Alarion's hands flexed restlessly as he tried to calm his pulse. His encounter with Soryn had left him both on edge and aware of the dangerous game that surrounded him. But before he could collect his thoughts, a firm knock sounded at the door.
"Prince Alarion," came the herald's crisp voice, carrying the authority of the court. "The council requests your presence in the great hall. His Highness, Crown Prince Zaveren of Elyndra, has arrived for the treaty negotiations. Your attendance is required."
Alarion froze, a sharp jolt of recognition running through him. Zaveren… here? The man who had ended his life once, now standing in the heart of Aurelis? His chest tightened, and for a moment, the memory of the execution square surged unbidden the cold marble, the gleam of the blade, the roaring crowd.
He forced a steadying breath and ran a hand through his silver-gold hair. Clever, strategic, dangerous. That's who I am now. Not a victim.
Soryn, still leaning casually against the doorway, arched an amused brow. "Looks like your morning just got a lot more… interesting," he murmured, emerald eyes glinting with both mischief and warning. "Zaveren Althar, Crown Prince of Elyndra, in our halls. Careful, little brother. He doesn't forgive mistakes."
Alarion allowed a slow, deliberate smile. "Noted," he said evenly, letting his violet-gold eyes meet Soryn's. "And thank you for the warning, as always."
With that, he followed the herald down the marbled corridors of the palace, each step measured and calm. The distant hum of the great hall grew louder, punctuated by the low murmur of nobles and council members. Every instinct in him screamed to prepare, to calculate, to anticipate.
When the massive doors opened, the hall seemed to freeze for a heartbeat. And there he was.
Zaveren Althar.
Tall, commanding, impossibly composed. Jet-black hair streaked with silver at the front, pulled back neatly, catching the sunlight in glints of steel. His silver-gray eyes scanned the room, sharp, precise, almost cutting, as if measuring the worth of everyone present. Even from across the hall, Alarion felt the pull of his presence the weight of authority, the aura of someone born to command.
Alarion's pulse thudded. Every memory of the execution square hit him, but he forced himself to stand tall, chest out, chin lifted. This time, he wasn't the man lying on the cold marble floor. This time, he was the second prince of Aurelis, clever, aware, and fully in control of his moves.
Soryn fell into step beside him, just slightly ahead, subtly asserting dominance. "Zaveren's not just a foreign prince," he murmured under his breath, emerald eyes glinting. "He's the kind of man who notices everything. Don't let him catch a weakness."
Alarion gave a faint nod, his gaze never leaving Zaveren. The foreign prince walked with the calm authority of someone untouchable, scanning the hall before finally pausing near the council table. His silver-gray eyes flicked to Alarion not with open hostility, but with the faintest glimmer of interest, as if acknowledging a subtle presence, a dangerous potential.
Alarion felt his chest tighten, a mixture of fear, recognition, and something more something dangerous he couldn't yet name. But he forced himself to remain composed, letting the faintest curve of a smile play on his lips. Clever, strategic, dangerous he had survived death once. He could handle a crown prince.
Soryn's hand brushed lightly against Alarion's shoulder, possessive, teasing, and protective all at once. "Remember," he whispered, voice low and smooth, "this isn't just politics. This is war, little brother. And Elyndra's prince… he's deadly. Watch your every move."
Alarion swallowed, letting the words sink in. Two princes. One foreign, commanding, untouchable. One homegrown, dominant, and ambitious. And he, Alarion Vael, second prince of Aurelis, stood between them, alive, aware, and ready to play the game his way.
The negotiations were about to begin. And so was the real game.
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