The carriage finally stopped.
After hours of jostling through narrow mountain roads and stone-wrought valleys that twisted like ancient scars, the golden wheels of the Heart Kingdom's ornate carriage gave one final jolt—before stillness.
Aerion let out a breath that had been festering in his ribs since the fourth hour.
He peeled back the velvet curtain and caught his first real glimpse of the Spade Kingdom's capital.
It was not beautiful in the way Heartland was. Not soft. Not gentle.
But it was striking.
The palace loomed at the city's peak, carved directly into the dark stone of the mountainside—part fortress, part monument. Its towers rose like spears, capped with polished onyx and silver spires that gleamed despite the overcast skies. The streets were clean, angular, and efficiently designed. Guards marched with precise coordination. Banners of black and silver flapped in the high wind, each bearing the kingdom's sigil: a downward-pointed spade entwined with thorned ivy.
Function before flourish. Strength before sentiment.
The carriage door swung open with a metallic click, and Kaelen was there—of course he was—face unreadable as he offered his hand.
"Your Highness."
Aerion stared at him for a heartbeat too long before taking the offered hand, stepping down with practiced poise.
He felt eyes.
Hundreds of them.
Courtiers, soldiers, servants, nobles—each positioned in rigid formation along the marble steps leading to the palace's grand arch. They bowed in coordinated waves, a perfect ripple of formality.
And then—at the top of the stairs—the King and Queen of Spade.
King Vernar Spade was a tall man wrapped in midnight-blue robes that blended into his long, sable cloak. His hair, jet-black streaked with iron gray, was tied back in a clasp shaped like a narrow dagger. His crown was slender and sharp-edged, almost more of a circlet, as if designed not to symbolize power but to cut through it.
Queen Isylle stood beside him, elegance draped in pearl-stitched velvet. Her features were fine and cool, her smile a perfect study in grace—eyes calm, unfathomable. She wore no crown, only a ring of black orchids woven into her braided hair.
They looked like they'd been carved from the very palace behind them—stone, polished and immovable.
Aerion dismounted with a fluid motion, handing the reins to a page without taking his eyes off the royal pair. Kaelen, already on foot, stood behind him, expression unreadable as always.
"Prince Aerion," Queen Isylle said, her voice like rippling silk, "We welcome you with open hearts to the Kingdom of Spades."
"You honor us with your presence," King Vernar added, his tone deeper—measured but warm in a way that felt... well-rehearsed.
Aerion bowed with the appropriate degree of respect. "Your Majesties. I thank you for the welcome—and for sending such a capable escort." His voice lilted ever so slightly as he tilted his head toward Kaelen, who remained perfectly still.
The Queen's eyes flicked toward the knight for the briefest moment. "Sir Kaelen has always served with utmost dedication."
"And unmatched courtesy," Aerion added, just enough sarcasm under his breath to make Kaelen's jaw twitch.
The King either didn't notice or pretended not to. "We hope your journey, though long, has not wearied you too greatly. Our court is eager to make your stay both comfortable… and enlightening."
Aerion's smile was practiced, princely, and far more polished than he felt. "I look forward to what the Spade Kingdom has to offer."
Behind him, Kaelen gave a tiny, almost imperceptible exhale. Not quite a scoff. But definitely not enthusiasm.
With a gesture from the Queen, attendants emerged, offering wine and cool cloths for refreshment. Another motion, and a herald stepped forward to announce Aerion's formal lodging within the palace's East Wing—reserved for dignitaries and visiting royals.
As the party began to move inside, Aerion cast one last glance at Kaelen.
The knight remained near the gate, eyes already scanning the perimeter again, like nothing had happened. Like Aerion was just another prince ticked off his escort list.
Fine.
Let him act like nothing mattered. Aerion had five days in this kingdom. Five days surrounded by people who smiled too perfectly and courted alliances like predators in velvet.
And yet, somehow, it was Kaelen Vire—the one who didn't bow, didn't flatter, didn't care—who kept clawing his way back into the prince's thoughts.
Even if Aerion hated to admit it.
♠♠♠
The dining hall of the Spade Palace was not merely grand—it was intentional.
Tall stained-glass windows towered over the long banquet table, casting long, dagger-like shadows in hues of black and deep amethyst across the polished obsidian floors. The chandeliers above were wrought from twisted silver and flickered with magic-fed flame, never flickering, always perfect.
Every inch of the room was a stage, and tonight, Prince Aerion was center of it.
The table stretched long and narrow, every seat assigned with militaristic precision. Aerion's place was three seats to the right of the king—close enough to honor, but not close enough for power. He noted it immediately, with a trained eye and the quiet grace of someone used to the game.
The Spade royal family was already assembling.
At the table's head sat King Vernar, posture regal, dark eyes scanning everything without seeming to move. Beside him, Queen Isylle wore a smile soft enough to comfort, sharp enough to gut.
To their left sat their eldest son—Crown Prince Edrian Spade, a man of cold charisma. Tall, broad-shouldered, with neatly combed raven-black hair and a jaw cut from marble. His eyes, the color of a storm-washed steel, met Aerion's with mild curiosity—and something veiled. Calculation, perhaps.
Next to him, his sister—Princess Liraine, dressed in muted silver that shimmered like moonlight when she moved. Her features were delicate, her expression unreadable, save for the way her fingers drummed absently against her goblet. She looked at Aerion like a painter surveying a blank canvas: with detached interest and just a hint of judgment.
Aerion slid into his chair with a grace practiced since birth, draping one leg over the other. His crimson doublet caught the light—warm and regal, intentionally at odds with the room's sterility. He didn't speak first. He didn't need to.
Queen Isylle turned toward him with a gentle smile. "I trust your accommodations are to your liking, Prince Aerion?"
"Quite so, Your Majesty," he replied smoothly. "Though I confess, I may never grow used to such disciplined silence. It's… impressively haunting."
A few smiles twitched at the edges of the table.
"Better silence than indulgent noise," Crown Prince Edrian said, his voice deep, calm, and laced with amusement. "Though I imagine Heartland is quite fond of both."
Aerion chuckled lightly, sipping from the crystal goblet placed before him. "We do tend to laugh more freely, yes. Perhaps I'll infect your court with a few ill-timed jokes by the end of my stay."
"If you do, I hope they're clever," said Princess Liraine without looking at him. "Or at the very least, original."
Another polite chuckle rippled through the table. The game had begun.
From his peripheral vision, Aerion spotted him—Kaelen, posted near the grand doors, standing in shadowed armor like a sentry carved from steel. Not looking at him. Not yet. But present. And, if Aerion wasn't mistaken… listening.
Dishes were brought out one by one: smoked venison glazed with blackcurrant wine, roasted roots carved into delicate floral shapes, a chilled soup that looked more like crystal than cuisine. Spade cuisine was minimal in style, maximal in presentation—sharp flavors, sharp edges, and not a smear out of place.
The conversation, too, was curated.
"We are, of course, delighted by your visit," said King Vernar, cutting neatly into his venison. "It is not often a royal from the Heart Kingdom makes the journey here. Even less so… alone."
Aerion offered a smooth smile, placing his fork down with slow precision. "Alone is how one knows a kingdom best, don't you think? Without chaperones and curated performances."
"Or perhaps," Edrian interjected, "it's how one gets lost."
Touché.
Aerion was just about to respond when a sharp voice rang in—Liraine again, cutting across the tension like a thin blade.
"I'm more curious about what the Heart Prince hopes to find here," she said, finally turning to face him. "A wife? An alliance? Or merely a story to bring back home?"
"Perhaps all three," Aerion had said, his voice a velvet drawl beneath the clink of crystal and the low hum of conversation. "I'm told Spades are excellent at storytelling. Especially the kinds with daggers at the end."
It was a well-placed barb, garnished with charm. But as the echo of laughter settled back into the table's formal hush, King Vernar placed his goblet down with a sound that was soft—but final.
"Then your timing is most opportune," he said, tone smooth but weighted. "You arrive mere days before the Noctis Concordia—the Moon's Convergence Festival. A sacred event in our kingdom, held but once every five years."
Aerion blinked, maintaining a polite expression. "I see."
Vernar continued, his voice adopting the cadence of one used to speaking to crowds. "We honor the legend of the Moon-Forged Pact—when our ancestors, in the depths of a long winter war, forged peace beneath the blood moon with a rival house. A truce sealed not with parchment… but with dance, with swordplay, and with choice."
At the word choice, the Queen's fingers tapped once against her goblet.
"It is a celebration of peace through strength, unity through elegance," she added, her voice lilting. "And of seeking bonds where they are least expected."
Prince Edrian smirked faintly into his wine. Princess Liraine sipped without comment.
Aerion tilted his head. "How romantic."
"And relevant," King Vernar said pointedly. "The Moon's Convergence is not merely spectacle. Many alliances were first sparked beneath its lanterns. Some of our kingdom's most fruitful unions began on that very night."
Aerion could feel the spotlight tightening around him. He leaned back a little in his chair, the candlelight dancing along the red trim of his sleeves.
"A festival of choice, then," he mused, the corners of his mouth curling. "With the weight of diplomacy resting behind each waltz and whisper?"
Queen Isylle's gaze sharpened—just subtly. "Surely, as a prince of Heart, you do not shy from passion and performance?"
"Oh, never," Aerion said with a light laugh, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "But I find it strange how often choice is preselected in such celebrations."
The Queen's smile didn't falter—but her expression softened, if only to him. "Do not mistake our traditions for shackles, Prince Aerion. We value authenticity... even when it surprises us."
There was something searching in her tone, something that saw beyond his polished mask. Aerion met her eyes for a heartbeat too long before offering a genteel nod.
"I will, of course, attend. It would be ungracious not to," he said smoothly. "And I'll do my best to appear charming and impressionable."
"Do or do not," Liraine muttered under her breath. "There is no charming halfway in Spade."
Aerion barely resisted a smirk.
From his quiet post at the edge of the hall, Kaelen Vire's gaze lingered on him once more—cool, observant, unreadable. It had been lingering a lot tonight, whether out of suspicion or something more reluctant, Aerion couldn't say.
Aerion swirled the wine in his glass, watching the garnet liquid catch the light like blood.
♠♠♠
The chamber door shut with a muted clunk, the thick wood muffling the faint sounds of servant boots retreating down the hall. Aerion stood in the center of his temporary quarters, unmoving for a breath or two.
Then, with a sigh like air hissing from a punctured balloon, he dropped his princely composure and groaned, "By the gods, I'm going to drown in monochrome."
The room was perfectly respectable—lavish by common standards—but there wasn't a single spot of color to be found. Blackwood, dark velvet drapes, slate-gray bedding, silver-etched sconces. Even the bouquet in the corner vase was made of pressed, dried blooms. Probably enchanted to never feel joy again.
Aerion took off his gloves first, then began unbuttoning the outer layers of his riding coat, tossing it over a chair with no ceremony.
Behind him, two footmen struggled in through the side door, wheeling in a cart piled with trunks. Too many trunks. One let out a strangled grunt as he accidentally tilted the heaviest chest sideways, nearly toppling the column of hat boxes balanced atop it.
"My apologies, Your Highness," he said quickly, breathless.
Aerion waved a hand without turning. "Don't worry, it's just two months' worth of belongings for a one-week visit. I'm perfectly reasonable."
They didn't dare laugh.
Eventually, the servants left him alone with his luggage. Alone with himself.
He looked at the mountain of bags, boxes, and oddly shaped bundles. And sighed again.
"Right," he muttered. "Time to begin the ritual of royal excavation."
He started with the essentials: clothes—too many, again, all chosen by his attendants for court impressions he didn't care about. Then the necessities: a box of assorted inks and pens, a roll of parchment he'd probably never use, an overpacked toiletry kit that included six types of scented oil "for diplomatic impression."
Finally, at the very bottom of his slimmest trunk, wrapped in a scarf of Heart red and gold, was the sketchbook.
Aerion's fingers slowed as they touched the spine.
It wasn't ornate. Just a simple leather-bound book, hand-stitched with careful thread. The clasp was slightly crooked, the corners of the pages already soft from use. It smelled faintly of charcoal and old paper.
He sat down on the bed and opened it with the sort of reverence normally reserved for religious texts and especially good gossip.
Inside, the first page was blank—Coriel always insisted it was bad luck to draw on the first page. The second had a message, scribbled in soft cursive:
"Happy birthday, Your Pained Royal Highness. May this sketchbook be your second mouth when the first must be polite.
Love, Coriel."
Aerion snorted.
He turned the page.
Drawings, notes, color swatches. Even a pressed feather from a skybird they'd spotted in the palace garden three weeks ago. He hadn't meant to fill it this fast, but between diplomatic meetings and personal spirals, the book had practically devoured his thoughts. Every idle moment had ended with ink-stained fingers and silent swirls of lines.
Some pages were crowded with detail: a streetlamp from a neighboring village twisted into a design for a chandelier; a cat that had napped in the chapel window; half a map of an imaginary land with rivers shaped like musical notes.
And then there were the portraits.
Coriel's profile at rest, mid-smile. One with him pretending to glare while sipping tea (Aerion had added angry eyebrows for effect). A full-body sketch of them both in exaggerated court costumes, labeled "Duel of the Dandies". Aerion chuckled.
He flipped a few more pages. His finger paused at one of the more recent sketches.
It was Coriel, asleep on the library couch. A forgotten book open on his chest. His hair was messier than usual, and Aerion had tried four times to get the angle of his jaw right.
He hadn't.
But it was still… soft. Real.
Aerion exhaled.
He leaned back against the headboard, sketchbook resting open on his chest, eyes tracing the beams overhead. The walls here were too thick. The air too still. He missed the rustle of Coriel's footsteps outside his door, the quiet way he entered without knocking because he knew when Aerion needed company and when he didn't.
Two weeks without him.
It had seemed like a joke at first—"You'll survive. Barely," Coriel had said—but now, alone in this fortress of ice and judgment, Aerion felt the lack acutely.
"…You could've fit in one of the trunks, you know," he whispered to no one.
Silence answered him. Stoic and Spade-like.
Aerion shut the sketchbook and placed it gently on the nightstand. He ran his thumb across the spine once more, then pulled the covers over himself despite still being dressed.
"Day one," he murmured. "One royal down, two suspicious siblings, and a knight who wants to throw me into the moat. Not bad."
A pause.
"I wonder if they have a moat."
He closed his eyes.
Sleep came slowly, inked in charcoal and memory.