The candles made the cloth look like water.
Soren watched the seamstress's hands pinching, folding, smoothing blue fabric over his shoulders while he counted his breaths to make sure they stayed even. The bandages around his ribs itched when he inhaled too deeply. Larem would say that was progress. To Soren it felt like punishment for waking up.
"Breathe in, Your Grace," the seamstress murmured.
He obeyed. The cloth tightened; a small flash of pain slid under his bones. He refused to flinch.
"If you make it any tighter," he said, "I will pass out halfway through the first toast."
"That would be dramatic," the valet offered from somewhere near his hem.
"I have met enough drama to last a lifetime," Soren replied. "I prefer breathing."
A quiet snort of laughter disappeared into the fabric.
In the doorway, Ecclesias watched.
He leaned against the frame as if he had simply stopped there, but Soren could feel his gaze the way he felt a hand on his shoulder: following the way he shifted his weight, the way his fingers brushed the table once to steady himself, the way his mouth tightened when the cloth pulled too hard across his chest.
"The colour suits you," Ecclesias said at last.
Soren glanced toward the mirror. The man reflected there looked like someone else wearing his bones: skin too pale, eyes too dark, wrapped in half‑pinned blue that dragged the light down and made the gold of the ring on his left hand stand out like a brand.
"It suits your banners," Soren said. "I assume that is the point."
Their gazes met in the glass. The king's eyes did not slide away from the bruises. He looked at him the way he looked at a map or a decision: straight on.
"The point," Ecclesias replied, "is that when they look at you, they remember which side you are on."
His gaze flicked, quick and involuntary, to the ring.
"And when they look at that," he added, "they remember it twice."
Soren turned his hand a little.
The metal moved with him, the thin line of gold catching the candlelight, closing the circle it had been shaped to mend. On his finger, against his skin, it looked less like decoration than a decision someone had already made.
"If you wanted them to like me," he said, "you are doing a terrible job."
"I do not need them to like you," Ecclesias said. "I need them to think twice before trying to touch what is mine to protect."
The seamstress stepped back, hands full of pins.
"It will move with you, Your Grace," she said. "As much as you are allowed to move."
Soren lifted his arms carefully. The robe pulled, then settled. It felt like something between armour and a shroud.
"Adequate," he said. "Thank you."
She and the valet bowed themselves out, leaving only cloth, candles, and the two of them.
For a moment, the room held the quiet.
Ecclesias pushed off the door and crossed the floor, slow, as if giving Soren the chance to say no. Soren did not move. When the king stopped in front of him, close enough that Soren had to tilt his head back to meet his eyes, something in his chest eased despite the bandages.
"They will talk," Ecclesias said.
"They already do," Soren answered. "At least now they will have new material."
Ecclesias' gaze dropped briefly to the ring.
"Keep that visible," he said. "If they are going to stare, they might as well see what they are afraid of."
Soren turned his hand again. The gold line flashed once, then dulled.
"If you wanted them to relax," he said, "this was a strange way to do it."
"I do not want them relaxed," Ecclesias said. "I want them careful."
He lifted his hand, slow enough to be refused. Soren stayed still. Fingers brushed the side of Soren's neck, just below the ear, checking heat and pulse at once. The touch was light, but Soren felt it all the way down his spine. His heart beat too fast under the king's thumb.
"You are still too hot," Ecclesias said. "Larem will complain."
"Larem always complains," Soren said. "It is how he breathes."
A knock broke the moment.
"Majesty," Kael called from the corridor. "They're arriving."
Ecclesias let his hand fall. As it dropped, his fingertips slid over the ring, following the circle once, like confirming a seal.
"Ready?" he asked.
"No," Soren said. "But I am going anyway."
Ecclesias' mouth twitched.
"That will be enough," he said.
Soren looked at the robe, at the faint reflection of them both in the mirror, at the band of metal on his finger.
Whatever else this night became, he would not be walking into it empty‑handed.
He had the ring.
He had the man who had put it there.
For now, that would have to be enough.
The great hall had been built to impress, not to comfort.
Light burned from ironwork overhead, spilled over banners, polished plates, and the long central table. Servants moved between clusters of nobles in practiced, quiet paths. Musicians tested a few soft notes before letting them die.
At the inner doors, Arven checked invitations like a scribe who had seen too many lies on paper. Kael stood nearby, half in shadow. Only his eyes moved, counting exits, watching hands, weighing who glanced too often toward the doors.
The herald's staff struck the floor.
"His Majesty, Ecclesias of the House—" he called, voice carrying.
"His Grace, the Queen Soren."
Conversation thinned. Heads turned in a wave.
Ecclesias appeared first, the crown's weight invisible but obvious in the way people reacted around him. Soren walked at his left.
He moved carefully, but he moved. The robe hid most of the stiffness and made it look like deliberate control. The ring sat at the end of a long, pale hand, dark band and thin gold catching bits of light.
For a heartbeat, the hall held still.
"He should still be in bed," someone whispered.
"Apparently not," another replied.
"Look at his hand—"
Soren felt the attention like cold air on bare skin. The far end of the hall seemed farther than it was. His ribs tightened around each breath.
"Breathe," Ecclesias murmured.
The word carried no title. It was not a polite suggestion.
Soren obeyed. The air tasted of wax, spice, and nerves.
"You did say this was a warning," he said under his breath.
"They chose to provoke it," Ecclesias replied. "Let them see what they started."
They walked the central aisle together, blue and black cutting a line through the room. Nobles bowed as they passed. Some bent so far they almost folded. Others dipped just enough to avoid offence. Soren marked each, tucking names and angles away for later.
The high table sat lower than custom, Ecclesias' quiet insult to height as proof of worth. They climbed the shallow steps.
Ecclesias took his chair, then waited, plain to see, for Soren to sit before he lifted his goblet. The hall noticed: the king's patience, the way Soren lowered himself with more care than pride, the brief moment where Ecclesias' hand hovered near his elbow as if ready to catch him.
Their eyes met over the space between their chairs. For one heartbeat, the rest of the hall blurred.
Then the musicians began to play, and sound rushed back in.
Wine loosened tongues as always. Laughter rose and fell. Servants carried dishes in and out. Kael's men moved among them dressed as footmen, extra musicians, spare shadows near the doors.
Soren ate enough to keep Larem from storming the hall, not enough to feel comfortable. The ache in his side had settled into a steady line that strengthened whenever he twisted. Every time he forgot and reached too far, his ribs reminded him.
Across the hall, near the musicians, a small cluster had formed around a single table: Lord Merrow, smooth and pleasant; Lady Essen, eyes sharp and measuring; three others orbiting them like bits of metal around a magnet.
"One of mine says they've exchanged four notes," Arven murmured, leaning toward the high table. "We have the last two."
He did not hand them to Ecclesias.
He set the folded scrap in front of Soren.
Ecclesias' expression didn't change. He made no move to stop it.
Soren took the note. The ring clicked once against the wood, a small sound that still made Arven's eyes cut toward it.
The words were polite: concern for the realm, for His Majesty, for stability. Between the lines, they were less careful: hints about strain, about "necessary remedies," about "difficult choices" if the king refused to be "guided."
Soren read it twice, then placed it between his and Ecclesias' plates where they both could see.
"They are not very original," he said quietly.
His fingers drifted toward Ecclesias' hand on the table, then changed course and closed instead around the ring, thumb rubbing once over the thin line of gold.
"If they want to discuss 'solutions,'" he added, "they can do it somewhere we can hear properly."
He pushed back his chair.
Ecclesias' hand twitched. He did not reach for him. Arven's shoulders tensed. Kael shifted his stance near a door, ready to move without drawing the eye.
Soren stood.
The hall felt the change.
He stepped down from the dais. Every movement was controlled, each step placed to avoid the angle that would make his ribs flare. The music softened on its own, as if the players sensed other rhythms taking over.
Heads turned as he passed. A few nobles pretended to be absorbed in their plates. Most watched openly.
Merrow set his goblet down a fraction too fast when Soren stopped at the end of his table.
"Your Grace honours us," Merrow said.
"I seem to do that a lot," Soren answered.
A ripple of nervous amusement passed around the cluster and faded.
He glanced at an empty chair beside Merrow. Someone missing. Or someone cautious.
"I was told," Soren said mildly, "that this evening was for the river districts."
He let that hang, then let his voice harden a little.
"The last cargo with your secondary mark did not help them."
Merrow's smile strained.
"Trade is… complicated, Your Grace," he said. "There are many hands between a barrel and a well."
"Yes," Soren said. "The Crown is currently very interested in which hands those were."
He lifted his left hand.
He didn't swing it or slam it down. He only turned his wrist so the ring was visible to everyone at the table, the candlelight catching the gold as it completed its circle.
Conversations nearby thinned. A musician missed a note and recovered.
"You will bring your ledgers," Soren said. "Three years. Routes, intermediaries, contracts. Nothing skipped because you considered it small."
Merrow swallowed.
"Is… that an official request?" he asked. "Or only a suggestion from—"
He stopped just short of saying something very unwise about queens.
Soren let the unfinished insult sit in the air between them.
"It is an order," he said. "Under the king's authority."
He did not turn to look at Ecclesias. The ring's weight on his finger was answer enough.
The silence after was not the silence of shock. It was the silence of people redoing their sums.
Merrow bowed his head, the angle shallow and stiff.
"As His Majesty commands," he said.
Soren inclined his own head just enough to acknowledge the words, not enough to soften anything, and turned.
The walk back to the dais felt longer. His legs were heavier; his ribs burned. Halfway up the steps, the room tilted for a heartbeat. His foot slipped against the edge of the next step.
A hand closed around his elbow.
To the hall, Ecclesias' movement looked smooth, easy—one more courteous gesture from a king helping his consort up the dais. To Soren, it was a grip strong enough to stop him pitching forward.
"You have made your point," Ecclesias murmured.
"I had… a few more," Soren said, aiming for lightness. It came out thin.
They reached their chairs. Ecclesias did not release him until Soren was sitting. Even then, his fingers stayed against Soren's sleeve a moment longer than protocol required before sliding back to his own goblet.
Down below, Merrow stared into his wine. Around him, others who had watched Soren's little detour weighed what it meant that the king's seal now sat on a hand that still shook when no one was looking.
Music swelled again. Talk resumed, but something under it had shifted. Curiosity and dislike were still there, and fear. Now there was also a new line, harder to name but easy to feel:
Caution.
When the last guests had bowed and gone to drag the night's gossip through their own halls, when servants were left to clear plates and collect dropped fragments of conversation, Soren sat in a smaller room off the great hall with his head tipped back and his eyes closed.
The chair was too hard. The robe itched at the back of his neck. His ribs hurt. When he opened his eyes too quickly, the candle flames smeared.
Larem paced in front of him.
"You are supposed to be recovering," he said. "Recovering, Soren. Not testing my work in front of an audience."
"I did not die," Soren said. His voice sounded scraped. "That is something."
"It is the least you could do," Larem replied. "Next time try doing it from bed."
He took Soren's wrist without asking and counted, thumb pressed against the thudding pulse. It was too fast, but steady. His gaze flicked once to the ring, then back up.
"You scared him," Ecclesias said from the wall.
"I scared Larem," Soren said. "That is easy. He jumps when water boils."
"You scared me," Ecclesias said.
Soren opened his eyes fully.
The formal layer had slipped off the king's face with the crown. There were lines there that hadn't been at the start of the evening. His shoulders were held a little too tight, as if he'd been braced for something he hadn't had the right to stop.
"I thought you liked dramatic evenings," Soren said.
"I do not like watching you walk away from me into a room full of people who want you gone," Ecclesias answered.
Larem let Soren's wrist go with an annoyed exhale.
"He will live," he said. "If he lies down before his body remembers it is allowed to collapse."
"That is optimistic," Soren said. "I misplaced my sense of timing years ago."
Larem shut his eyes briefly.
"You two truly deserve each other," he muttered. "Unfortunately for the rest of us."
He picked up his satchel.
"Sit," he told Ecclesias. "Closer. He will never admit it, but he is already leaning toward you."
He left before either of them could argue.
The room felt different with just the two of them and the soft crackle of the fire.
Ecclesias pushed away from the wall and crossed to the chair. He didn't take the one opposite. He sat on the low table in front of Soren instead, close enough that their knees almost touched.
"You did what you said you would," he said. "They cannot pretend they did not hear you now."
"I nearly fell on my face," Soren replied.
"Yes," Ecclesias said. "But they listened first."
Soren looked down at his hands.
The ring shone faintly. His fingers trembled slightly as he loosened them.
"They listened," he said, "because of this."
He brushed the band with his thumb.
Ecclesias reached out, slow. Soren did not pull away. The king's hand closed around his, warm and firm, folding Soren's fingers into his own so the ring was trapped between their palms.
"Because of us," Ecclesias said.
The word landed heavier than it sounded.
"If I stumble," Soren said quietly, "they will say you were wrong. That you trusted the wrong man. That this" he glanced at their joined hands "was a mistake."
"I have made worse mistakes than trusting you," Ecclesias said. "One of them was waiting as long as I did."
He said it simply.
Soren's throat tightened.
"You keep saying things like that where I can hear you," he murmured.
"Be grateful," Ecclesias said. "There were years when I did not say anything at all."
He turned Soren's hand gently, exposing the inside of his wrist. The skin there was thinner, softer. He bent his head and pressed his mouth there briefly, without drama where the pulse beat fast against his lips.
Soren drew in a sharp breath.
"If anyone sees," he said.
"They will see their king valuing what he has chosen," Ecclesias said. "And perhaps remember that the fastest way to hurt me is to touch you."
His thumb moved once over the ring, circling the metal.
"Let them think about that," he added.
Soren leaned his head back against the chair. The room shifted once, then settled. The pain in his ribs stayed, but the sharpness blurred under warmth and exhaustion.
"If I fall asleep," he said, "tell Larem you drugged me."
"He would believe it," Ecclesias said. "He still insists I am more dangerous than you."
"He is right," Soren murmured, already halfway under.
"Not to them," Ecclesias answered under his breath.
He shifted closer without fully thinking about it until Soren's knee brushed his. Soren didn't move away. If anything, his body eased into the contact, just enough to share the line of heat between them.
Their joined hands rested on the arm of the chair, Ecclesias' fingers still wrapped around Soren's. His thumb drew slow, absent circles across Soren's skin, round and round the band of metal, as if learning it by touch.
Outside, the palace hummed with the end of the banquet and the start of consequences. Arven was sorting intercepted notes. Kael was reviewing guards' reports. Somewhere, a messenger would soon leave with a summons Merrow could not ignore.
Inside, in the small, dim room, a man who should have died and the king who refused to let him be a convenient loss sat close enough to share warmth and air, a circle of metal gleaming between their hands like a small, stubborn promise.