The moment Kael stepped out of the carriage, a cold breeze curled around him, lifting the hem of his coat. Two palace stewards bowed low—older men who recognized him, though neither dared meet his eyes.
"This way, Your Highness," one murmured, his voice taut with formality.
They led him through a side corridor—quiet, far from the lavish marble walkways reserved for honored arrivals. These halls smelled faintly of old incense and steel polish, used only for covert meetings and shadowed ceremonies.
No portraits adorned the stone walls. Only flickering torches cast long shadows that danced like memories.
Kael was taken to a chamber reserved for foreign dignitaries—a diplomatic euphemism, perhaps, for those the Empire wasn't ready to parade. Inside, the air was warmer, though the silence remained the same.
A basin of steaming water stood near the hearth beside a low table, atop which rested a sealed wooden box bearing the Solandor crest.
He removed his gloves slowly, flexing his fingers, then turned toward Davis—already waiting with a folded robe and a faintly raised brow.
"The ceremonial cloak?" Kael asked.
Davis nodded. "Embroidered this morning. The Empress gave the order herself."
Kael scoffed softly, though his expression betrayed something more conflicted. He reached for the cloak—a midnight-black velvet garment, its embroidery only visible when the light caught it: flames curling like whispers.
"Subtle," Kael murmured, brushing his thumb across the thread. "A reminder I exist… without saying it aloud."
"Or a warning," Davis replied, adjusting the clasp shaped like a sun eclipsed.
Kael stood before the mirror. The pendant around his neck rested against his collarbone like a secret unspoken. His hair was combed back, his eyes steady. The ceremonial cloak fell over his shoulders like smoke.
No royal guards stood outside his door. No courtiers hovered with flattery or fanfare. Only silence.
A prince hidden in plain sight.
"Let them wonder," Kael said quietly.
And with that, he stepped into the shadowed corridor, toward the gilded chaos waiting beyond.
---
The ceremony hall
The chamber had fallen into a hush of expectation.
Aveline sat among the unbound nobles, poised and calm, though her presence alone had already stirred murmurs. But now, all attention shifted as the grand entrance was announced by the blare of silver trumpets.
The heavy double doors parted with stately precision.
Crown Prince Leonhart entered first, clad in white and gold robes that gleamed under the lanternlight. He walked like one born to rule, gaze sharp and assessing, every inch the favored heir with his reputation for ruthless wisdom. Eyes of jet-black swept the crowd like chess pieces—measured, calculated.
Prince Morgan followed, the second son—sleek, polished, and faintly amused, as if the entire gathering was for his entertainment. He wore deep navy edged in silver, and his eyes flicked about, searching for someone.
Applause rose softly, the crowd shifting to make way as the princes passed to take their places at the imperial dais.
Then, unexpectedly, the doors opened once more—and a third figure entered.
Clad in a black velvet cloak embroidered with hidden fire, Prince Kael Solandor walked into the light.
His steps were measured, unflinching. His amber eyes unreadable beneath the glow of floating lanterns. The air in the hall changed—some drew in breath, others looked away.
Those who didn't know him, stared.
Those who did… remembered.
Aveline did not flinch as she met his gaze across the hall.
The cursed prince had come.
---
Kael's POV
The warmth of the hall pressed in like a weight as Kael stepped beneath the archway. The velvet of his cloak absorbed the golden glow of the lanterns overhead.
For a heartbeat, the entire room pulsed with whispers.
He swept his gaze across the gathered nobility—silk-draped, jeweled, proud. These were the same people who had ignored him, denied him, forgotten he bore royal blood.
Now they looked.
Some bowed. Hesitantly. Late. Others didn't. Kael didn't care.
He walked the central aisle with a quiet precision. Not defiant. Not desperate. Just… there.
But something shifted.
A soft thrum in his chest—unfamiliar. The ever-present fire inside him, that wild, untamable force, was… calmer. Not extinguished, but stilled. As though it had found something it had long sought.
His hand curled briefly at his side. What changed?
No answer came. Only silence.
He reached his seat near the imperial dais and gave the briefest nod to his brothers, still wondering what, or who, had altered the fire's course.
---
Then came the wave of grandeur. With a resonant clang of ceremonial bells, the Emperor arrived.
Eldric Solandor entered not with noise, but with presence. He wore no crown—only the imperial cloak, black with golden embroidery trailing behind him like living silk. A ruler carved by war and silence, his gaze commanded the room before his voice ever would.
Beside him walked Empress Seraphina, graceful as winter moonlight in pale lavender and silver. Following were the imperial consorts—Consort Ella, regal and sharp-eyed, Morgan's mother; and Consort Sophia, softer-featured but watchful, mother to the twin princesses.
The audience rose.
Aveline followed, her chin high.
"Greetings, Your Majesties," echoed throughout the hall.
The storm had gathered.
The court. The rune. The rivals.
All now in one place.
---
A hush swept through the chamber as the High Oracle stepped forward, her robes billowing like stormclouds. She raised a hand, and golden runes spiraled into the air above the ceremonial dais—glowing symbols shifting with every name spoken.
"By the will of the Empire, and under the sacred contract of the Binding Rune," her voice rang out, cold and absolute, "we begin the ceremony of unions."
An attendant unrolled a scroll with careful reverence.
"We begin with the engagements."
"The first pair—Lord Renric of House Talvar and Lady Elisse of House Faelan, to be bound by the engagement band."
Polite applause followed as the couple stepped forward, pressing their palms together over the glowing altar. The rune flared with warm amber light as a thin band of gold wrapped their wrists.
Then came more names:
"Lady Mira of House Solvine and Lord Aurel of House Thorne."
"General Cassen Virell and Lady Ilira Mournvale."
"Arden Thorne of House Thorne and Lira Devane of House Devane."
Each pair approached the altar, each rune response different—rose, flame, violet—reflecting the aura of their bond. These were alliances of love or loyalty, the quieter echoes of power.
The audience murmured, gossip trailing behind every couple.
But all eyes—again and again—returned to the elevated platform, to the imperial princes and the girl seated just beside the dais.
The true drama had yet to begin.
---