The Great Hall smelled of roasted venison and spiced wine, but to Lyra, it smelled like a cage.
It was the Feast of the Moon's Turn, a night where the nobility of Elarion gathered to drink, boast, and pretend they liked one another. Lyra sat at the high table beside her father, her spine rigid against the velvet chair. She wore sapphires at her throat, cold and heavy, feeling less like a princess and more like a display piece.
Sir Alaric sat three seats down. He was drinking deeply, his eyes bright with a malice that hadn't yet found a target.
And standing at the far wall, near the heavy oak doors, was Kaelion.
He was in full uniform tonight—polished breastplate, crimson cloak, helmet tucked under his arm. He looked straight ahead, staring at nothing, a statue carved from discipline. But Lyra knew better. She knew that if she looked closely, she would see his chest rising in that slow, measured rhythm she had memorized in the rain.
She tried not to look at him.
Alaric, however, did nothing but look at him.
"A fine gathering, Your Majesty," Alaric said, his voice carrying too loudly over the music. He swirled his wine goblet, the red liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "Though I wonder... is it wise to let the common dogs stand so close to the table?"
The conversation at the high table lulled. The King frowned, glancing up from his plate. "They are the Royal Guard, Alaric. They are hardly dogs."
"Are they?" Alaric smiled, a sharp, serrated thing. He turned his chair slightly, facing the door. Facing Kaelion. "Some of them forget their place. They look at things they have no right to see. They touch things... they have no right to touch."
Lyra's heart slammed against her ribs. She gripped her fork so hard her knuckles turned white.
Kaelion didn't blink. He didn't twitch. He remained absolute stillness.
"You speak in riddles, Alaric," the King grunted, losing interest. "Have more wine."
"Gladly." Alaric stood up, swaying slightly. "But first, a toast. To purity. And to weeding out the rot in our beautiful gardens."
He walked down from the dais. The music stopped. The room sensed the shift in air pressure—the kind that happens right before lightning strikes.
Alaric walked slowly toward the guards. He passed two of them before stopping directly in front of Kaelion.
Kaelion was taller, but Alaric had the weight of a title.
"You," Alaric sneered, his face inches from Kaelion's. "The craftsman's boy."
"Sir," Kaelion replied. His voice was flat. Dead calm.
"I saw you yesterday," Alaric whispered, though in the silent hall, it sounded like a shout. "In the royal gardens. Fixing a bench... or so it seemed."
Alaric reached out and tapped a finger against Kaelion's breastplate. Clink. Clink.
"Tell me, boy. Did you fix the stone? Or were you too busy staring at the sun?"
Lyra started to rise, panic flooding her veins. "Father—"
"Sit down, Lyra," the King commanded, though he looked confused.
Kaelion's eyes finally shifted. They locked onto Alaric's. They weren't angry. They were warning.
"I did my duty, Sir."
"Your duty?" Alaric laughed. He turned back to the crowd, spreading his arms. "He says he did his duty! But I wonder... does a guard's duty involve speaking intimately with the King's daughter?"
The room gasped. A collective intake of breath that sucked the air out of the hall.
The King stood up, his face darkening. "Alaric. Watch your tongue."
"I only speak the truth, my King!" Alaric spun back to Kaelion, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss. "I saw you. I saw her. A princess and a peasant."
He poured the contents of his goblet onto Kaelion's boots. The red wine soaked into the leather, staining it like blood.
"Clean it up," Alaric ordered.
Kaelion didn't move.
"I said," Alaric shouted, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword, "clean it up, mongrel. Show us your place."
Lyra couldn't breathe. She looked at Kaelion, silently pleading, Don't do it. Please, just walk away.
But Kaelion wasn't looking at her anymore. He was looking at Alaric's hand—the hand that was now resting on the hilt of his blade, threatening violence in the King's hall.
"No," Kaelion said.
The word was soft, but it hit the room like a hammer.
Alaric's eyes went wide. "What did you say?"
"I said no." Kaelion stepped forward. just one step. The stillness was gone. The storm had broken. "You are drunk, Sir. And you are disrespecting the Crown."
"You dare lecture me?" Alaric drew his sword. Steel rang out, singing a deadly note.
It happened in a blur.
Alaric swung—a clumsy, angry strike meant to maim.
Kaelion didn't draw his weapon. He didn't need to.
He stepped inside the guard, caught Alaric's wrist with his left hand, and slammed his right palm into the knight's chest. The sound of impact was sickening—metal on metal, breath leaving lungs.
Alaric gasped, the sword clattering to the floor.
Kaelion twisted Alaric's arm, forcing him down to his knees. The movement was so fluid, so efficient, it looked like he was folding a piece of paper.
In seconds, the King's favorite knight was on the floor, and the craftsman's son was standing over him, hand empty, face terrifyingly calm.
"I am not a dog," Kaelion said, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "And you will not speak of her."
Silence.
Absolute, terrified silence.
Then, the King's voice roared, shaking the banners.
"GUARDS! SEIZE HIM!"
The spell broke. Six other guards rushed forward, spears lowered. Kaelion didn't fight them. He released Alaric, stepped back, and raised his hands.
He didn't look at the spears pointed at his throat.
He looked past them. Up at the high table.
At Lyra.
Her face was pale, tears streaming down her cheeks. She looked ready to scream, to run to him, to burn the whole kingdom down.
Kaelion shook his head. A microscopic movement. Don't.
Alaric scrambled to his feet, clutching his chest, face red with humiliation. "He attacked a knight! He treasonous filth! He touched the Princess—I saw it! He has corrupted her!"
"Enough!" The King slammed his fist on the table. He looked at Kaelion with cold, unrecognizable eyes. "You have struck a noble. You have spoken out of turn. And you have been accused of defiling the royal line."
"I have defiled nothing," Kaelion said steadily. "I protected her honor from a drunkard."
"Lies!" Alaric screamed.
The King waved his hand, a gesture of finality.
"Take him to the Iron Tower. We will hear the truth at dawn. And if what Sir Alaric says is true... he will hang before noon."
The guards grabbed Kaelion roughly. He didn't struggle. He let them drag him toward the heavy doors.
As they pushed him out into the night, he didn't look back at the King. He didn't look at Alaric.
He held Lyra's gaze until the heavy doors slammed shut, severing the connection.
Lyra stood frozen. The music had died. The food was cold.
And for the first time in her life, the princess didn't care about decorum. She didn't care about the whispers.
She turned to her father, her voice trembling with a rage that matched the storm in Kaelion's eyes.
"You just locked away the only man in this room worth saving."
Then she turned and ran. Not to her chambers.
But to the stairs that led down. toward the dark.