The journey back to the family manor was a blur of dust and silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic clip-clop of the carriage horses. Riven sat beside Barron, staring out at the rolling Aurelia countryside, feeling a strange mix of relief and emptiness. He was free from the camp, free from the daily, painful game of avoidance, but the cost of that freedom—his heart—still felt impossibly high.
When they arrived, the manor staff—many of whom had watched their master grow up—greeted them with warm, relieved smiles. The massive estate was exactly as Riven remembered from his last visit, solid and familiar. It was a world away from the Camp, a world where he could simply be Lord Riven of House Ashbourne, not the crown Prince's former secret lover.
The adjustment was swift, largely due to necessity. Riven decided it was high time he started acting like this title belongs to him. He immediately plunged into the estate's finances and management. The family business, while stable, required a sharp eye and firm hand, and Riven found that burying his focus in ledgers and tenant disputes was a remarkably effective antidote to his broken heart. Who would have thought, huh?
Barron, meanwhile, was entirely out of his element—and loving it.
"Tell me again why we have three different types of flour stored, Riven?" Barron asked one afternoon, squinting at an inventory list in the estate's pantry. "Is one for fancy bread and one for...sad bread?"
Riven laughed, the sound rusty but genuine. "The fine flour is for the house, the coarse is for the servants and staff, and the third is for the tenant families to pay their grain taxes with. It's about social hierarchy, Barron, not sadness."
Riven hates to admit it but thanks to Vaelorian's constant nagging, Riven was able to learn all these little but necessary things.
"Right, social hierarchy," Barron muttered, scribbling a note. "So if I accidentally mix them, will the world end?"
"No, but your stew will be grainy, and the cook will murder you," Riven replied, enjoying the playful dynamic.
Barron was a brilliant knight and loyal friend, but a terrible lord-in-training. Well...both of them are technically still learning the ropes but Barron really sucks at reading and Riven's brain just seems to be absorbing information like a sponge. Barron keeps asking endless, insightful questions about military strategy and training, but he was completely bewildered by the minutiae of property taxes and crop rotation. Their new routine quickly became normal.
Riven spent his days in the study, reviewing accounts or meeting with the Steward. Barron shadowed him, attempting to learn, but often retreated to the armory for combat practice or to the stables to chat with the groomers. In the evenings, they would share a meal, discussing the day's activities—Barron offering blunt, soldierly advice on dealing with difficult neighbors, and Riven providing dry critiques of Barron's latest attempts at social etiquette. The distraction was a gift, and Riven found himself healing, slowly, in the comfortable rhythm of his old life.
Meanwhile, many miles away in the suffocating atmosphere of the Imperial Palace, Vaelorian was sinking deeper into his charade. The closer the Winter Solstice approached, the more ridiculous he became in his campaign of self-sabotage. His focus remained ruthlessly fixed on his goal: making Princess Lyra demand the annulment.
One afternoon, Vaelorian was in a meeting with his father, the Emperor, reviewing the final postings and assignments from the Camp. It was a purely administrative formality, but Vaelorian paid keen attention, scanning the lists for one name.
The Emperor's chief advisor cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, a slight issue on the Knight's Squad roster. We seem to have a refusal this year."
The Emperor frowned. "A refusal? From whom?"
"Lord Riven of House Ashbourne, Your Majesty. A surprising decision. He was highly ranked in his class and passed the final trials with distinction. His military aptitude was exemplary." The chief advisor held up the parchment. "He formally declined the commission, stating he would be returning to manage his family's estates in Aurelia."
Vaelorian, who had been leaning casually against a display cabinet, froze. His flawless composure cracked, though only he knew it. He straightened slowly, the blood draining from his face.
The Emperor was shocked to hear this but he shrugged. "A shame. The young Lord was extraordinary in the mission to uncover Morwyn's deeds. Perhaps the life of a country lord appeals more to him than military service. Send the commission to the next candidate on the list."
The chief advisor nodded and moved on. The matter was closed for them, a footnote in the year's assignments.
But for Vaelorian, the news was a devastating punch. The Emperor's Knight Squad was Riven's dream too even though Vaelorian initially wanted the younger boy to join for his own benefits—It was everything Riven had worked toward, and now he had discarded it like trash. This was a clear message to Vaelorian, Riven wants absolutely nothing to do with him.
Vaelorian excused himself from the room shortly after, his movements stiff and mechanical. Once alone in his private study, he slammed his fist against a heavy mahogany desk, the sound muffled by the thick wood.
He knew, with a certainty that sliced through his heart, that Riven hadn't simply chosen to be a country lord. Riven had refused the position because it was directly tied to the Imperial Court, to the Palace, and, inevitably, to Vaelorian himself. The Knight Squad was a painful reminder of the life they had briefly, and the Prince who had traded him for a political alliance.
Vaelorian looked out the window at the oppressive gray sky of the Capital, the weight of his royal duties suddenly unbearable. The cost of his political suicide was far greater than his reputation; it was Riven's heart, shattered by Vaelorian's betrayal. He had tainted Riven's perception of his world so hard that the younger boy was willing to abandon everything he had ever worked for just to be rid of the Prince.
I am the reason he gave up his future, Vaelorian thought, the heartbreak sharper and colder than any winter wind.