The royal feast held that evening was meant to celebrate the King's fragile recovery from an illness. Nobles from every corner of the realm filled the hall, their laughter echoing against vaulted ceilings, their cups overflowing with spiced wine. Yet beneath the pageantry lurked undercurrents of rivalry sharper than any dagger.
Athelric entered clad in crimson velvet, his presence commanding instant attention. He bowed low before Elswyth, offering his hand with a flourish. "My lady, would you honor me with this dance?"
She could not refuse—not before so many watching eyes. She rose, her emerald gown swirling as she placed her hand in his. The minstrels struck their strings, and they glided across the floor. Athelric's movements were bold, almost possessive, each step declaring ownership. The court applauded, but Elswyth's smile was brittle, her gaze flickering away too often toward the younger prince who stood in the shadows.
When the dance ended, Caedmon stepped forward. The hall stilled. "My lady," he said softly, "will you grant me the next?"
A murmur rippled through the nobles. To dance with both brothers in succession was scandalous, yet Elswyth inclined her head, her voice steady though her heart thundered. "I would be honored, my lord."
Their dance was different—gentle, flowing, intimate. Where Athelric's hold had been forceful, Caedmon's touch was reverent, almost trembling. In that moment, their secret bond was written across every graceful step.
The court watched with wide eyes. Whispers began. And at the head of the table, Athelric's jaw clenched as fury brewed beneath his smile.