The aftermath refused to settle.
Even three days after the princess vanished into the night, the kingdom of San Cordellion still moved like a body that had taken a deep wound and not yet decided whether it would heal or fester. Search parties combed the roads and riverbanks, forests and border towns, their banners snapping in the wind like unanswered questions. Messengers rode until their horses foamed, carrying half-formed leads and rumors that dissolved under scrutiny. Bells rang at irregular hours, not for celebration, but for coordination, warning, and prayer.
By the afternoon, the royal palace itself seemed to breathe uneasily.
King Alaric sat alone in his office, the tall windows thrown open despite the chill that crept in from the stone courtyards below. The order had been his, repeated until every corridor carried the same instruction, because the smell lingered no matter how often servants scrubbed or burned incense. Smoke still haunted the palace air, faint but persistent, clinging to tapestries and velvet drapes as though the night of the gala had refused to leave.
Alaric hated it.
He leaned over his desk, shoulders tense, quill scratching sharply across parchment as though he meant to punish the page for existing. The surface before him had vanished beneath a mountain of documents: emergency decrees, military requisitions, trade delays, diplomatic protests, guild petitions, and inquiries from noble houses suddenly very concerned about stability. Each paper carried the weight of consequence, and all of them traced back to one infuriating source.
His daughter.
The thought tightened his grip on the quill until ink blotted beneath the nib.
Three days, and already she had thrown the kingdom's future into disarray, all for the sake of running off with some nameless vagabond. The words formed unbidden, sharp and resentful, even as another part of him recognized the recklessness of letting anger rule his thoughts. Still, restraint came hard when every stroke of ink reminded him what had been lost.
Negotiations with House Arcanveil had been years in the making.
The marriage arrangement with the young Empyrion had not been merely ceremonial. It was a calculated alliance, one meant to secure military backing, arcane technology, and legitimacy over contested territories across the Tri-Crown Isle. House Arcanveil did not lend its favor lightly, and Alaric had known from the start that the price would be steep. He had been willing to pay it, because the reward promised dominion that no single crown could claim alone.
Now that promise wavered like smoke in sunlight.
The gala had been intended as the final seal, a public display of unity that would quiet dissent and bind the future in crystal clarity. Instead, it had ended in chaos so unexpected that even the Empyrion himself had been caught off guard. Alaric grimaced as he recalled the boy's expression, not fear or outrage, but something colder, something assessing, as though the disruption had been noted, cataloged, and set aside for later use.
Worse still was the audacity of what followed.
The theft of the Luxmotor was not merely an insult. It was a declaration.
When word reached the Empyrion entourage that the vehicle was gone, the boy had reached calmly into the inner pocket of his ornate tuxedo and withdrawn a small, intricate device bearing the crest of House Arcanveil. Crafted of layered crystal and etched gold, it had pulsed faintly at first, then flared brighter with each heartbeat. The emergency teleportation sigil had activated in response to the theft, locking onto the Luxmotor's arcane signature and transmitting its last known trajectory before pulling the Empyrion and his wives back to the Crownlands in a flash of prismatic light.
House Arcanveil did not lose property lightly.
Alaric's scowl deepened as he signed another order, the paper crumpling slightly beneath his hand. Conquest plans, military timetables, and economic projections lay half-finished beneath the immediate crisis, reminders of ambitions now threatened by a single night's defiance.
A knock broke the rhythm of his thoughts.
"Enter," the king called, his voice clipped.
The door opened, and a palace servant stepped inside, her posture precise, eyes lowered in practiced deference. She crossed the room with measured steps before bowing deeply.
"Your Majesty," she said, "representatives of House Arcanveil have arrived. They request an audience to discuss urgent matters concerning the gala and the proposed marriage accord."
Alaric closed his eyes briefly, then nodded. "Prepare the throne room. Observe full protocol."
The servant bowed again and withdrew.
Rising from his desk, Alaric adjusted his robes, smoothing the embroidered sigils at his cuffs as though order could be restored by attention to detail. By the time he entered the throne room, the space had been transformed into a stage of formality and restraint. Courtiers lined the walls at a respectful distance, guards stood rigid at attention, and the throne itself gleamed beneath the high arches, ancient and unyielding.
The representatives of House Arcanveil were ushered in with ceremonial precision, their attire rich with understated opulence, every thread a quiet assertion of power. Bows were exchanged, titles spoken, and seating arranged according to rank, the choreography of diplomacy unfolding with practiced ease.
The conversation that followed was anything but gentle.
House Arcanveil's displeasure was delivered with polished words and sharpened smiles. They spoke of insult and breach of trust, of reputational damage and material loss, of expectations unmet and consequences required. Compensation was demanded, not merely in gold, but in assurances of future compliance and renewed commitment to the alliance.
Alaric listened, his expression carefully neutral, even as tension coiled in his chest. He spoke of investigations ongoing, of efforts to retrieve the princess, of reaffirmed dedication to the agreed terms. He did not waver when the topic turned to conquest, outlining once more his vision for the Tri-Crown Isle and the role House Arcanveil would play within it.
When the representatives finally departed, the light outside had shifted, the sun lowering toward the horizon and casting long shadows across the polished floor. Dusk settled over the palace like a held breath.
It was then that Lord Halvar Highgarden was summoned.
The throne room received him with the same rigid formality, though the atmosphere had subtly changed. Where the Arcanveil meeting had carried tension wrapped in silk, this one bore the weight of judgment. Halvar entered in his wheelchair, his presence commanding despite his condition, Arthur at his side, hands firm on the handles as he guided his father forward.
Halvar bowed as deeply as his position allowed, his voice steady as he offered an apology for his house's failures. Alaric dismissed it with a wave of his hand, his patience worn thin by repetition.
"What I require now is action," the king said. "Our efforts within San Cordellion have yielded nothing of substance. If the princess has crossed our borders, then we must follow her trail beyond them."
He leaned forward slightly. "I want eyes and ears in the Lonecairn Dominion and the Eboren Concord. Discreetly. No banners, no proclamations. This situation has already spread further than I would like."
Halvar inclined his head. "Arthur will lead the search, Your Majesty."
Arthur straightened instinctively, determination flaring within him like a struck match. This was his chance, the opportunity to prove that his worth extended beyond his father's disappointment.
"And Rowen will accompany him," Halvar added after a moment.
Arthur's expression faltered before he masked it, composure returning through sheer force of will.
"When will you depart?" the king asked.
"Everything will be prepared," Halvar replied. "We leave at first light."
The meeting concluded with formal bows, Halvar's the deepest he could manage. As they exited the palace, Arthur guided his father toward the waiting coach, the city beyond already cloaked in evening hues.
For a long moment, silence stretched between them.
"You will not fail," Halvar said at last, his voice low and unyielding. "If you do, do not bother returning."
A muscular servant assisted Halvar into the coach, the motion stiff and practiced. Halvar bristled at the help, his irritation palpable, the familiar shadow of bitterness settling over him. Arthur stepped back as the door closed, watching as the coach rolled away, wheels echoing against stone.
Left alone, Arthur turned and began to walk.
San Cordellion unfolded around him, lanterns flickering to life as twilight deepened, the city alive with murmurs and movement. He walked without direction at first, letting the noise wash over him, thoughts tangling between duty and doubt. Somewhere beyond the walls, paths waited to be taken, choices to be made, and consequences yet to unfold.
Above him, the sky darkened, and the first stars began to emerge, indifferent to the struggles of crowns and houses alike.