[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Q4W8Tq9.jpeg[/img][/center] [center][color=#808080][x] [x] [x][/color][/center] [center][color=#808080][i]Within the training yard of the Black Citadel | Present day[/i][/color][/center] [center][color=CC5500][i]#CC5500[/i][/color] [color=#808080]&[/color] [color=#6495ED][i]#6495ED[/i][/color][/center] [color=gray][i]Eagle to wolf…[/i] The sword slashed downward across the imagined body—right shoulder to left hip. [i]Wolf to horse…[/i] The blade’s tip rose in a dangerous flash, left hip climbing to striking height. Sweat flung from Valerius’ arms as he drove the weapon through its forms, the same beading and flying from beneath his set brow. Strike. The sword pierced downward and forward, driving itself just above the neck flange of the chest plate and below the jaw of the helm, directly into the hollow of the throat. A definitive killing blow. Death would come swiftly. Lifeblood spilling, breath choking out in moments. [i]Just like the traitor had died.[/i] Valerius clenched his jaw, forcing the thought—the memory—from his mind. Focus. Sliding his left foot deftly back across the packed earth, Valerius recovered his stance. Sword back to low carry; dog—efficient and easy. With his hands held low, his chest opened to the afternoon sun, tunic tied loose at the belt of his trousers. The cream of his skin rippled over iron muscle, the masculine canvas marred only by the rosé criss-cross of old battle scars and the living marks of the training ground. His breath was up now, lungs working to draw in the thin mountain air. Again. Valerius repeated the form, once more eviscerating his imaginary opponent upon Hearthward’s razor edge. Again. Sweat flew, darkening the dusty ground like a brief drizzle of rain. Again. Broad back to the sun now; muscled wings bearing up shoulders already burdened with the weight of House Kenra’s future. From the arch of the practice yard’s entrance tunnel, intelligent dark eyes watched the Kenran heir from the shelter of shadow. The young man shifted within his robes—robes far too heavy for the summer heat, but garments required for his station as a solicitor of River’s End. Elian Thorne lowered his gaze respectfully as Valerius moved through another series of powerful strokes, the swordsman’s path gradually orienting him toward the tunnel. Valerius was lost to exertion, however, and paid no heed to the presence lingering in the shade. Like the inevitable pull of gravity, Elian could only keep his eyes downcast for so long. They rose—drawn to the zenith that was Lord Valerius Kenra. [color=#6495ED]“Even in the shade, you sweat here.”[/color] Elian jumped outright in his slippers. Clamping a hand over his mouth to stifle a startled sound, the solicitor spun toward the voice, bowing before he had even fully turned, his nose nearly meeting the stone. [color=white]“My Lady!”[/color] Elian whispered sharply. [color=white]“I—I didn’t see you there. I was—”[/color] [color=#6495ED]“…Preparing to advise my brother to cease his distractions and ready himself for the evening?”[/color] Lyra interrupted smoothly. A knowing—though not unkind—expression played across her face as she watched Elian squirm beneath her regard. She added, almost as an afterthought, [color=#6495ED]“Valerius is fortunate to have such an [i]attentive[/i] and dutiful friend.”[/color] Gulping, Elian bowed lower still, dark curls falling like a curtain before his face. [color=white]“Thank you, My Lady.”[/color] Lyra’s eyes lingered on Elian for a moment longer than courtesy demanded—not long enough to unnerve him, but long enough to measure the young man properly. Ink-stained fingers, careful posture, the faint sheen of heat upon his brow despite the shade. [color=#6495ED]“You’ve done enough watching for one afternoon,”[/color] Lyra said at last, her tone light but final. [color=#6495ED]“See to your notes. The evening will give you more than enough to record.”[/color] Relief flickered across Elian’s face before he could suppress it. [color=white]“Of course, My Lady.”[/color] He bowed once more—deeply, earnestly—then straightened with visible effort. His gaze betrayed him one final time, lifting instinctively toward Valerius’s broad back as the heir moved through a final measured recovery step, the sword settling into low guard as if it belonged there as naturally as breath. Elian caught himself. Eyes down. Step back. Withdraw. He retreated through the archway with quiet haste, slippers whispering against stone, until he was swallowed once more by the tunnels and corridors that favored men who listened more than they spoke. Only then did Lyra turn her full attention to her brother. Valerius completed the sequence once more—precise, powerful, unrelenting. Hearthward cut through the air in a final descending stroke before he arrested the motion and stood still, chest heaving. Sweat traced slow paths down his temples and along the lines of his neck. [color=#6495ED]“Enough.”[/color] Valerius did not turn. [color=#CC5500]“Again.”[/color] Lyra crossed the packed earth with measured steps, skirts gathered just enough to keep dust from their hem. She stopped well within his reach—closer than most would dare—and spoke softly, so that only he could hear. [color=#6495ED]“You’ve been here since the sun cleared the battlements. You’re not honing your edge, Valerius. You’re hiding.”[/color] That gave him pause. The sword dipped a fraction. [color=#CC5500]“I am preparing.”[/color] Lyra reached out—not to touch him, but to the blade. Two fingers pressed lightly against the flat of Hearthward, arresting its restless motion with casual certainty. [color=#6495ED]“You prepare for battle with steel. This evening is not that.”[/color] Valerius exhaled slowly through his nose. He finally turned to face her, the sun at his back casting his features in stark relief—scarred, earnest, unguarded. [color=#CC5500]“They will weigh us,”[/color] he said. [color=#CC5500]“Measure every word.”[/color] [color=#6495ED]“They will,”[/color] Lyra agreed. [color=#6495ED]“And you will endure it. As you endure everything else.”[/color] His gaze dropped, briefly, to his attire—the simple riding trousers, the worn boots, the plain tunic still damp with exertion. [color=#CC5500]“I have nothing fit to wear.”[/color] Lyra’s smile softened—just a touch. [color=#6495ED]“No.”[/color] [color=#6495ED]“You do not.”[/color] She stepped past him, forcing him to turn as she placed herself squarely in his path back toward the keep. [color=#6495ED]“You will stand taller than any silk-wrapped peacock in that hall. You will speak plainly. You will not pretend to be something you are not.”[/color] Her eyes met his, sharp and steady. [color=#6495ED]“They invited House Kenra because they need us—not because we impressed them.”[/color] Valerius absorbed that in silence. The practice yard felt suddenly very small. Beyond its walls lay torchlight, music, laughter, scrutiny. Alliances yet unformed. Enmities waiting only for provocation. He slid Hearthward into its scabbard, the weight settling against his hip like an old truth. [color=#CC5500]“I would rather face a shield wall.”[/color] Lyra laughed softly. [color=#6495ED]“I know.”[/color] She paused at the archway and glanced back. [color=#6495ED]“Clean yourself. Change what you can. And try not to look as though you’re marching to your execution.”[/color] Then she was gone. Valerius Kenra stood alone with the packed earth, the cooling blade, and the knowledge that no amount of training would spare him what awaited beyond the doors of the Black Citadel's great hall. He squared his shoulders and turned toward the keep—toward wine and watchers, toward expectation and judgment—knowing full well that tonight, he would be seen. And found wanting. Or not.[/color] [hr] [center][color=#808080][x] [x] [x][/color][/center] [center][color=#808080][i]Within the Great Hall of the Black Citadel | Present day[/i][/color][/center] [color=gray]Lyra’s ears rang—not from the hum of the Great Hall, but from her pulse trilling with nerves. She barely felt the swish of her skirts about her feet, nor the sweat that trickled down the valley of her corseted back. Resplendent in an off-shoulder gown of cobalt blue trimmed with crimson, Lyra kept her chin high despite the haze of her heightened senses and pounding heart. Anxiety heightened her state, sharpened her edge. The daughter of Kenra was more like her mother in that way; a stone that stood against the gale, proud and unyielding. Lord Garrick, conversely, was akin to a great tree—bending without breaking when faced with the wind. Rooted deep. Stubborn. Sure. Qualities… until the storm was too fierce and timbers began to crack. Sliding her eyes to the left, she caught Valerius’ gaze. Her elder brother—ever the stalwart gentleman—metered his stride so as not to overtake her as he escorted her toward the royal dais. His hair was oiled back, revealing keen eyes, a proud nose, masculine cheeks, and a strong jaw. A handsome man, undoubtedly. Yet as his sister, Lyra could see the disquiet behind his gaze. She offered him a discreet, reassuring smile. The servants had done their best. Valerius’ overcoat was a riding jacket that had seen one mile too many. The blue of the garment had faded from cobalt to a dusty, infant sky, and the embroidered Kenran knots of crimson thread were bare in places, flying loose in others. Yet the outfit was immaculately clean, freshly scented with oils of sandalwood and lavender. Lyra took pride in the fact that no matter the quality of the adornment, there was no diminishing the capable set of Valerius’ broad shoulders, nor the ease with which he returned the kindness of her subtle expression. Looking down upon his sister from the corner of his gaze, Valerius returned her affection with a quick wink. The petite, dark woman beside him was every bit the pride of Kenra—and the Huntress that so many said she was. Poised. Intelligent. Beautiful. Cunning. She cut a fine feminine figure in her glimmering gown. Her chocolate hair was coiffed into a complicated braid that mirrored the Kenran knot woven around the sword in their house emblem. Kohl sharpened her eyes and deepened her gaze, while her small mouth was rouged in the same crimson that trimmed her gown. At her throat, a ribbon of cobalt held a small silver owl—an owl of Storvane—clutching a sapphire in its talons. Valerius knew the meaning well enough. It was a symbol of loyalty. Of unity. A quiet declaration that House Kenra was ready to serve—and ready for more than mere alliance. Ready for a [i]future[/i]. [color=#0047AB]“My friend! My King! Your Most Imminent Grace!”[/color] Lord Garrick Kenra’s booming greeting shattered the intimate moment between siblings, yanking both Valerius and Lyra sharply into the present. The Kenran procession had reached the dais at last—fate, undeniable and unavoidable, had arrived. Their father stood before the royal family, one arm outstretched in greeting, the other firmly clasped by Lady Elara. Garrick regarded King Rowan and the Storvanes with genuine warmth and pride as he introduced his family, his voice filling the Great Hall with the confidence of a man who had never doubted his place in the world. Lady Elara stood with him—fox-red hair pinned beneath veil and pearls, her smile measured, her eyes keen and accounting. Where Garrick offered affection, Elara offered appraisal. Lyra could almost feel her mother’s thoughts moving like a ledger behind those eyes, tallying faces, alliances, and silent debts. Behind them, House Kenra arranged itself with the quiet discipline of a shield wall. Guards stilled. Servants lowered their eyes. Silas Vane hovered just beyond the family’s gravity, easy and observant, a man who knew when charm was a blade best kept sheathed. Somewhere behind Lyra’s shoulder, she could feel Elian Thorne’s anxious attention like the whisper of pages turning in a closed book. Lyra’s gaze drifted—only briefly—across the royal dais. King Rowan wore power as a cloak meant to warm rather than smother, his smile open even beneath the weight of a realm. Queen Valenya sat beside him like cut stone—beautiful, immaculate, and cold enough to burn. Their children were arranged as if by divine intent: Maeve poised and predatory in her perfection; Dorian restless, charming, already feeding on the room’s attention; Rhea pale, rigid, trying to be braver than her body would allow. And then there was Declan. He stood apart, armor dark and polished, the Storvane owl emblazoned upon his chest. A man who had chosen duty over comfort and carried that choice in every line of his posture. Lyra narrowed her eyes a fraction. Not a peacock. Not a court dancer. A blade that did not glitter for applause. Valerius shifted beside her, fingers brushing unconsciously against Hearthward’s belt at his hip. The motion steadied him. Lyra felt the tension in his shoulders, the control in his breathing, the quiet strain of knowing he would be seen tonight—measured not only for what he was, but for what he wore. Court predators loved weakness. They loved blood even more. Yet if any man in Aethoria was built to endure scrutiny, it was Valerius Kenra. Lord Garrick stepped forward another pace, laughter booming once more as he clasped hands with his old friend. [color=#0047AB]“My King,”[/color] he said, softer now but no less certain. [color=#0047AB]“River’s End is yours, as it always has been.”[/color] Lyra flicked her gaze—just once—to the princesses. Maeve’s eyes were polished silver, reflective and sharp. Rhea’s were not. Rhea watched House Kenra like a storm on the horizon—beautiful, terrifying, and impossible to ignore. Lyra straightened, shoulders back, chin high. A Huntress did not flinch at danger. She welcomed it. Measured it. Chose where to strike. She leaned subtly toward her brother, her voice barely more than breath. [color=#6495ED]“And now,”[/color] she murmured, [color=#6495ED]“we see what kind of talons these owls keep.”[/color] Valerius’ jaw set. His eyes sharpened. [color=#CC5500]“Fate upon our sword,”[/color] he replied. And as Lord Garrick’s laughter rang warm and loud through the Great Hall, the eyes of the Ninefold fixed upon House Kenra— —the game began. The King’s smile, while always present, grew, stretching nearly ear to ear at the approach of his longtime friend and ally. Never one for formalities, he descended the stairs of the dais, meeting Lord Kenra on even ground, eye to eye, man to man. He clasped his hands in a strong, but warm shake that spoke of nothing but welcome and companionship. [color=dbbc77]"Old friend,"[/color] he beamed, while clapping his other hand to the man’s shoulder. [color=dbbc77]"Your presence is always appreciated. I pray your travels were steady and calm."[/color] He released his hold and took a small step back, but did not ascend the stairs, not wishing to be superior but equal. His attention shifted from the Lord to meet the gaze of each member of the Kenra family with warm eyes and a kind smile. [color=dbbc77]"Thank you all for making the long journey. I know it is not an easy road but I do hope you enjoy your time in the Citadel."[/color] King Rowan bowed his head in deference, lowering himself, humbling himself before his guests in a way that was unbefitting for a King, but the exact man he was. Of the people, not over them. His stance opened, waving his hand up toward the dais where his beautiful family watched and waited. [color=dbbc77]"Allow me to introduce my family under far less ceremony,"[/color] he jested with a laugh like the summer’s sun. [color=dbbc77]"You are familiar with my wife, Valenya."[/color] The Queen took a step forward, remaining tall and elegant overlooking the hall and introductions with the graceful distance of a ruler overseeing her subjects, not among them like her husband but above them. She studied the Kenras with a keen scrutiny, her mind’s quill noting their demeanor ease… Or in the young Lord’s case, a lack of propriety at the lack of finery. Were they trying to send a message that someone too kind, like her husband, would miss? Or was it simply ignorance or insolence? While she mentally crossed out the name Valerius and migrated it further down her list, her face remained a perfect mask of poise and prestige. Delicate fingers gathered her ivory skirts as she lowered into a small curtsy. She did not drop as low as tradition demanded but low enough to be considered civil. Only her knees bent, back remaining straight as a pin and her head giving the smallest of bows. [color=942641]"Lord Kenra. Lady Kenra."[/color] As the Queen stepped back, the King’s hand shifted toward Dorian who stood far more casually than ceremony dictated. His entire body was tilted, leaning into his shoulder that was pressed against the side of the throne. His hands were lazily cupped before him and his right leg was leisurely crossed in front of the other. [color=dbbc77]"My son and heir, Dorian."[/color] The King’s words never lost their levity, even though his smile shifted, betraying the discipline that sparked behind his eyes. Dorian pushed off the throne, rocking himself upright before taking a step forward. His one loose curl bounced against his cheekbone with the movement, framing his handsome face and dark hazel eyes. His smile had hints of his father’s warmth along with a cunning sharpness that came from his mother. It curved to one side, a charming smirk that had become second nature to the point he no longer realized he was doing it. Unlike his mother, he didn’t judge or size up the family before them, just simply took them in. His father’s wartime companion, weathered but jovial. A daughter with a cunning gaze and a commanding presence like his mother. And a son who looked like he wanted nothing more than to disappear, while dressed to stand out. Tall as a tower, a face to make any woman swoon, and muscles… hidden, but Dorian knew… He always knew. The young Lord, no doubt, was the type of man who was oblivious to his appeal and seemed far too… [i]traditional[/i] to be interested in anything other than women. [i]How disappointing.[/i] The Prince tucked one arm behind his back while the other crossed his abdomen before lowering himself into a bow that lacked the formal precision his mother expected of him. While his head was low, he couldn’t fight a quiet chuckle that emerged like a jest that was whispered for only his ears. [color=846d49]"My Lords, my Ladies, a pleasure."[/color] The King waved him off with an incredulous scoff before beckoning forward both of the Princesses. [color=dbbc77]"And my lovely daughters, Maeve and Rhea."[/color] Both women stepped forward, a reflection of their parents, night and day. One harsh and unyielding with a sharp precision, cold and rigid like porcelain. The other was uncertain, with a warmth and softness that matched her father, malleable, but strong in her compassion. They both curtsied. Maeve was the picture of perfection she strove to be, a mirror of her mother in all of her elegance and poise. While Rhea was a little out of sync, her back wasn’t quite as straight and her movements were a bit strained beneath the multitude of fabric. Maeve peeled away every layer of the family before them, rearranging and editing her list like her parchments laid before her. At first glance, her gaze snapped toward the silver owl clutching a sapphire, no doubt a declaration, but brazen and heavy handed to the point she had to refrain from rolling her eyes at the gesture. Then Valerius—[i]she recalled from her notes[/i]—top of her list and highest prospective suitor looked every part a warrior, handsome too. [i]But[/i]—her gaze trailed unabashedly down his body, taking in his worn riding attire—was underdressed, a grave mistake in the presence of royalty. Like sorting the pages of her mind, she took Valerius and slid him farther down in the stack, nestling him between Kaladan Bray and Niktos Velmorra. Unbidden like a thought that slipped free before she could seize it, Maeve spoke. [color=2d5a32]"Are those [i]riding[/i] clothes?"[/color] [color=10636f]"[i]Maeve![/i]"[/color] Rhea gasped, her head snapping toward her sister, stunned at the judgement that fell so effortlessly from her sister’s mouth in the presence of others. Her cheeks flushed brighter than the red that adorned the Kenras’ attire from the secondhand embarrassment. Her gaze quickly fell to her hands as her fingers fiddled with the blue trim along the hem of her corset. Behind them, Dorian snorted out a laugh, unable to hide his amusement at his [i]‘pristine’[/i] sister slipping up less than an hour into the evening. The Queen shot him a sharp, sidelong glance which first pulled another laugh from him, before he averted his gaze and coughed in an attempt to mask the chuckle that still rumbled in his chest. [color=dbbc77]"[i]Enough,[/i]"[/color] the King snapped with a quiet sharpness so it would not draw undesired attention. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he turned his attention back toward Lord Garrik. [color=dbbc77]"Apologies for my children. They’ve grown so accustomed to bickering amongst themselves that they forget how to behave in the presence of our guests."[/color] Lord Garrick had placed a hand over his heart and was beginning to bow to Queen Valenya when Princess Maeve’s words cut cleanly through the warmth of the introductions. His pleasant, sun-worn features creased in surprise—but not in offense, nor embarrassment. Beside Valerius, Lady Lyra’s eyes flared for the barest of moments. Her hand tightened around the crook of Valerius’ arm, and she felt the fine hairs at the back of her neck prickle with heat. She kept her poise, her gaze shifting almost commiseratively to Princess Rhea as the young woman mouthed her sister’s name in reproach. Lady Elara’s vulpine eyes closed slowly, as if some quiet instinct had been confirmed. When she opened them again, her features returned to their prior serenity, save for a respectful arch now touching her brow and mouth. The matriarch of House Kenra inclined her chin toward her husband, awaiting his reply. [color=#0047AB]“My King, my sincerest apologies,”[/color] Lord Garrick began, earnest and direct, his gaze holding Rowan’s without faltering. [color=#0047AB]“You needn’t offer excuse—it is House Kenra that owes an explanation…”[/color] With a resolute set to his jaw, Valerius released his arm from Lyra’s grasp and stepped forward, coolly interrupting his father. He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed—lower than his station or the moment demanded. When he straightened, he met each of the royals in turn with a steady, unguarded gaze, beginning with the King himself. [color=#CC5500]“Your Grace. My King. My Queen. And all of House Storvane,”[/color] Valerius said. [color=#CC5500]“I apologize for my appearance. I assure you I am most honored—indeed humbled—to stand before the family to whom my house is fully and wholeheartedly pledged.”[/color] His voice remained calm, even, and contrite, despite the thunder of nerves battering at his skull. [color=#CC5500]“I offer that on the road from River’s End, my trunk was lost—and with it, all attire befitting this occasion.”[/color] At last, Valerius turned his gaze to Princess Maeve. He met her haughty, striking attention without flinching. In that moment, it felt like the bravest thing he had ever done, and he pressed forward as if charging a line of leveled lances. [color=#CC5500]“I came adorned thus tonight,”[/color] he said plainly, [color=#CC5500]“of the mind that it would be slightly less offensive than wearing nothing at all.”[/color] Maeve held his gaze, unwavering and piercing, looking down at him from the slope of her nose as he addressed her directly and drew a breath closer. She held her ground, face unchanging and stoic. All the while an image, unbidden and vulgar, crawled to the forefront of her mind. A vision of Lord Valerius, just as he was but absent his tattered riding attire, unclothed before the entirety of court. Her pulse quickened, unsure if it was from the brazen comment so openly given or perhaps an odd curiosity. It nearly drew her eyes south… There was a flicker, but she kept them steadfast and locked on his own, even when she felt a warmth threaten to bloom across her cheeks. She remained unchanging and stubborn in her stance until a boisterous laugh rumbled to life from behind her, causing her to flinch and break eye contact. Dorian was nearly doubled over, hand pressed to his stomach as his roar of laughter returned tenfold. [color=846d49]"Now [i]that[/i] would make courting far more interesting."[/color] [color=942641]"[i]Dorian,[/i]"[/color] the Queen hissed, her voice like a knife cutting through the small gathering. Meanwhile Rhea looked like nothing would make her happier than to disappear beneath her skirts and melt through the floor. [color=2d5a32]"I suppose…"[/color] Maeve cleared her throat, steeling her composure to push beyond her brother’s immaturity and meet the Lord’s gaze once again. [color=2d5a32]"We should be thankful that not all of your adornments were lost to your travels, [i]Lord Valerius,[/i]"[/color] she replied, pointedly saying his name when it had yet to be readily given. All the implications said and unsaid were like a silent challenge, a move on the chessboard to show a glimpse at the knowledge she had been curating for months in preparation for this exact moment. [color=dbbc77]"There is no need to apologize, my Lords,"[/color] the King interjected, sparing his children sidelong glances in a bid to command obeisance. He turned his attention back to Lord Garrick before letting it settle on Valerius. [color=dbbc77]"It is unfortunate that the Gods frowned upon your journey."[/color] His gaze shifted toward the far side of the dais where Declan stood like a gargoyle in black with his back to the wall, a vigilant guardian that melted into the darkness of shadows rather than demanding attention. The King’s brows rose, an idea sparking, and he set to motion. [color=dbbc77]"Ser Declan,"[/color] he called toward his silent sentinel. When he caught his son’s attention, he beckoned him closer with a small wave of two fingers. Declan had been paying attention in the unseen ways most of the guard listened and watched like paintings that hung on the walls or how statues lurked at the end of the hall. He was invisible like the servants who roamed the Citadel, only seen when called upon or they deemed it so. He had mastered the skill of stoic attentiveness, unmoved by comments, humor, or scenes, but always watching. But when his father called his name, it tore through his vigil and demanded his presence. He looked toward his father, brows furrowed in confusion. There was a moment where he hesitated, but heeded the call, loyal and dutiful as was expected of him. Declan approached, his right hand poised at his side, left loosely wrapped around the hilt of his sword. He stopped short of invading the gathering of nobles, but close enough to hear his King’s demands at a respectable distance. [color=42557d]"Your Grace."[/color] He bowed. [color=dbbc77]"Come here, son."[/color] The King waved him closer with a warm smile and casual gesture that went beyond formalities and rank. Declan drew in a deep breath as his gaze drifted between the members of House Kenra and then his own family. He paused on Rhea for a beat, just long enough to see her warm, albeit unnerved smile of gentle reassurance. He closed the remaining distance, filling the space his father opened for him with an outstretched arm that braced him across his shoulders. [color=dbbc77]"Do you recall if we kept any of your old garments?"[/color] [color=42557d]"I, uh…"[/color] Declan’s smile became a little uneven as the question caught him off guard. He blinked once or twice trying to push beyond duty and into the younger man who was once a Prince. [color=42557d]"I believe most of it remains in the wardrobe in my old chambers."[/color] He knew his father had the answer before he spoke. It was his wish to keep everything the way it was when Declan decided to step down and join the guard. That revelation didn’t require his assistance, but beneath it all he knew it was a way to include him as his son, even when position demanded otherwise. [color=dbbc77]"Wonderful!"[/color] The King clapped him against the back of the shoulder once before redirecting his smile toward the Kenras. [color=dbbc77]"I think Lord Valerius might be a bit tall, but your old attire would serve him better than collecting dust,"[/color] he concluded with a pleased nod. [color=dbbc77]"You shall aid him with this tomorrow, yes?"[/color] While worded like a command, the King’s tone showed the gentleness of a father to a son, not a King to a subordinate. Declan bowed his head with a small smile. [color=42557d]"Of course. It would be my honor."[/color] [color=dbbc77]"Then it is settled."[/color] The King’s smile grew with a radiated warmth, pleased in knowing he was able to help in some small way. He gave his son one last pat to the back before releasing him, and letting him return to his post. The King’s warmth, his kindness, and the magnanimous finality with which the matter had been concluded took a long moment to reach Valerius’s consciousness. When he loosed his words to the princess, the arrow had flown truer than he had ever imagined. For in truth, Valerius hadn’t envisioned at all—he had spoken, innocently brazen and daringly wholesome. The way the princess looked down upon him from her high place, imperious, impervious, beautiful, was like that of a poised blade glinting in the morning sun before biting deep. Yet, no bite came. Something else had shimmered instead, subtle and so imperceptible that Valerius questioned whether he had seen it at all. What’s more—she had already known his name. [color=#CC5500]“Your Graces,”[/color] Valerius said at last, his mind finally catching up to the moment. Pulling his eyes from Maeve, he inclined his head first to the King, and then to Ser Declan. [color=#CC5500]“You do me a kindness that I will never forget. Thank you, truly.”[/color] Lord Garrick took the moment to step to Valerius and clap his son upon the shoulder. [color=#0047AB]“Well,”[/color] the Kenran lord said, [color=#0047AB]“there’s nothing quite like missing trousers to bring people together.”[/color] Garrick chuckled heartily at his own jest, the laughter somehow taking the edge off the lingering bite of the Queen’s rebuke of Dorian. [color=#0047AB]“Though we Kenras have already thrown decorum to the wind, please allow me the indulgence of introducing my family.”[/color] [color=#0047AB]“Your Graces, my wife, Lady Elara Kenra,”[/color] Garrick continued, reaching out with the hand not resting upon Valerius’s shoulder to warmly indicate his spouse. At her introduction, Lady Elara executed a perfect curtsy, inclining her head just so that her circlet of pearls fell aesthetically across her brow. [color=#DC143C]“It is my most esteemed honor to see you again, Your Graces,”[/color] she said, sharp eyes demurring respectfully from King to Queen, and then across the Storvane progeny. [color=#0047AB]“Valerius, my son and heir,”[/color] Garrick added, squeezing Valerius’s shoulder, pride evident in his smile. As Valerius bowed once more, he intentionally gave his attention to every single one of the royals. He recognized in that bare moment the King’s warmth, the Queen’s striking resoluteness, Prince Dorian’s chaotic charm, Princess Maeve’s lingering formidability, Princess Rhea’s obvious discomfort, and in Ser Declan a complicated dutifulness. His head swam as he took them all in—a realization that this truly was only the beginning of the intrigue to come. Valerius blew out a subtle breath of relief as his father moved on to introduce his sister, but the Kenran heir could not help but hazard one last glance toward the eldest princess. [color=#0047AB]“And finally, but certainly not last in my heart, my eldest daughter, Lyra.”[/color] Like her mother, Lyra curtsied in a fashion that was courtly and well-honed—if less striking in its entirety than that of Lady Elara’s. Much as her brother had done, Lyra gave each Storvane the respect of her eyes. Heat still blossomed at the back of her neck from Princess Maeve’s cutting remark at Valerius, and she gave the eldest daughter her least regard. Conversely, Lyra found herself slightly smiling at Princess Rhea. The youngest royal had an awkward, innocent beauty to her that reminded Lyra of her brother—a soul perhaps naturally too pristine for the vulgarity of the court. [color=#6495ED]“It is such a joy to meet you all, Your Graces,”[/color] Lyra said. [color=#6495ED]“The blessings your family has imparted upon House Kenra have been lauded within the halls of River’s End my entire life, and I am grateful for it.”[/color] [color=#0047AB]“Well said, my dear. Hear, hear!”[/color] Lord Garrick declared. Still beaming, the Lord of House Kenra at last completed his own bow to King and Queen. [color=#0047AB]“My King, My Queen, the knotted sword of my house is yours to wield. So happy am I to once again join at your side for such a joyous occasion. May fortune favor [i]both[/i] our fates, twining us together for generations to come.”[/color] The royal siblings’ stirrings had settled as their father handled the matter swiftly with a selfless charity that colored all of his actions. Dorian’s laughter had eventually vanished beneath the soft roar of voices that filled the hall. Maeve remained portrait perfect, her posture and presence never faltering aside from her discerning gaze that would give its due respect during introductions but inevitably find its way back to Valerius. And Rhea’s discomfort eased when she caught sight of Lyra’s faint smile that only seemed to blossom when their eyes met. It was small and missable, but to Rhea it was a brief moment where she felt like she was seen through the chaos of her siblings. Her own smile, just as quiet and timid, grew like a silent exchange between both women, an unspoken understanding lost beneath the exuberance of their fathers. [color=dbbc77]"The halls of the Black Citadel shine brighter with the presence of you and your family, old friend. I look forward to the tales and revelries we shall share, and the fruitful prospect of strengthening our bonds further."[/color] The King’s smile widened as he gave Lord Garrick a parting hug with an ardent pat to his back that spoke of their years of companionship, not a King to a Lord, but two friends reunited after years apart. With a final bow from himself, followed by parting curtsies from the Queen, Maeve and Rhea, and a bow from Dorian, the King climbed back up the dais and reclaimed his place among his family.[/color] [color=gray]With the formalities concluded and the King returned to his place upon the dais, the great hall seemed to exhale. Sound rushed back in like a tide long held at bay—voices swelling, laughter blooming, the scrape of chairs and the low, expectant hum of a court awakening to itself. Servants flowed between the gathered houses with trays of wine and silvered plates, and banners stirred in the high vaults above as if even the stone wished to listen. House Kenra did not linger beneath the royal eye. Lord Garrick moved first, broad shoulders already turning toward familiar faces and old allies emerging from the press. His laughter rang soon after, warm and unmistakable, cutting through the din as he clasped forearms and drew men close in greeting. Lady Elara followed at a measured pace, her attention already divided—eyes sharp as she assessed the shifting geometry of the hall, noting who approached whom, who lingered too long, and which smiles rang hollow. Lyra remained with her mother for a time, answering polite overtures with grace and practiced warmth, her posture relaxed but her awareness keen. She watched the room as a hunter watches tall grass—patient, discerning, and wholly unfooled by ornament. Valerius drifted more slowly, peeled away by necessity rather than intent. Lords approached with courteous nods and measured curiosity, some offering praise thinly veiled as appraisal, others testing him with questions of River’s End, of pirates, of steel and harvest and loyalty. He answered each in turn with the same steady candor, conscious of his bearing, of the worn jacket upon his shoulders, of the weight his name now carried in this place. Yet for all the voices that met his ear, for all the eyes that sought to measure him, his attention betrayed him in small, traitorous ways. More than once, as he turned or shifted or paused between conversations, Valerius found his gaze straying—drawn back toward the dais, toward a figure framed in ivory and sapphire and restraint. Each time he corrected himself, grounding his thoughts as he would his stance in battle, reminding himself that the night was young and the court a dangerous place for idle fixations. And yet, the memory lingered all the same: a poised gaze held without yielding, a name spoken before it was offered, a presence sharp as a blade and just as difficult to forget. Lyra noticed the pattern before Valerius did. She said nothing—only watched him from across the hall, one brow lifting almost imperceptibly as she took in the subtle tilt of his head, the fraction of a heartbeat too long his attention lingered in one direction. Suddenly ill at ease, Lyra shifted away, her thoughts uncertain. Looking up again, Lyra froze. Across the hall, half-hidden in the shadow of an arch near the dais, her eyes locked to the scrutiny of her uncle. The Keeper of Secrets, Ser Torin Kenra, regarded her as if his stony expression veritably pulled the thoughts from her mind. A cold shiver thrilled down her spine, gooseflesh puckering her skin despite the warmth. The man lifted his chin, his face canting ever so slightly in a way that conveyed a message even across the span of the crowded hall. [i]I have seen what you have seen.[/i][/color] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=808080][b]interactions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] House Storvane [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]mentions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] none [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]collabs[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [@Mjolnir][/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center]