a polite smile, but his eyes did not warm.
As the King led him into the throng, courtiers parted, some offering greetings, others whispering behind fans or folded hands. He heard his name more than once, followed by words like influence, favor, and danger.
Mateo was soon lost among the crowd, no doubt already working his way toward the wine tables. Leonardo remained near the King, answering questions about the campaign, the terrain, the weapons used, even the morale of the men.
One noblewoman leaned close, her perfume sharp and sweet. "They say you took the rebel leader yourself. Is it true?"
Leonardo inclined his head. "It is."
"And did you—" She broke off as the King's laughter boomed over the music, drawing all eyes toward him.
"Leonardo, you must tell the court how you turned the rebels' flank with only a handful of riders," the King said, his expression bright with pride.
Leonardo told it plainly, without embellishment. The hall listened. Even the musicians seemed to soften their playing so his words could carry. When he finished, there was a smattering of applause.
From his place against the column, Soria sipped his wine and watched.
The feast began in earnest then, servants bringing forth platters of roasted boar, pheasants dressed in their own feathers, bowls of olives and figs. Leonardo accepted a seat near the King. As the first course was served, he found his gaze drawn once more to Soria, still standing apart, speaking quietly to a man Leonardo did not recognize.
The man's dark cloak and measured gestures marked him as someone from far beyond Castile. When their eyes met, the stranger gave a slight nod before turning away.
Leonardo set down his goblet, his jaw tightening. This was a night for celebration, but the battlefield was never far from his mind.
Leonardo leaned back slightly, letting the warmth of the fire from the great hearth reach him. The crackle of logs was nearly lost beneath the low hum of conversation. Platters were replaced almost as quickly as they were emptied, and golden wine sloshed into his goblet before he could signal otherwise.
To his right, the King tore a piece of bread and passed it to a slender diplomat from Aragón. "Tell me, Don Fernando, what is the mood in Zaragoza?" the King asked.
Fernando launched into a polite report about trade routes and river tolls, but Leonardo's attention strayed again toward the far end of the hall. Soria had moved closer, now standing among a cluster of Castilian lords, his posture one of easy confidence. His laughter carried—soft, controlled, the kind of sound that invited rather than revealed.
"Comandante," a voice at his left drew him back. A young officer, barely past twenty, leaned forward from two seats away. "Your men speak of the charge at San Claudio as if it were the work of a hundred, not ten. How did you—"
Leonardo shook his head. "We held the ridge and struck where the enemy thought us weakest. They broke because we refused to." His voice was calm, unpretentious. "War is not magic, lieutenant. It's resolve, discipline, and knowing when to risk everything."
The young man nodded, a flush of respect on his cheeks.
The King chuckled, clearly pleased at the exchange. "Hear that? Even in victory, he speaks like a soldier, not a poet."
A servant approached then, bearing a small dish of figs glazed in honey. "Majestad," she murmured, before offering it first to the King and then to Leonardo.
As he reached for one, he caught the briefest murmur in Chichewa from the servant to another passing behind her. His brow furrowed. Few in the palace spoke that tongue, and it was rare to hear it outside the company of foreign envoys.
Before he could dwell on it, a loud toast drew the hall's attention. A nobleman from Toledo stood, goblet raised high. "To the victory in Asturias, and to the man who secured it—Comandante Leonardo de Castilla!"
A cheer followed, wine sloshing, applause echoing off the marble. Leonardo inclined his head in acknowledgment but did not rise. He had always believed victory belonged to the soldiers who bled for it, not the one who commanded.
Across the hall, Soria clapped along with the others, his smile sharp enough to cut.
Mateo reappeared at Leonardo's side, lowering himself into the empty chair beside him. "You're drawing too much light, hermano," he said quietly, his words in Spanish tinged with a warning.
Leonardo's lips curved faintly. "And yet, I've no wish to sit in the dark."
They shared a brief smile, but it faded as the King rose once more, signaling for silence. "Tonight we honor not just a victory, but the bond of loyalty that holds our kingdom. Leonardo, you are mi hermano de armas, and before these witnesses, I give you my word, you will always have my trust."
The words were met with more applause, but Leonardo felt the weight of them settle deep. Trust was as fragile in the court as it was on the battlefield.
When he looked toward Soria again, the adviser was already lifting his goblet to his lips, masking whatever thought lay in his eyes.
The music swelled again, couples moving onto the polished floor to dance. Leonardo remained seated, his focus on the King as they exchanged a few words about the strength of the northern garrisons. Behind the easy talk, he measured the tone of the room—the glances traded, the way certain nobles' eyes slid toward Soria before settling on him.
It was the same in war. You learned to read the field, not just the man before you.
Mateo leaned close again. "Careful. Not all enemies carry swords."
"I know," Leonardo murmured. His gaze swept the hall once more, lingering on the far shadows.
He did not see the servant who had spoken in Chichewa again.
***
The dance floor shimmered under torchlight, silk skirts brushing past polished boots, gold-threaded sleeves catching the glow. A minstrel's lute struck a brisk rhythm, and laughter rose from the southern envoys' table.
Leonardo remained still, nursing his wine. The crown might celebrate, but he felt the same restless pull as after every battle—an awareness that peace in the palace was always the most fragile kind.
From the head table, the King's voice carried, calling for more music, more wine, more light. Servants hurried to obey, their movements efficient but never hurried enough to escape notice.
It was then he saw Soria moving again, this time making his way deliberately along the dais, stopping to exchange a word or two with each seated noble. Nothing overt—just a hand on a shoulder, a brief smile, a nod. Yet the effect was a net being cast across the room, drawing everyone into his current.
"Está pescando," Mateo muttered beside him. He didn't need to explain the metaphor.
Leonardo's eyes narrowed. "We'll see what he pulls in."
When Soria reached the table of foreign envoys, he bowed slightly, speaking just out of earshot. A ripple of polite laughter followed. Then, with the grace of a man who never took a step without measuring its effect, he turned toward the King's dais.
Leonardo didn't miss the faint tightening in Soria's smile when their eyes met across the hall. A warning, or a promise—it was hard to tell with men like him.
The musicians shifted to a slower song, and the crowd's energy softened into murmured conversation. The King signaled to a nearby guard, who leaned in to hear his request before disappearing through the side corridor.
"Leonardo," the King called over the din, his voice warm. "When the next song ends, walk with me. There is much I would speak to you about."
Leonardo inclined his head in acknowledgment. "A su servicio, Majestad."
The nobles nearby caught the exchange. He felt their eyes linger on him, weighing his proximity to the King like merchants evaluating the worth of a jewel.
The song wound down, a few dancers bowing off the floor, and the King rose, motioning for Leonardo to join him. As he did, Soria, still stationed near the edge of the hall, stepped subtly aside, his expression unreadable.
Mateo gave Leonardo a quiet pat on the arm. "Cuídate," he murmured in Spanish.
Leonardo clasped his forearm briefly. "Siempre."
He followed the King toward the side corridor, the buzz of the celebration fading with each step. Behind them, the gold and music still danced in the air, but here in the quieter shadowed hall, the real weight of the night began to gather.
The corridor was dimmer, lit only by iron sconces where flames swayed in the passing draft. The muted noise of the banquet receded behind them, replaced by the distant drip of water somewhere deeper in the palace walls.
King Carlos walked at an easy pace, hands clasped behind his back. His robe trailed across the stone, the golden embroidery dull in the softer light.
"I have missed these moments," the King said without looking at him. "A soldier's counsel is different from that of courtiers. They think of silk and silver; you think of steel and soil."
Leonardo allowed himself the faintest smile. "Steel and soil win wars, Majestad. Silk only buys them."
The King chuckled. "Just so." He slowed as they passed an open archway leading to the moonlit gardens. Beyond the stone balustrade, the air smelled faintly of rosemary and damp earth. "Spain stands on the edge of something new. Trade is growing, alliances shift. I will need men—brothers—who see beyond today's victory to tomorrow's peace."
"Siempre a su lado," Leonardo replied without hesitation. "Your enemies will not find me sleeping."
The King turned to face him fully, eyes sharp but warm. "And if they should not come at me directly? If they strike at my name, my blood, my throne through whispers?"
Leonardo's gaze didn't waver. "Then I will hunt the whispers until the mouths that spoke them are silent."
For a moment, the King's hand rested firmly on his shoulder. "Hermano de armas," he said softly.
From the far end of the corridor, a voice intruded. "Majestad."
Don Soria emerged from the shadows near the colonnade, the sweep of his dark cloak catching the torchlight. He approached with a bow that was perfectly respectful, yet somehow intrusive.
"I beg pardon for the interruption," Soria said in smooth Spanish, "but it warms the court to see such loyalty. In these times, foreign influences can so easily… distort the heart of our kingdom."
Leonardo caught the glint in his eyes, the faint emphasis on foreign. His jaw tightened. "Spain's heart beats strongest when its enemies fear it," he answered evenly.
"Ah," Soria said with a faint smile, "and yet, sometimes the enemy is not on the field, but already at the table."
The King, perhaps weary of subtle games, waved a dismissive hand. "Enough of riddles. Tonight is for celebration, not suspicion."
Soria bowed again, but his gaze lingered on Leonardo a beat too long. "Por supuesto, Majestad." He stepped back, melting into the corridor's gloom as silently as he had appeared.
The King resumed walking, unaware—or perhaps unwilling to acknowledge—the undercurrent between them.
Leonardo remained at his side, but inside, the air felt heavier. The enemy had spoken, and though no sword had been drawn, the battle had already begun.