By dawn, the palace was already buzzing.
What happened last night had spread faster than wildfire—every corner of the court, from the grand council chambers to the kitchens where servants traded gossip over bread.
"The Crown Prince himself stood beside Eryndor," one maid whispered, eyes wide as she scrubbed a goblet. "He silenced the hall with a single word!"
"And Lady Seliora—did you hear? She touched his arm! Declared she wouldn't let him rise alone!" a footman replied, practically breathless.
"Rise? Ha! She's tying herself to a sinking ship," a nobleman sneered at breakfast, loud enough for his peers to hear. "That prince will never outgrow his shadow, no matter who shields him."
Yet another countered with a sly smile: "Then why would the Crown Prince risk his dignity for him? Don't you think it strange? Perhaps there's more between them than loyalty…"
Gasps. Chuckles. Eyes darting, searching for meaning in what was never said aloud.
By midday, the whispers had spread beyond the palace walls. Knights patrolling the courtyard repeated them in hushed tones, while a priest in the temple muttered a prayer about "dangerous attachments corrupting the order of the realm."
Eryndor's name was on everyone's lips. Not as a villain this time, but as the center of intrigue, scandal, and dangerous speculation.
And at the heart of it, one thing was clear—
He was no longer invisible.
Eryndor sat by the tall windows of his chamber, the golden light of morning spilling across his desk. Scrolls lay untouched, their wax seals unbroken. Instead, he sipped his tea slowly, listening.
Two attendants whispered just beyond the half-open doors, their voices a little too hushed to be innocent.
"…they say the Crown Prince is bewitched, protecting him as if—"
"Shh! If anyone hears—"
Eryndor smiled faintly and set down his cup. Bewitched, was he? How quickly the world twisted one glance, one word, into a scandal worth feeding upon.
He leaned back in his chair, expression serene, almost careless, as a servant entered to deliver the latest messages. Letters stacked high, invitations to tea, polite inquiries from noble houses that had never once acknowledged his existence before.
All because Leonel had spoken. All because Seliora had smiled.
How fragile their loyalties were. How laughably transparent.
He picked up one letter at random, scanning the seal. The crest of House Ardenvale—the same lord who had led laughter at him just weeks before. Now begging for a meeting.
A soft chuckle escaped him. So quick to crawl once the winds shift.
Pulling a fresh sheet of parchment closer, he began to write—not replies, but a list. Names of those who mocked him last night. Names of those who now sought his favor. A map of weakness and hypocrisy.
If they wished to weave him into their stories, he would let them. He would smile, nod, and pretend gratitude.
But every whisper, every rumor… was already being sharpened into a blade.
The door shut with a heavy click.
Eryndor did not need to look up to know who had entered. The air itself seemed to shift when Leonel walked into a room—sharp, commanding, dangerous.
"You let her touch you."
Leonel's voice cut through the quiet like steel, low but taut with anger.
Eryndor set his quill aside deliberately, brushing an ink stain from his fingers as though the accusation were nothing. "Ah. So that's what this is about." He tilted his head, meeting Leonel's burning gaze with feigned calm. "I hardly think accepting a lady's gesture counts as treason."
"She is not a lady," Leonel snapped, stepping closer. His shadow loomed across the desk, swallowing the morning light. "Seliora is a serpent. She seeks to bind you, to brand you as hers before the court. And you—" his hand pressed flat against the desk, caging Eryndor in, "—you let her."
For a moment, the silence was thick, heavy with unspoken words.
Eryndor leaned back in his chair, lips curving faintly. "So what is it, then? Are you angry because she touched me… or because the court thinks you care too much?"
Leonel's jaw tightened. His breath came heavier, close enough that Eryndor could feel the heat of it. "I don't care what they think," he said, voice rough, "I care what is mine."
The words hung between them, scorching.
Eryndor's lashes lowered, hiding the flicker of amusement in his eyes. Possessiveness, jealousy, devotion—it was all there, raw and unrestrained. Dangerous, yes. But oh, how useful.
"Careful, Crown Prince," he murmured, his voice laced with quiet provocation. "If you clutch too tightly, people might think you're the one bewitched."
Leonel's eyes darkened, his hand flexing against the wood—caught between the urge to pull him closer and the restraint of a man who had already said too much.
The tense silence between Eryndor and Leonel broke with a sharp rap at the door.
"Your Highness," a servant's voice called nervously, "a message has arrived. Lady Seliora requests your presence for a private tea this afternoon."
Eryndor didn't move at first. Then, with deliberate calm, he rose from his chair and accepted the folded parchment. The seal was delicate, pressed with the rose crest of House Seravale, scented faintly with jasmine.
Leonel's expression darkened as he caught the faint smile curving Eryndor's lips.
"You're not going," Leonel said flatly.
Eryndor broke the seal, eyes scanning the flowing script. Strengthen our bond… speak freely, away from the weight of eyes… How bold. How predictable.
"Am I not allowed to take tea with a lady who so gallantly defended me last night?" Eryndor replied smoothly, though his tone was laced with mockery. "What would the court think if I refused her kindness?"
"They would think nothing, if I command it," Leonel hissed, stepping closer again.
But Eryndor only laughed softly, slipping the letter into his sleeve. "Oh, Leonel… you guard me so fiercely. But sometimes the best way to strangle a serpent is to let it coil around you first."
Leonel's glare burned, but he said nothing.
Eryndor turned toward the window, watching the sun dip lower across the horizon. His reflection in the glass wore a faint smile—not of gratitude, not of innocence, but of a predator biding his time.
Let her believe she's weaving the net. She has no idea the prey she's caught is already sharpening his knife.
The candle beside him flickered, and in the wavering light, his smile sharpened into something almost cruel.