Rowan did not sleep.
He returned to his chambers eventually, but sleep never followed.
The night passed in fragments — a few minutes here, an hour there, thoughts looping in restless circles.
When dawn came, it came pale and quiet.
The palace corridors felt different in daylight. Less dramatic. Less forgiving.
A servant informed him that the Crown Prince wished to see him.
Rowan did not ask why.
Lucien stood near the long eastern windows of the council antechamber when Rowan entered. Sunlight cut across polished stone, catching on the silver embroidery of his dark coat.
He did not turn immediately.
"You left early," Lucien said.
Rowan closed the door behind him. "I wasn't aware I needed permission to breathe."
Lucien's reflection shifted faintly in the glass.
"You were not breathing," he replied evenly. "You were avoiding."
Rowan did not answer.
Lucien turned then.
His expression was composed, as it always was, not stern, not warm. Simply measured.
"You have something you wish to say," he said.
It was not a question.
Rowan held his gaze.
"How could you celebrate?" he asked.
No anger.
Just strain.
Lucien did not react immediately.
"Walk with me," he said.
He did not summon guards.
He did not call attendants.
He simply moved.
Rowan followed.
They left through a side gate with only two distant guards shadowing at the edge of sight. The morning air carried the smell of damp stone and woodsmoke.
They did not take the central avenue.
Lucien turned toward the lower quarters — toward the barracks district, where the houses were narrower and the streets less polished.
Rowan frowned slightly. "What are we doing here?"
"Observing," Lucien replied.
They walked without announcement.
Some people recognized them. Most did not.
A black ribbon hung from a door ahead.
Then another.
And another.
Rowan hadn't noticed them yesterday.
Or perhaps he had not looked.
Outside a small stone house, a woman stood with a bundled infant in her arms. A child, no more than four was clinging to her skirt, staring at the two men with solemn eyes.
The woman's dress was plain. Her posture tired.
Lucien slowed.
"Good morning," he said.
The woman blinked, then recognized him. She bowed awkwardly, shifting the infant higher against her shoulder.
"Your Highness."
"Your husband served in the western wing," Lucien said.
It was not a guess.
She nodded once.
"He did."
Her voice did not break.
It was simply flat.
"The crown will see that your household receives full compensation," Lucien continued. "Your son will be offered training when he comes of age, should he wish it."
The woman nodded again.
"Thank you."
The toddler tightened his grip on her skirt.
In his other hand, he held a small wooden carving.
A falcon.
Lucien's eyes rested on it for a moment.
Then he inclined his head once.
"We are grateful for his service."
And he moved on.
Rowan stood a second longer before following.
They walked in silence for several paces.
"She didn't cry," Rowan said finally.
"She already did," Lucien replied.
Rowan glanced at him.
Lucien's expression had not changed.
"When the bells rang yesterday," Lucien continued, "they rang for her as well."
Rowan's jaw tightened.
Lucien did not look at him.
"Her husband is dead," he said. "So are a hundred others. The king is dead."
The words were clean.
Precise.
"If the city fractures publicly," Lucien went on, "if grief becomes spectacle, if fear spreads — what does she have left?"
Rowan could not answer.
Lucien's voice remained level.
"When the city stood together yesterday, she saw something larger than her loss."
He paused briefly.
"She saw that she still belongs to something."
They passed another house marked in black.
"Grief shared becomes bearable," Lucien said. "Grief isolated becomes rot."
Rowan's steps slowed.
"You think I don't grieve?" Lucien asked quietly.
It was not defensive.
It was factual.
"I do."
A beat.
"But the crown does not have the luxury of collapse."
Rowan stopped walking.
Lucien did not.
Rowan caught up a moment later.
"You were laughing," Rowan said.
Lucien glanced at him.
"Yes."
No apology.
"No hesitation?" asked Rowan.
Lucien's gaze shifted back to the street ahead.
"Hesitation is a contagion," he said. "If I falter, the council falters. If the council falters, the lords test the borders. If the borders weaken, we bleed."
His tone did not rise.
It did not need to.
"The parade was not celebration," he continued. "It was assurance."
He turned into another narrow street.
"Strength must be visible," he said. "Especially when it is wounded."
Rowan looked ahead at the small houses, the narrow windows, the black ribbons tied to door handles.
"They lost Fathers too," Lucien said. "Brothers. Sons."
He stopped walking then.
Finally.
"And yet the city did not burn."
Rowan met his eyes.
Lucien's expression was steady.
"We cannot afford to mourn like ordinary men," he said. "Not yet."
The words did not comfort.
They clarified.
Rowan looked back toward the house they had passed.
The toddler still stood in the doorway.
Still holding the wooden falcon.
Rowan swallowed.
"I left him," he said quietly.
Lucien did not pretend not to understand.
"Yes," he said.
No softness.
No cushioning.
Rowan exhaled slowly.
"I thought I saw an opening."
"You did." replied Lucien.
Rowan's head snapped toward him.
Lucien's gaze remained forward.
"You saw an opportunity to end the war quickly," he said. "It was not foolish."
"It was," Rowan replied.
"It was risk," Lucien corrected.
A pause.
"War is risk."
Rowan's hands tightened at his sides.
Lucien finally looked at him fully.
"You are not the reason Father died."
The statement was flat.
Authoritative.
Final.
Rowan held his gaze, searching for doubt.
He found none.
Lucien turned away again.
"Learn from it," he said. "Do not drown in it."
They resumed walking.
The city was quieter here.
Less theatrical.
More honest.
Rowan glanced once more at the houses marked in black.
The celebration had not erased their loss.
But it had not erased their belonging either.
Lucien's steps were measured.
Unhurried.
Controlled.
Rowan followed.
For the first time since the battlefield, his thoughts did not spiral.
They did not settle.
But they steadied.
The bells had rung.
The city still stood.
And the crown, whether he understood it fully or not—
was already being worn.