The king's entrance did not draw her attention as much as perhaps it should have. She respected the man, and held his governance in high esteem, but she had seen him plenty of times before. Galt was comparatively much more interesting. He was an unknown quantity and she was keen to discern what rumors already circulating the court were based in truth and what were the result of wild speculation. There also little that the attention of their monarch could do for nor she for him; she was without ambition for higher status and he would not have granted it to her as a woman.

Having already resigned herself to a very short private conversation with Galt, Silke was disappointed but not surprised when they were interrupted by the king's summons, and was prepared to step back so the new count could present himself. The proffered arm, however, took her entirely by surprise. As a woman who prided herself on her powers of perception, she  was ashamed to admit that she hadn't anticipated his reaction, and that his wish for her to accompany him was unexpected. Internally she cursed to herself. There was no opportunity to explain herself. If she rejected him at that moment, it would reflect badly on them both, but to accept could have far-reaching consequences personally and politically.

Silke hesitated. Taking his arm filled her with dread for the discussion they'd inevitably have later regarding their respective intentions. She didn't know how many times she had to gently refute a man's romantic overtures. Since being honest about her reasons was not an option, she would get to know a suitor long enough to find an excuse, one sturdy enough to dissuade further attempts, that she would then present as proof of incompatibility. Most titled lords had egos large enough to handle being turned away and she did not feel guilty for doing so. Arguably a lady telling them, 'No,' did them more good than harm. There were a few, though, that tugged at her heartstrings, genuinely distraught over what they believed was defects in their person.

They were greeted by the king, who said the same predictably pleasant things he always did, and Galt had the sense to bow when she curtsied. A smile was planted on her lips, face belying none of her inner turmoil. Out of the corner of her eye she could see less composed members of the court watching them. Older, more gossipy matrons were visibly smug in the knowledge that no one, not even the elusive Silke Kasper, could avoid potential matches. Her peers were besides themselves with glee at the exciting story of Count Harrowmark, a newcomer hero, making such an impression on their mysteriously unattached friend. It was the gaze of the younger gentleman, those who saw her as challenge to be conquered, or who were chafed at her rejections, that worried her. Fortunately, many men whom she had turned away had moved on and found their happiness, and some others never cared to make advances on her, but there were plenty that were glaring or barely concealing their contempt.

Galt asked if Silke could sit with him. If she hadn't been such an exemplary courtier, she would have either laughed, vomited, or fainted, hopefully not all at once. For half a second she fervently wished she could sink into the floor and disappear. It was equal parts amazing and terrifying that he unconsciously navigated from her from minor crisis to disaster, blissfully ignorant all the while, yet maintaining perfect precision for creating as much calamity as possible. Her arm stiffened against his as she tensed and braced herself for figurative impact.

Mentally a stream of very unladylike words described her feelings on the situation.

And then, because fortune itself must despise her with the intensity of a thousand suns, it came to bear that she was taking Vildraven's seat. The ducal son was not the sort that liked to share. Galt's appearance in his father's life in the form of a young, dashing savior, must have made him unsettled to say the least. As the eldest son, heir to a fortune and an enviable title, he had a rampaging sense of entitlement. Silke was confident that Vildraven would be wretchedly jealous of Galt for being so adored by the duke, having the praise of the king, and being touted as an icon of courage and selflessness.

As luck would have it, he was also someone whom Silke had rejected (twice since he did not take her first refusal seriously). She sucked in her breath as Vildraven's tantrum was cut off by the two men whose approval and affection he most craved, and their eyes met briefly before he retreated into the mass of well-dressed lords and ladies. It wasn't over. Everyone else might have considered the matter settled, but she knew Vildraven well enough to know that he would fight to the bitter end to take back what he believed had been stolen from him by Galt. Unfortunately, that included her, and there was nothing she could do to stop what had been started.

When they finally sat down at the table her stomach, which had lurched into her throat minutes earlier, had resettled. Silke recognized that Galt was not the best at small talk so she led the conversations with Valdemar and his majesty, all while managing not to seem as if she were doing so. For the duke she inquired about his recovery after his ordeal, congratulated him and his wife on a recent anniversary, and complimented on their taste in attire, admiring the duchess's exquisite jewelry. The king and she chatted about a hunt he held a fortnight ago and a couple pieces of artwork he had commissioned and placed in the royal gallery. She was going through the motions, smiling brilliantly, and being her charming self, and quietly trying to find a solution to her romantic predicament.

Picking up a piece of bread, Silke listened quietly as Galt was finally afforded an opportunity to answer her question from earlier. There was an intensity to her gaze and a sympathetic turn of her lips as he stumbled over his sentences. He was no master deceiver. The facts, as he presented them, didn't quite add up. As a man of poor, unremarkable background, there was no reason for the bandits to take him prisoner, and Galt failed to pro-actively insert rationale. Master manipulator that she was, she knew that for someone possessed of a sharp wit, this omission could damage him- it would be better to have a fabrication prepared if he came under a verbal interrogation. "Quite curious they'd tie you up," she remarked, leaning in, a playful twinkle in her eye conveying she'd caught the slip. "You may want to... polish that portion of your retelling before you recount it again," the noblewoman suggested.

As if on cue, that damnable Vildraven, who had been seated on the other side of her to preserve the seating arrangement to the best of the royal staff's ability, cleared his throat. He had not been eavesdropping since he didn't care about Galt. His interruption was merely to gain Silke's attention to aggressively reassert himself. Groaning under her breath (she was in close enough proximity to Galt he likely heard her), she leaned back in her chair and turned her head toward the insufferable ducal son, a more stiff smile plastered on her face than had been there a second prior.

"Lady Silke," he began, "I would be honored to be your escort for the rest of evening. Surely Count Galt had other ladies of the court he would like to meet after he's had a chance to dine." It sounded like a gracious gesture, advantageous to them both, but she wasn't naive enough to take the bait.

"How very generous of you, Lord Vildraven, but I must decline," she replied sweetly, though her eyes were as cold as ice. "I've already promised Count Galt to facilitate certain introductions." It was a bold-faced lie that she delivered with aplomb. There was no dip or flinch in her voice, her body language remained as still as when she was honest, and it was utterly indistinguishable to anyone other than herself and Galt as a falsehood. Silke realized she was taking a risk exposing her gift to her companion; however, being trapped with Vildraven as her escort was the least desirable outcome.

"How dare you-," he growled in a low tone that did not carry to the rest of the table.

"Careful," Silke chided cheerfully, "for my brother Vincent is watching, and I'd hate for him to misinterpret your actions as hostility. He has a short temper and is quite skilled with a blade," she added, feigning concern for his well-being so adeptly that Vildraven was unable to distinguish if she was sincerely worried about his health. "Why, he's looking over here right this moment," she said as she gave a small wave to her family.