The palace had never glowed quite like this.
The Grand Ballroom shimmered beneath an ocean of floating crystal lights. Gold and crimson banners bearing the imperial crest hung from vaulted ceilings. Every noble family from across the empire — and even representatives from friendly kingdoms had gathered for the long-awaited return of Queen Elendra.
At the top of the grand stairway, the emperor stood tall, flanked by his children — Rythe at his right, and Elendra at his side. She wore a flowing gown of midnight blue, crowned with delicate silver threads that glimmered like stars. The court erupted into applause as the trumpets sounded and the imperial announcer bellowed:
"Her Majesty, Queen Elendra of the Empire of Ardan. Long live the Queen!"
Wine flowed. Laughter followed. Dancers spun in the open circle of polished marble as music swelled through the palace. The people celebrated not only their queen's return, but the newfound unity in the imperial family.
Rythe, regal and composed in an obsidian-black ensemble embroidered with gold, stood near the side of the ballroom, speaking with foreign emissaries and dignitaries. His eyes scanned the crowd now and then — reflexively, almost — as if still seeking someone who wasn't there.
That's when Calien Marvane appeared.
Clad in deep crimson robes with a dangerous slit up the side and a golden torque coiled around his throat, Calien moved like liquid fire, his every step echoing seduction and calculation.
He slid beside Rythe, ignoring the quiet stares from courtiers nearby.
"You've outdone yourself, Prince," Calien purred, sipping from a glass of Armandian wine. "The empire sings your name tonight."
"They sing for my mother," Rythe said coolly, his tone neutral. "As it should be."
"They sing for power, darling. And tonight, you wear it beautifully."
Calien stepped closer — just enough for his shoulder to graze Rythe's. His voice dropped to a velvet whisper.
"But between us, tell me... do you ever stop? Always so noble. So untouchable. So... alone."
Rythe turned to face him fully, his expression unreadable. His golden eyes — sharp, calculating, but weary — locked with Calien's.
"Is this another one of your games, Marvane?"
Calien smiled slowly. "What if it isn't?"
Across the ballroom, Lareth narrowed his eyes from where he stood with the other knights. Astrid, noticing the scene, smirked and elbowed Vaela, whispering something that made her sister snort into her drink.
"You've had your eye on me for a long time, Calien," Rythe murmured, leaning just slightly forward — enough to make the nobleman's pulse quicken. "But let me be clear: I'm not a prize to be won."
The words hit like ice. Calien's confident smirk wavered for just a fraction of a second.
The moment simmered, electric and tense, before Rythe turned away — dismissing Calien without another word. The nobleman stood frozen, drink in hand, stung and silently fuming as whispers rippled through the room.
Meanwhile, at the far end of the hall, Queen Elendra sat beside the emperor, radiant and composed. She looked out at her children — their laughter, their strength — and her heart swelled. This was what she had waited years to see.
As Rythe returned to his family's side, Vaela whispered with a grin, "Well? Survived your ex lover?"
Rythe merely rolled his eyes. "He'll recover. Or not."
Astrid leaned in. "Don't look now, but I think Lareth was about to deck him."
The siblings laughed as the music resumed, and dancers took the floor once again. The night was filled with celebration — of healing, of family, of the Queen.
But in the shadows, Calien Marvane watched Rythe closely.
And far away, in a sun-drenched Virelian garden, Aurean watched fireworks rise into the sky and wondered if, just maybe, the light he once thought lost forever... still waited for him.
The air was still and scented with crushed rosewood and burning sandal. Calien Marvane sat cross-legged on a cushioned divan, staring into the golden flame of the lamp as it flickered against the marble walls.
The banquet had not gone the way he hoped.
Rythe hadn't even looked at him twice — at least, not the way he once did. That carefully planned outfit, the subtle cologne Rythe once told him he liked, the light brush of hands in passing — nothing worked.
"He's changed…" Calien muttered under his breath.
He rose to his feet and moved to the mirror, eyeing himself. He was still beautiful — dangerous, desirable. But Rythe no longer cared for those things. Not from him. Not anymore.
A bitter smile curled his lips.
"So, if the prince no longer wants the courtesan, perhaps it's time he meets the confessor."
He turned, walking to his writing desk where several old correspondences lay open — including ones from Lareth, Maelus, and others from his days still loosely connected to Rythe's inner circle.
He poured himself wine and drank, not out of thirst, but habit — then set the goblet aside and spoke aloud to himself.
"He doesn't need seduction. He needs… understanding. Remorse. Redemption."
A gloved hand traced along the spines of his books until it stopped at one — a collection of old poems Rythe once lent him during their brief entanglement. He flipped it open, eyes resting on a torn edge of a note inside. Rythe's handwriting. His voice.
Calien took a slow, controlled breath.
"I'll remind him what I once was to him," he whispered. "Not the lover… but the one who knew him before the weight of crowns and empires. Before guilt."
He sat down again, but this time picked up a clean scroll.
"Dearest Rythe," he began, his voice quiet, carefully measured.
"I know I am the last person whose words you'd want to read. But I beg of you—let me try. Not as a noble. But as the man who once saw you cry behind the west tower after your first battle. The man who never forgot the way your eyes looked before the world made them hard."
He paused, struck by his own truth.
"You saved me once… from myself. Now let me try to return the favour."
He stopped writing.
No. Too desperate.
Not yet.
Instead, he placed the unfinished letter aside and smiled faintly.
"Step one," he whispered, "I will make him miss the version of me he once trusted. Then I'll be patient."
He stood and walked toward the window, eyes set on the distant barracks where Rythe often trained long into the night. The moon was high, casting silver shadows.
"If I can't seduce the man… I'll save the broken prince," he said softly. "And when he falls, he'll fall into my arms."
And behind his eyes, something dark and strangely genuine began to stir — a new plan forming.
Not of passion.
Not of war.
But of slow, deliberate emotional conquest.