The music followed him out of the palace like a warm hand against his back.
It spilled through the tall windows and drifted across the courtyard, bright strings, clumsy laughter, the heavy rhythm of boots striking polished floorboards. Someone inside attempted a heroic ballad and forgot half the words. The mistake was swallowed by cheers.
Rowan stepped into the night smiling.
The wine sat comfortably in his blood, not dizzying, just warm. His shoulders felt lighter than they had in weeks. He had traded armor for dark clothes and a loose cloak, but he hadn't bothered pulling the hood up yet.
For once, the city did not feel like something pressing down on him.
Two young soldiers near the gate straightened when they saw him.
"Your Highness!"
One nearly tripped over his own feet trying to salute.
Rowan laughed heartily . "Careful. You'll injure yourself before the next war even starts."
They grinned, emboldened.
It was easy.
He passed through the outer courtyard and into the streets beyond the palace district. Lanterns still burnt bright. Groups lingered outside taverns. Victory had loosened the city's usual caution.
Someone somewhere was still singing.
"We won."
The words felt solid in Rowan's chest.
He turned down a narrower street that cut toward the lower quarter, a quicker route back to his chambers.
Footsteps approached from the opposite direction.
They collided shoulder-first.
Both staggered.
Rowan caught the man by the forearm before he could fall. "Easy," he said lightly. "No harm done."
The stranger blinked up at him, swaying slightly. Red-faced. Thick beard. The smell of ale hit a moment later.
Rowan stepped back with a half-smile. "No need to duel over bad footing."
The man squinted.
Recognition dawned slowly.
"Oh."
A crooked grin spread across his face.
"Well I'll be damned."
Rowan's amusement lingered. "Try not to be."
The man's smile shifted.
"You think you're untouchable now?"
Rowan tilted his head faintly. "You're the one who nearly kissed the pavement."
The man leaned closer.
"You think you're so high and mighty."
Rowan exhaled a soft laugh. "Go home before you regret this."
The man's voice flattened.
"You got your father killed."
The warmth vanished.
Not gradually.
All at once.
The distant music kept playing.
A woman laughed somewhere behind them.
But it no longer felt connected to this street.
Rowan did not blink.
"What did you say?" His voice was calm.
Too calm.
The man did not retreat.
"If you'd stayed with him..."
Rowan's fist closed.
Hard.
His knuckles whitened.
For half a second, he could see it clearly in his head:
Driving the man into the stone wall.
Breaking his nose.
Silencing him with blood.
The urge was sharp.
Immediate.
Clean.
He stepped forward—
And stopped.
His jaw locked.
"You should watch your tongue," he said quietly.
The man shrugged.
"Lucien was there."
That was worse.
Not the accusation.
But the comparison.
Rowan's hand twitched at his side.
A muscle in his cheek jumped.
But he did not strike.
He did not shout.
He did not deny it.
The man stepped back, emboldened by the lack of retaliation.
"We won, didn't we?" he muttered. "Guess that's what matters."
He staggered past and disappeared into shadow.
Rowan stood alone in the middle of the street.
The night had not changed.
But it felt colder.
The music from the palace sounded distant now. Hollow.
He looked down at his hand.
His nails had cut crescent shapes into his palm.
He hadn't even felt it happen.
He pulled his hood up.
And started walking back taking the longer route back to his quarters.
The further he moved from the palace, the quieter the city became.
Celebration thinned into conversation.
He slowed his pace without realizing it.
Two women stood outside a bakery, speaking in low voices.
"…too reckless…"
"…should've stayed near the king…"
"…Lucien's the steady one…"
They did not see him.
He did not interrupt.
Further down, a pair of soldiers leaned against a tavern door.
"He rode hard."
"Hard isn't always wise."
"He's young."
"So was the king once."
Rowan kept walking.
Half the city had cheered him hours ago.
Half of it whispered now.
He moved deeper into the common district, where lantern light dimmed and victory felt less theatrical.
A man sweeping his doorstep shook his head at someone speaking nearby.
"They needed to show strength," he said. "That parade wasn't for us. It was for the borders."
"And the Dravenholt boy?" another voice asked.
"Should've burnt with the rest."
Rowan did not pause.
He turned back toward the palace through a side entrance, nodding to guards who did not question him.
Inside, the corridors swallowed sound differently.
No music reached this far.
Stone cooled the air.
He removed his hood.
A door opened abruptly.
His sister, Roselyn Ardenfall stood there.
Her hair was loose and tangled from sleep. Her eyes were swollen red. She had not dressed for the celebration.
She had not attended.
They stared at each other for a moment.
"You were laughing," she said.
No greeting.
No title.
Rowan blinked. "What?"
"I saw you from the gallery."
Her voice wavered but did not soften.
"You were laughing."
The words struck harder than the drunk man's accusation.
Because they were not bitter.
They were confused.
"It wasn't..." Rowan began.
He stopped.
What was it?
Necessary?
Political?
For morale?
"You were supposed to protect him," she said, stepping closer.
Her fists hit his chest.
Not hard.
Just enough to be felt.
"You were supposed to protect him!"
The words rang in Rowan's ears...
"It wasn't like that," he said. "The field shifted. The twins— Father signaled— I thought—"
He stopped.
Because what was he explaining?
Formations?
Timing?
Risk assessment?
That he had seen an opportunity?
That he had believed Lucien and Edmund could handle it?
That he had wanted one decisive strike?
Her eyes were wide and wet.
She did not understand flanks.
Or magic.
Or tactical pressure.
She understood only one thing.
Father called.
And he wasn't there.
"I didn't—" Rowan tried again.
The rest would not come.
A door further down the corridor opened softly.
Their mother, Helena Ardenfall, stepped out.
She looked thinner somehow.
Not physically.
But in presence.
As if something inside her had collapsed inward.
"That is enough," she said gently.
No anger.
No sharpness.
Just exhaustion.
His sister turned toward her.
"He was laughing."
The accusation was softer now.
Wounded.
Their mother's gaze shifted to Rowan.
It lingered.
There was no fury in it.
Only distance.
"We will not do this here," she said quietly, guiding the girl back toward her chambers.
The door closed.
The corridor fell silent.
Rowan remained standing where she had struck him.
The laughter from the feast replayed in his mind.
The goblet in his hand.
The warmth in his chest.
How easily he had believed it.
His father lay in a stone chamber not yet buried.
And he had smiled.
He walked further down the corridor, past his chambers, past the main staircase.
There was a narrow alcove between two pillars, a shallow recess where a decorative suit of armor once stood.
He stepped into it.
Out of sight.
He leaned back against the cold stone.
For a moment, he just breathed.
Slow.
Controlled.
The way he had trained himself to be on the battlefield.
He had been sure.
That was the part that gnawed at him.
They were supposed to win.
They always did.
Lucien was there.
Father was there.
The twins were occupied.
Valerius was distracted.
He had seen the opening.
Calculated it.
Taken it.
How could Father lose?
How could I misjudge it so badly?
He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the cold floor.
He pressed his palms against his eyes.
Hard enough to see white.
Why didn't I evaluate more?
Why did I assume?
Why did I leave him?
He had wanted one moment.
One chance to prove he was more than the second.
He had chased it.
And in chasing it,
Father had faced Valerius without him.
The tyrant was dead.
The kingdom stood.
So why did it feel like something had been torn out of him?
He lowered his hands slowly.
The corridor remained empty.
No one saw him.
No one would.
For the first time since the battlefield...
his breathing faltered.
Just slightly.
Not enough for anyone to hear.
But enough.
He bowed his head.
Just for a moment.
Just where no one could see.