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[color=808080][color=365699][b]einarr[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]...[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]...[/color] [url=https://i.ibb.co/84Yp4wXF/image-2025-12-24-175746850.png][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=B55B5B][b]serene[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]...[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]...[/color] [url=https://i.ibb.co/35Lrs5Xb/ABS2-GSk2637n-Hr-Enzp6y-g73-BAt-VPUn1-O6dbh2y-Af3-Oo-IWx8-Vc71s8b-VLqm4s-AX6-Pi8tp-XNg-Xf-Yvt-UH1yd-BUm-IW.png][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=5B90B5][b]elrik[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]...[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]...[/color] [url=https://i.ibb.co/8k7G55c/unnamed-5.jpg][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=C77652][b]selja[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]...[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]...[/color] [url=https://i.ibb.co/BHn9s4Dg/ABS2-GSl-N9-Rr-ZKk-Nj-HXGj-Bj-SG-g-KLk-zm-Yrf-8n-LZlfko2dh-Rg-Uxc-SZDz-Rysk-S0qpy-N-CCT5m-Kg-INo4q-Co.png][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=943131][b]emil[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]...[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]...[/color] [url=https://i.ibb.co/1GLR1NQP/image-2025-12-24-175101319.png][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [color=B5C7EB][b]lei[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]...[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]...[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/QjHpgeZ][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]........[/color] [b]the great hall[/b][/color]
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[indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080]Ironcrag had taught Einarr that love was a liability, a softness the cold would punish without mercy, yet Roric Storvane entered his life like a quiet defiance of everything the mountains had ever demanded of him. Roric was good in a way Einarr had not known men could be, not soft, but principled, kind without naivety, just without cruelty. By his side, Einarr learned that strength did not need to be cruel to endure, that justice could be carried with open hands instead of clenched fists. He stayed away from Ironcrag longer than tradition allowed, letting himself thaw in Roric’s presence, becoming someone gentler, someone his people would not have understood. Einarr did not care, because Roric loved him as he was becoming, not as Ironcrag had forged him to be.

The end did not come on a battlefield, but in a polished courtyard meant to disguise violence as honor. When King Leoric demanded noble women as concubines, Rhea Storvane was named among them, and Roric answered that insult with steel instead of silence. Einarr stood among the onlookers as the duel was declared lawful, his heart pounding with dread he could not explain. Roric fought brilliantly, precise, relentless, righteous, and Einarr saw victory within reach, saw the king falter beneath the weight of his own sins. For one breathless moment, it seemed justice would be done cleanly, in the open light of day.

It was stolen from him in an instant. As Roric raised his blade for the killing blow, a king’s guard drove a spear through his back, the sound wet and final in a way Einarr would hear forever. The king staggered away alive, dishonor clinging to him like rot, while Roric collapsed to the stones, blood blooming beneath him. Einarr moved without thought, caught Roric as he fell, and felt the warmth leaving his body far too quickly. Roric tried to speak, tried to smile, and then there was nothing left but weight and silence.

Something in Einarr died with him. Not loudly, not violently, but completely, as if a door inside him had been sealed in ice. He did not scream, did not beg, did not collapse, he simply went still, the way Ironcrag taught its sons to endure catastrophe. Kindness drained out of him first, then hope, then the belief that honor meant anything to men who wore crowns. When Rowan looked at him afterward, grief hollow-eyed and shaking, Einarr knew the same fire had taken root in both of them, even if it would twist them differently. The war had already begun, even if no banners yet flew.

Rowan raised the call to arms years later, his brother’s blood no longer staining the stones where justice had been murdered, but the ache had never hollowed for either man. Einarr followed him without question, not as the man he had been, but as something colder, sharper, forged by betrayal instead of love. He fought not for glory, nor even for victory, but because every blow struck against the crown felt like a continuation of the duel that had been stolen. Where Roric had fought with honor, Einarr fought with purpose stripped bare of mercy. The war was not born of ambition, not for Einarr, it was born of a broken body laid at his feet.

Those who fought beside Einarr learned quickly that he did not hesitate. He did not laugh, did not offer comfort, did not flinch from cruelty when it served the cause. Rowan watched the transformation with quiet anguish, recognizing the cost even as he relied upon it. Einarr became the man willing to do what Roric never would have needed to do, the blade drawn from grief rather than justice. If Roric had been the conscience of the rebellion, Einarr was its executioner.

Even after the throne fell and a new king was crowned, Einarr did not return to the man he had been. Ironcrag welcomed him back without question, mistaking his emptiness for strength fulfilled. But in the quiet moments, when the wind howled like mourning through stone and snow, Einarr remembered warmth, the sound of Roric’s voice, the promise of a life not ruled by cold necessity. He carried that memory like a wound that never closed, proof that he had once been better. And if cruelty lived in him now, it was because honor had been murdered first, bleeding out on palace stone while the world watched and did nothing. 

So forgive Einarr, if he did not feel grateful to see the man who now wore the crown, because though Rowan lived to honor his late brother, he would never be Roric. He waited for the noise of the hall to ebb, for the laughter and clinking cups to thin into something quieter, more bearable. He did not push forward with pomp or demand attention; Ironcrag men do not announce themselves with spectacle. When the space opens naturally, like a held breath finally released, Einarr stepped forward. The stone beneath his boots felt steady, familiar, and he focused on that instead of memory.

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The room felt as if it held its breath around them, a vast cavern of heat and hush where torchlight gilded banners and polished stone alike, and the silence lay thick as a cloak across Elrik’s shoulders. He stood with his family in a line of dark finery, the murmur of courtiers pressing in from every side, their voices a low tide that broke and receded without meaning. His mind drifted despite himself, back to the journey, to the guards unblinking eyes, to the feel of Svartrhedinn’s warmth under his palm, anywhere but here, where spectacle was dressed up as tradition and every gaze was a blade seeking a soft place to land. When the herald’s voice rang out, he turned only out of habit, eyes skimming the figures at the stair’s edge with the practiced indifference of a man who had seen too many processions to be stirred by another.

The young woman was lovely in the way courts preferred, polished, composed, the sort of beauty that learned to breathe shallow so it would not disturb silk, the white of her dress made the flush upon her cheeks more endearing. Her brother’s arm was steady at her side, his presence the only thing that seemed to anchor her as they descended into the weight of waiting eyes. Elrik’s gaze slid away almost immediately, not out of disdain but out of certainty; loveliness had never been enough in Ironcrag, and it would never be enough for his father. He felt the familiar, cold calculus settle into place, alliances weighed in land and blood, not in laughter or softness, and the thought bored him. Then the sound reached him, bright and sudden as a struck bell, and his attention snapped back as though tugged by an unseen thread.

He did not hear the words that coaxed it from her, only the laugh itself, soft, unguarded, a ripple of warmth through the hall’s oppressive heat. The change in him was subtle enough to be mistaken for a trick of the torchlight, a widening of the eyes, a single surprised blink, the slightest cant of his head as though listening for an echo. It was not desire that stirred, nor pity, but recognition of something unarmored in a room that prized steel. For a heartbeat, the hall’s rigid geometry bent around that sound, and Elrik found himself standing in the quiet after it, aware of the absence it left behind.

Beside him, Emil made an odd, choked noise, half breath and half laugh, the kind that betrayed a heart too quick to open, and Elrik felt his father’s tension ripple forward through the line like a pulled wire. The older man’s shoulders set, jaw tightening as though the laughter had scuffed something sacred in his private ledger of order. Elrik did not look at either of them, his gaze lingered on the stair, on the young woman who had already begun to fold herself back into composure, dimples fading beneath duty. The hall resumed its murmur, the silence loosening its grip, but the bright fracture of that sound remained with him—an unwanted warmth caught under the ribs, cooling into something he would not name.

Elrik watched the next pair descend with the practiced stillness of a man who had long since learned to still his face before it betrayed him. Princess Maeve moved like a lesson perfected, each step measured, chin lifted, poise sharpened into something almost ceremonial, while Prince Dorian strode with a casual confidence that belonged to men who had never been made to doubt the ground beneath their feet. Elrik’s gaze traced them once, then smoothed into neutrality, the mask settling back over his features as easily as breath. The other princess was beautiful, undeniably so, but there was a rigidity to the line of her bearing, a precision that felt rehearsed rather than lived. 

His attention, traitorous and unbidden, slid instead to where Princess Rhea stood, drawn to the quiet irregularity of her composure, as though she were a riddle written in a hand he could not yet decipher. He told himself it was nothing more than idle curiosity, the mind’s habit of seeking asymmetry in a hall built on mirrored perfection. Yet the way her laughter had fractured the hush lingered at the edges of his thoughts, a warmth out of place in stone and ceremony. 

The court demanded polish, demanded lines drawn clean and sharp; Rhea did not quite fit within them, and the dissonance tugged at him like a thread pulled from a tightly woven tapestry. He kept his eyes steady, his breathing slow, aware of the faint weight of crag-ore at his hip like a quiet admonition to remain what he was forged to be. The puzzle would be set aside, this was not a hall that rewarded wonder.

When the King and Queen emerged, the air itself seemed to bow. The herald’s litany rolled across the Great Hall, and Elrik felt his father’s presence sharpen in front of him, tension knitting his shoulders into a rigid line. The King moved with a warmth that read easily even from a distance, his gestures broad, his smile practiced into something that invited the hall to believe in it. The Queen’s grace cut colder, precise, economical, her gaze measuring rather than welcoming, two halves of rule presented in a single, seamless procession. Elrik marked the invisible seam between them as they took their places, the quiet space that power left between paired thrones.

His father’s breath changed, shallow and contained, as though each title spoken tightened a band around his ribs. Elrik recognized the cadence of that tension; he had grown up beneath it, learned to move within its shadow without tripping the wire. He straightened minutely, aligning himself with the posture expected of Ironcrag’s eldest, the blade polished and displayed for appraisal. 

Time passed in a way that left his gaze returning to the girl that had become a puzzle to him as differing families introduced themselves to the King and his children. He stood where his father placed him, posture straight as a drawn blade, his expression composed from the same restraint he’d learned over the years. 

His father bowed when he’d decided it was their time to approach, deep and exacting, the Ironcrag way, acknowledging power without offering the throat. [color=365699]“My king,”[/color] the words that followed were gentler than Elrik had ever heard them from his father’s mouth, the cadence almost warm with old familiarity, yet the edge remained, honed into every syllable like a blade that had learned to smile. [color=365699]“My old friend, it is an honor to present my family to you, and to meet your own, after so many years away.”[/color]

Elrik felt the dissonance of it as a faint tightening beneath his ribs, the unsettling thing about kindness from a cruel man was not that it surprised, but that it reminded one how rarely it was given. He kept his gaze forward, unblinking. Behind the bow and the measured courtesy, House Járnbjørn stood in disciplined silence unlike many of the Houses that came before them. 

Elrik was aware of Emil at his side without looking at him, the restless shift of weight, the too-careful stilling of it, the softness that clung to his brother like a begging for mercy. It disgusted him, that softness, the way Emil wore his heart too near the surface in a world that delighted in cutting, and the resentment of it was a familiar ache. And yet, beneath that ache, there lived a stubborn, inconvenient truth… Elrik loved him still, loved him the way one loves a flame one knows will burn out in a storm, with a ferocity sharpened by fear. He would never say it, and Emil would never understand the shape of that love even if he did.

Selja stood composed beside them, chin lifted, eyes keen and observant, her stillness not born of fear but of learned vigilance. Elrik felt the quiet gravity of her presence, the way she carried herself as though she were already learning the weight of expectations not meant for young shoulders. Their mother’s nearness was a softer thing at the edge of his awareness, a steadying warmth he did not turn toward, as if looking might make it less durable. Together they bowed when required, a single motion carved from discipline and blood, presenting unity where fracture lived just beneath the skin. Elrik did not think of absence, did not allow his mind to wander toward the shape of what was missing in the place of his youngest sister. Instead, he stood in the present, forged into the role he knew too well, and let the hall see only iron.

[color=dbbc77]"Lord Einarr,"[/color] the King’s voice was warm and welcoming, matched with extended arms as he descended the stairs to the dais. It was a greeting that felt more familiar than what someone would expect when faced with the leader of the coldest and harshest lands in the kingdom. There was a weight to his words that was lost to the unknowing, but it wasn’t for them. It was for the shared loss and the emptiness that could never be filled by revenge or war. 

Rowan’s feet found the stone floor, even with the Lord, not above him as he placed a hand upon the man’s shoulder. [color=dbbc77]"It has been far too long."[/color] His gaze then swept across the Járnbjørn family, giving each and every one of them a smile along with a small nod. [color=dbbc77]"You have a beautiful family."[/color]

When his gaze settled on the daughter, his expression softened but his hand upon the Lord’s shoulder tightened in a way of showing solidarity without sacrificing decorum or strength. [color=dbbc77]"I was saddened when I heard about your youngest daughter."[/color] The King drew in a heavy breath, glancing back over his shoulder toward Rhea. He recalled the fear, concern, and grief he felt when she had left the castle. It wasn’t for more than a fortnite, but it was a hollowness he would not wish upon any man. And while he could not speak of his similar aches, it did not dull his sympathies. His attention slowly returned back to Lord Einarr before dropping his hand. [color=dbbc77]"I attempted to aid where I could. My leads turned up dry, but if there is any further assistance I can offer, you need but say the word."[/color]

Elrik watched the exchange from his place just behind his father’s shoulder, alert to the smallest shifts the way a man learned to be when storms came without warning. He saw it plainly, the way Einarr’s expression softened and hardened all at once beneath the King’s words, grief and restraint colliding like ice floes grinding together. That reaction, at least, Elrik understood. Loss spoken aloud had a way of sharpening old wounds even as it wrapped them in something almost gentle. What unsettled him was not his father’s response, but the fact that he had not expected the King to [i]care,[/i] not truly, not with that quiet weight carried in his voice.

The King’s gaze drifted toward the dais, toward the princess standing there, and Elrik followed it before he could stop himself. Again, his attention snagged on her like a blade catching flawed metal, irritation flaring sharp and sudden. He did not understand the glance, did not like that it pulled at the same unease she already stirred in him. She was a complication he had not asked for, a puzzle pressed into his path when his life had been shaped around straight lines and brutal clarity. He forced his eyes away, jaw tightening, as if by sheer will he could return the world to its proper order.

Einarr bowed his head, just slightly, and when he spoke his voice was pitched low, meant for the King, for their families, and for the edges of the crowd alone. [color=365699]“I appreciate it, my friend,”[/color] he said, and the word [i]friend[/i] landed among the Járnbjørns like a dropped stone on thin ice. Elrik felt it as much as he heard it; Emil stiffened beside him, Selja’s eyes flicked sideways in brief disbelief, and even their mother seemed to falter for half a breath. Their father had never spoken that way of anyone, not in Elrik’s memory. There was something altered in him here, something reluctantly eased, as though the sharpest edges of his cruelty had been dulled, not removed, merely soothed, in Rowan’s presence.

Einarr continued, voice steady but weighted. [color=365699]“It is to the point that we must assume the worst, but mourning will wait until we return home. Only then may we lay her spirit to rest.”[/color] The words were ironbound, final, and Elrik felt the familiar ache settle behind his ribs, acknowledgment without surrender, grief caged until it could no longer interfere with duty. When his father straightened and spoke again, it was with the cool formality of a lord reclaiming his armor. [color=365699]“Still,”[/color] Einarr said, voice oddly earnest. [color=365699]“I would be honored to introduce you to the rest of my family.”[/color] Elrik lifted his chin a fraction, mask settling firmly back into place, and stood ready to be seen.

[color=dbbc77]"Yes, of course."[/color] The King nodded his head in solemn understanding and did not dare to linger on the subject nor drag their moods down further. [color=dbbc77]"When the time comes to make peace, do send a raven. I would make the journey, along with my family, to pay our respects."[/color] It was an offer kinder and more sacrificial than a King should give. But it was not sympathies given from a King to his subject, it was one father to another, two men bonded through the same pained absence for the remainder of their lives. 

Declan stood on the far side of the dais, back against the wall, cast in shadows. He remained perfectly still, left hand lightly resting on the hilt of his sword, other hand at his side. A dark sentinel out of sight, forgotten but watching. Watching… And [i]listening.[/i] Not because he particularly desired eavesdropping, but it was hard not to listen when you were regarded as a statue, an invisible piece of decoration that went unnoticed. 

Einarr was a name he was familiar with. He recalled the stories his father would tell him and Dorian about his time during the war. A Járnbjørn by his recollection, if the red hair and icy demeanor didn’t already give it away. Declan’s mind and gaze drifted toward Ser Lei as he drew the comparisons with the new information he gained earlier that day, the knowledge that still weighed heavily on his conscience. He could see the resemblance, pale skin and hair like fire. But where the men presented were tall, with broad shoulders and a commanding stance, Lei was shorter and lean. A man bred for speed and agility, not strength and fortitude like these other Lords. 

He caught glimpses of Lei’s face through the slits of his helm, recalling the ease of his features along the shore of the Weave, when duty and honor didn’t weigh on his shoulders. There was a light behind his eyes and smile that Declan rarely saw amongst the happiest of men. High cheekbones and a softer jawline that did not match those of the other Járnbjørn men: strong, sharp, and unyielding. [i]’A pretty man,’[/i] according to the courtesans with a laugh soft like a song and light enough to be carried by the wind. And then there was the seclusion. He had no real friends. Never joined the men in the bathhouse…

Declan felt a sudden and sharp tightness twist in his chest. Pieces of the puzzle started shifting into place before his eyes. A puzzle he did not know had been laid out before him until that moment. Lei left his family… saw his brother in the Valley. But the Járnbjørns were missing a [i]daughter[/i], not a son. His gaze found Lei’s eyes through the heavy shadow cast over them behind the visor of his helmet… [i]her[/i] helmet. He wasn’t harboring a Lord that had escaped his cruel father, but a noblewoman hiding in plain sight. [i]A year…[/i] She had been hiding under his nose and amongst his men for a [i]year.[/i]

He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. [i]Gods preserve him.[/i]

The words carried across the hall whether she wished to hear them or not, too close, too clear for comfort, and Soleil felt every one of them like a stone dropped into still water. [i]Youngest daughter.[/i] The phrase coiled in her stomach, tight and bitter, twisting until her breath caught painfully beneath her ribs. She kept her posture immaculate, chin level, shoulders squared, but her eyes slid shut, lashes resting against skin already gone cold. It felt like standing at the edge of herself, like being named aloud by a ghost.

She was suddenly acutely aware of her family’s presence in the room, of the shape of them, the weight of them, the way their grief was being handled like a blade carefully wrapped until it could be wielded again. Her father’s voice, ironbound, restrained, pressed against her memory with familiar force, and for a moment she was young again, small again, holding herself still so she would not draw notice. The hall seemed to dim around the edges, sound dulling, light thinning as though water had crept in and filled the space inch by inch. Her stomach rolled, nausea sharp and unwelcome, and she forced herself to breathe.

Then she felt it.

Not a sound, not a word, just the unmistakable weight of attention settling on her skin, hot and sudden as a spark struck too close. She did not open her eyes at first; she did not need to. She turned her head slowly, deliberately, the way one might approach a blade left bare on a table, and lifted her gaze just enough to meet his. Declan’s eyes found hers through shadow and steel, and in that single suspended second, understanding bloomed between them like a wound torn open.

It was over as quickly as it began. His eyes closed, jaw tightening as though he were swallowing something sharp, and Soleil looked away at once, her own eyes slipping shut again as if the act might undo what had just been seen. Her heart sank with quiet finality, dropping straight down into the depths of her chest until it felt lodged somewhere dark and unreachable. The room pressed in on her from all sides, heavy and suffocating, the sensation so complete it felt like being dragged beneath the surface of a black sea.
She drew in a slow breath through her nose, held it until the ache steadied, then let it go just as carefully. Another breath followed, measured and controlled, a soldier’s breath, practiced and necessary. Whatever had been revealed could not be taken back, but neither could it be allowed to surface, not here, not now. Soleil straightened imperceptibly, armor settling back into place, and waited at the bottom of the ocean for the moment she would be forced to rise.

The King cleared his throat and took a step back, replacing the fatigue of a battle worn ruler, torn and frayed through years of sacrifice, with his usual warmth, lighting the Great Hall with greetings not grief. [color=dbbc77]"Introductions."[/color] Rowan clapped his hands together gently and stepped aside so he could see the Lords before him, and his family above him. [color=dbbc77]"Perhaps merriment and new bonds can bring us happiness anew."[/color]

Rowan motioned his hand up to the dais, first and foremost toward the Queen. [color=dbbc77]"My wife, Valenya."[/color] She stepped forward, as was expected of her, and curtsied. Her gaze swept across the family before her with the same level of scrutiny she had given the other Lords that had been presented to them. But where the other families might have lost her attention, the Járnbjørns held it. Especially the eldest son. She studied him like a specimen, not a suitor. Her gaze flicked to Maeve. There was no exchange of expressions, but a shared conversation transpired through eye contact alone, passing in a void that no one could decipher but them. 

[color=dbbc77]"My son and heir, Dorian."[/color] The Prince pushed off the throne and gave a bow. It was still formal and perfect [i]enough[/i] but it seemed with every passing introduction, his flourish diminished with impatience. He much preferred getting to know prospective Ladies and Lords alike, over food, drink and dancing. Not the pomp and ceremony of formal introductions and ego stroking. The Járnbjørns were a handsome enough family, although they all looked a bit too… uptight and cold for him, but perhaps that was due to the watchful gaze of their intimidating father or the King’s presence. Maybe both. Either way, he could pry further under more comfortable arrangements. Everything sat better with wine, especially getting to know new people. 

[color=dbbc77]"And last, but certainly not least, my lovely daughters. Maeve and Rhea."[/color]

The Princesses stepped forward together, but where they usually stopped side by side and dipped into their curtsies, Maeve took one more step further, positioning herself partially in front of her sister as they lowered themselves. Lord Elrik was one of the top suitors on her list, and as such, she had to be certain she was the [i]only[/i] thing that caught his eye. Everything about her movements were the perfect display of poise and etiquette, a charming smile, exquisite posture, and just enough eye contact to show intent. 

Under normal circumstances Rhea might have made a huff over her sister’s actions, but in that moment she was content being invisible. Her gaze remained fixed on the hem of her skirt as it brushed a small crack in the stone tile. She couldn’t bring herself to look toward the family out of fear of meeting Emil’s gaze. The last thing she wanted was to draw any attention to herself or him. All it would take was a single glance, a single spark and her mother would make a scene. Perhaps if she pretended like she didn’t exist, then it could all blow over and be nothing but a humorous memory… far [i]far[/i] down the road. 

Elrik felt his father’s presence shift beside him as Einarr stepped forward to return the courtesy, voice measured and controlled once more. [color=365699]“My wife, Serene,”[/color] he said, and their mother moved with quiet grace, skirts whispering as she curtsied, her expression warm but carefully composed, as though softness itself were something to be rationed in this hall. Elrik watched her with a familiar tightening in his chest, admiration braided with protectiveness, before his gaze moved on as his father continued. [color=365699]“And my daughter, Selja.”[/color] Selja stepped forward next, her smile gentle and respectable, eyes bright but sharp, her curtsy flawless without being showy, a young woman who understood precisely how much of herself to offer and no more.

[color=365699]“My youngest son, Emil.”[/color] Elrik’s jaw set almost imperceptibly as his brother obeyed, bowing with a visible wince, as though the motion pulled at something tender beneath his ribs. Emil straightened quickly, color high in his cheeks, eyes lowered in a way that read as deference but felt too close to vulnerability for Elrik’s liking. It stirred the familiar contradiction in him, irritation sharpened by worry, disdain tangled tightly with a love he did not know how to make gentle. He kept his expression closed, refusing to let any of it show.

Then Einarr’s voice rang out again, heavier now, carrying the weight of lineage and expectation. [color=365699]“And my eldest son, Ironcrag’s pride—Elrik.”[/color] The words landed like armor being fastened, and Elrik stepped forward without hesitation, boots striking stone in a single, decisive rhythm. He bowed deeply, precisely, the kind of bow that acknowledged power without kneeling to it, head lowered just long enough to be respectful before lifting again.

[color=5b90b5]“It is an honor to stand before you with my family,”[/color] he said, voice steady and formal, shaped by the cold halls and harsher lessons of Ironcrag. His gaze met the King’s first, then the Queen’s, then Prince Dorian, unwavering and clear. As he straightened, he tipped his head, first toward Princess Maeve, acknowledging her poised presence and the intent shining too carefully in her smile, and then, just as deliberately, toward Princess Rhea. The second gesture was smaller, almost restrained, but no less intentional, as if he were marking something unfinished, a question set quietly between them. It would be disrespectful not to address her, after all. 

Seeing Lord Elrik before her, not from high above through the distortion of a window pane, Rhea couldn’t deny that he was attractive, as were the rest of the Lords vying for their attention. But it was a different type of appeal compared to his brother. Emil was warm like sunshine and an offered hand, where Elrik was strong with purpose and sharp around the edges. She noted the way he addressed her entire family, but notably the difference between herself and Maeve. Her sister drew attention first, with a deeper, more reverent deference. She called it then, up in the sitting room, and this only reaffirmed her thoughts. Both of them were chiseled from stone, cold, unyielding and perfect. A perfect match by Rhea’s count. 

The Queen’s attention, however, was not focused on the ideal suitor offered up on a silver platter for her daughter to devour, but on Emil. Her gaze sharpened at the young Lord’s wince, snapping like a vulture to a corpse that had yet to fully rest. [color=a12c53]"So you are the Lord my daughter nearly trampled to death?"[/color] While the question was posed to the youngest Járnbjørn, the Queen’s gaze, more piercing than the sharpest blade, turned to her daughter for an answer.

Rhea paled beneath her mother’s scrutiny. Her eyes darted around in a rising panic while her clutched hands went white from the tightening of her grasp, grounding herself in the discomfort when she wanted nothing more than to disappear. There was a part of her that hoped [i]if[/i] her mother was going to address it, that she would have at least waited. For what, she did not know. But having her misdeeds laid out, not only before her father, but in front of strangers felt like a new degree of shame she was not prepared to handle. [color=10636f]"[i]I…[/i]"[/color] Her voice trembled, trying to form the words she could not find, while silently pleading with the Gods to open the earth and swallow her whole. Death would be kinder.

The King’s brows furrowed, his confusion evident as he made no attempt to hide it considering his wife decided making a scene was always the best course of action. One of her more infuriating qualities that wore on his patience in his old age. His daughter’s tension did not go unnoticed at the posed question. Of course, he didn’t need to be a scholar to know the comment was in regards to his youngest daughter. Maeve was rarely the type to leave the Citadel unless forced. 

[color=dbbc77]"[i]Rhea?[/i]"[/color] he asked with a father’s gentle warmth. 

[color=a12c53]"[i]Your daughter—[/i]"[/color] the Queen began to answer. 

[color=dbbc77]"Can speak for herself,"[/color] the King interrupted. His tone was hushed and calm, but carried a cold, commanding finality.

Elrik’s gaze snapped toward the dais before he could temper it, attention pulled sharp as a blade drawn too quickly. He saw it all in a single, damning sweep, the way Rhea’s color drained, the tightening of her hands in her skirts until her knuckles blanched bone-white, the faint tremor she failed to still. His eyes flicked once to Emil, then back again, catching the way the Queen’s scrutiny bore down like a physical weight, pinning the girl where she stood. Something in Elrik’s chest tightened hard enough to steal his breath, because the shape of that fear was achingly familiar.

He recognized it not as a stranger might, but as one who had lived alongside it. The clenched hands. The shallow breath. The look of wanting to vanish, to step sideways out of the world entirely. Even now, he saw echoes of Soleil everywhere, reflected in moments like this, in young women trapped beneath expectations sharpened into weapons by those meant to protect them. The ache surged, heavy and urgent, carrying with it the reflexive need to move, to place himself between them, to take whatever blame or attention might spare her. He’d done it countless times before, it was a role he knew all too well.

For a heartbeat, he nearly did.

The urge rose hot and reckless, the same one that had driven him onto battlefields and into bloodied villages when he was far too young to be called a man. To step forward. To speak. To shoulder the weight and redirect the focus onto himself, where he knew how to bear it. But Elrik forced his gaze away from the Princess, jaw tightening as he dragged his attention back to neutral stone and torchlit banners, because he did not trust what was unraveling inside him. If he acted now, if he made a spectacle of himself in defense of a royal daughter beneath her mother’s gaze, he would expose something he could not afford to name.

His thoughts faltered mid-stride, the certainty he had carried stalling like a horse over a frozen river as cracks formed beneath it in the ice. What was he thinking? He was here as Ironcrag’s eldest, as a potential match for Princess Maeve, he was certain, as a blade meant to be weighed and wielded, not turned aside by sympathy. And yet, despite that knowledge, despite the neat expectations laid before him, his attention kept circling back, traitorous and insistent, to Princess Rhea. The realization unsettled him more than the Queen’s sharp words ever could, because he did not understand it, and Elrik Járnbjørn did not trust what he could not understand.

Rhea took a step forward, blinking slowly as a flush reddened her heaving chest, and bloomed across her cheeks. Her fingers idly tugged at the hem of her bodice needing to busy her hands so her trembling was not evident. The silence dragged on for far longer than was comfortable as she tried to gather her thoughts into tangible words. [color=10636f]"I was on the shore of the Weave earlier this afternoon,"[/color] she started, her gaze flitting back and forth between the floor and her father. [color=10636f]"I challenged Ser Coren to a race back to the Citadel. I got distracted… I did not notice Lord Emil in the path ahead of me and nearly ran him over."[/color]

It was only then that she spared the Lord in question a sidelong glance, her hazel eyes were heavy where words were left unspoken, another apology for her ignorance, for the injury, for bringing chaos into his life because of her own childish delights. But there was a more dire apology now, one of a daughter who was worn and calloused from carrying her mother’s spite alone, who felt the weight shift in his direction, if only a fraction, and she was desperately trying to redirect that ire back on herself. She drew in a deep breath that made her lungs fight against the boning of her corset before meeting her father’s gaze. Her breaths were ragged, coming in short bursts as she stumbled and tripped through her words. [color=10636f]"It was an accident. His injuries are not from my horse but of his own heroism. Lily reared and I fell and if he had not caught me…"[/color]

The King held up his hand, a kind gesture to try and calm his daughter. Rather than keep the attention on her, he gave her peace, if but for a moment, and turned to Lord Emil. [color=dbbc77]"It sounds like I owe you my deepest gratitude, Lord Emil. For saving what is precious to me so that she was able to return home in one piece."[/color] There was a time where he thought he had lost his daughter once. It was a pain that festered in the hollow void left behind in her wake. It hurt in a way a father should never have to feel, more raw than the wound left behind after the deaths of his brother and sister. Knowing that this young man saved him from that pain a second time indebted the King to him and his family immeasurably. 

Rowan stepped forward and took Emil’s hand in his, giving it a firm and thankful shake, along with a pat to his shoulder. [color=dbbc77]"I’ll be sure to send Lord Farraday to see to your injuries in the morning. Anyone who sees to the safety of my children deserves the finest care."[/color]

He released his hold and took a step back. Rowan’s gaze drifted back up to Rhea who stood at the edge of the dais. Her hands still trembled, wrinkling the ivory silks of her skirts, but her breaths were coming slower and more steady. [color=dbbc77]"[i]So,[/i]"[/color] he started, voice coming low, almost conspiratorial as he leaned in her direction with a raised brow. No doubt an attempt to lighten conversation and steer it towards more enjoyable subject matter. [color=dbbc77]"Did you win?"[/color]

A weak, almost strangled laugh slipped out as Rhea’s gaze lifted from the stone of the dais steps to meet her father’s expectant gaze. She was not met with anger or disappointment, but the warm playfulness of her father, the man who controlled the entirety of the Ninefold and a man who still found the simple pleasures that came from [i]living[/i] life. [color=10636f]"What?"[/color] she asked, a little stunned, but a quiet smile started to grow all the same. 

[color=dbbc77]"The horse race, did you win?"[/color] He met her smile with one of his own, warm with care and curiosity.

Rhea’s smile turned a little guilty, lips scrunching as if she was attempting to remain modest in her victory, but the light behind her eyes betrayed her humility. She dipped her head a fraction like it might hide her unapologetic pride beneath the veil of crimson curls. [color=10636f]"... Of course,"[/color] she replied barely above a whisper. 

The faintest twitch touched Elrik’s mouth at her answer, a smirk so small it might have been imagined, born less of amusement than recognition. Of course she had won, there was something defiant in her even now, something that refused to be entirely cowed by silks, crowns, or watchful eyes. He noticed, too, how the tension eased from her shoulders, how her breath settled into something steadier under the King’s warmth, and it stirred an unexpected approval in him... not that he was watching Princess Rhea.

Even his father let out a low chuckle then, a sound so rare it seemed almost misplaced in the great hall, shaking his head with a fondness that sat uneasily on his severe features. Selja and Emil exchanged brief, uncertain glances, as though they, too, were startled by the sight of it.

[color=365699]“She reminds me of…”[/color] Einarr began, and the words hung suspended between heartbeats. Whatever memory had risen in him seemed to strike all at once, because the warmth vanished from his face as though it had never been there, expression flattening into iron. His posture stiffened, shoulders squaring, grief and restraint snapping back into place with brutal efficiency. Elrik watched the change with narrowed eyes, cataloguing it the way he did all dangerous things, wondering which ghost had brushed too close to the surface.

He said nothing, though his thoughts churned with the same uneasy irritation that had been building all evening. Somehow, illogically, unfairly, he felt as though this, too, was Emil’s fault, tangled up in the Queen’s sharp attention, in the horse, in the tremor that had set everything in motion. It was a foolish notion, and Elrik knew it, but the blame settled anyway, heavy and familiar, because softness always seemed to invite complications. He forced his face back into stillness, smothering the smirk before it could betray him again, and fixed his gaze forward. Whatever memories his father had nearly named were not meant for this hall, and Elrik would not be the one to give them breath. 

Among the Black Citadel, it was no secret that Rhea was the most skilled rider among her family and she had yet to find a challenger who could keep up, although Ser Coren did try, time and time again. The King knew this, knew she was untouchable on horseback, knew his daughter was as wild and untameable as her mare, and yet he still beamed at the confirmation. Pride was worn shamelessly warm and bright across his face like an autumn sunrise. His laugh was jovial, echoing throughout the hall with a single clap of his hands.

The Queen, on the other hand, did not find it humorous or something to rejoice at. Their daughter was impetuous and headstrong. She did not have a single care or consideration when it came to decorum or how her actions reflected upon the rest of the house. She was reckless, careless, [i]selfish.[/i] She could have killed a Lord, and all the while her husband was applauding her for winning the race that nearly created chaos in the first place. [color=a12c53]"This is why your daughter is this way."[/color] Her voice cut through the light that had begun to settle between the two families like an eclipse casting everything in her cold, unforgiving shadow. The disdain was worn plainly across her face like the blanche that paled her skin as she stepped forward, a silent challenge against her husband, against his lack of authority, against the [i]King.[/i] [color=a12c53]"You reward her when her actions nearly took a life."[/color]

Rhea flinched at her mother’s words. She tensed when she heard the sharp click of her mother’s shoes upon stone, half expecting the harsh and unrelenting grip on her arm that left behind dark marks she often hid beneath longer sleeves, even in the heat of summer. Just the sound of her mother’s voice snuffed whatever light had ignited anew behind her eyes. Rhea retreated in on herself like a hermit crab slinking back into the safety of her shell. It was cracked and chipped and barely in one piece after two years of her mother’s hatred. The only thing that kept the walls erect was the strength of her father and brothers, and her own determination… but even that had begun to waver being heralded as a disgrace, a black mark, a [i]nuisance[/i] rather than a wayward daughter.

[color=dbbc77]"Does the boy look dead to you, Valenya?"[/color] The King’s amusement died as quickly as it blossomed, smothered beneath his wife’s endless night. He gestured toward Emil, stepping up to her challenge rather than glossing over it or redirecting the conversation a second time. He was far too old and too tired to deal with her reproachable ire. She had grown brazen over the years, using her crown as a shield and a spear. While she was a honed blade, sharp and powerful, it was meant to be wielded against their enemies, not allies and friends, and most certainly not directed toward their children. [color=dbbc77]"Gods forbid I be proud that our daughter has a talent beyond napkin folding and curtsying."[/color]

The Queen held her ground, staring down the dais at her husband’s with an untamable fire behind her eyes. [color=a12c53]"She must apologize for the offensive she has given to Lord Emil and his family."[/color]

[color=10636f]"... Mother,"[/color] Rhea pleaded as the nerves coiled in her chest like a serpent.

[color=a12c53]"[i]Apologize.[/i]"[/color]

The King went to argue further, but it was Rhea who silenced him with a shake of her head. Everything was getting far too loud. She could see the heads of nearby Lords turning toward the cacophony, dropping their eaves to catch a glimpse of their discord. Every argument and thrown barb showed not only a weakness in their family, but in her father. She knew the whispers that spread through the kingdom, read the raven’s notes when her uncle was not looking… The Ninefold was unhappy. He needed to be strong and surefooted. Infighting was an exploitable weakness. If bending to her mother’s whims kept the peace and made them look strong and unshakeable… then it was a price Rhea would pay.

Her hands trembled from the attention that lingered on her, but there was a strength beneath her resolve, a silent power in the way she lifted her chin a fraction higher and clenched her jaw. The Princess had given countless apologies already, but she would give another if only to silence her mother and shield her father. Her breaths were shallow and strained as she took up her skirts and descended the steps of the dais. She lowered herself to stand as an equal before the Lords, like her father would, humbling herself before them at their level rather than above them. She bowed her head as the words came out uneasy and fell between short breaths. [color=10636f]"Forgive me Lord Emil, and your family, for the offense I have given due to my recklessness."[/color]

Valenya stepped forward to the edge of the dais, looking down her nose toward her daughter with an antipathy that felt solely reserved for her. [color=a12c53]"Like you mean it, [i]Rhea Elspeth Storvane,[/i]"[/color] her voice snapped with a venomous bite. 

Rhea’s breath hitched, sharp like the wind had been pulled forcibly from her lungs. Her head turned slowly, looking up at her mother who hovered above her like a gargoyle, ever watching and ever judging. There was no relenting or softness behind her eyes, just the sharp authority of a woman demanding obeisance. Looking up into the darkness of her gaze she knew that there was no arguing, no begging. She either did as her mother demanded or suffered the hellfire that would rain over her head… And once the fire caught, there was no way that her father would not also be burned.

She gave her mother a curt nod, just once. Single, sharp and empty. Her corset suffocated her with every sharp breath. The tremors shook her body, settling into her bones like a chill that would not leave. Her eyes burned as tears began pooling along her lashes. It was like drowning on dry land while everyone watched and waited. Her blinking quickened, holding tight to her resolve and focusing on her breathing. The Princess’s lip quivered so faintly it was almost unnoticeable as her hands struggled to take hold of her skirts. Then Rhea bowed a second time, lowering herself deeper until her knee nearly brushed the cold stone beneath her. But before she spoke, it was her father’s words that filled the silence, cutting deeper than she had ever heard before. 

[color=dbbc77]"That is [i]enough,[/i]"[/color] he snapped. His gaze was piercing and locked on the Queen who stood above him like a vulture, untouchable upon her perch. [color=dbbc77]"You will not debase our daughter further and publicly humiliate her before our guests."[/color] Rowan took his own step toward the dais, heavy and decisive with a power that could not be challenged without facing consequences no one wished to brave. [color=dbbc77]"[i]Know your place.[/i]"[/color]

Elrik felt the tension coil tighter with every exchanged word, each command and rebuke winding the cord around his ribs until breathing became a conscious act. His gaze locked on Rhea as she descended the dais, and with every step she took toward them, toward judgment, toward humiliation, something in him edged closer to fracture. When he saw the sheen of tears gather at her lashes, catching the torchlight like glass, it nearly undid him. He drew in a sharp breath through his teeth, jaw clenching hard enough that a quiet pop sounded near his ear, the muscle tightening as if pain might anchor him where discipline threatened to fail.

He could already feel the movement beginning in his body, the instinctive shift of weight, the urge to step forward and place himself between her and the blade of her mother’s gaze. Reputation be damned, Ironcrag had never been built on silence in the face of cruelty. The words formed at the back of his throat, heavy and reckless, ready to spill forth and shatter whatever fragile balance this hall pretended to hold. His father’s voice echoed faintly in memory, warning of appearances and alliances, but it was drowned out by the far greater desire to shield, to endure harm so others did not have to.

Then the King spoke.

The sound of Rowan’s voice cut through the hall like a bell struck true, sharp enough to cleave the moment cleanly in two. Elrik stilled mid-breath, the words slamming into the space before his own could escape, and with them came a sudden, almost dizzying release. The cord around his chest loosened inch by inch, tension bleeding away as the authority of the crown asserted itself where his own restraint had nearly failed. He remained where he stood, spine rigid, expression carved back into impassive stone, but beneath it, something eased, knowing the blow had been halted without his hand needing to strike.

Slowly, deliberately, he let the breath leave his lungs. He did not look at his father, nor at Emil, not even at the Queen whose shadow still loomed. His eyes remained on Rhea, on the way she held herself upright despite the tremor in her hands, on the quiet courage it took simply to remain standing. Elrik told himself that was all it was, that the storm inside him had passed. Yet even as calm returned, it left behind a truth he did not like and could not yet name, that her tears had nearly moved him to action.

The Queen clenched her jaw, a challenge burning behind her eyes but unspoken as she bowed her head sharply toward him. [color=a12c53]"[i]Your Grace.[/i]"[/color] Without another word she turned from where she stood and returned to her place beside the throne, her gaze fixated on the far wall rather than dignifying any of them with her attention.

Maeve had remained silent, still as stone that could weather any storm unchanged and unharmed. Only her eyes betrayed her, shifting from her mother, to her father, to Rhea and back again. Every word exchanged tightened in her chest, making the corset and heavy layers of silk and satin grow heavy as the tension tethered itself amongst the Storvanes. There was no avoiding their mother’s anger, she learned that young, learned it was better to be favored rather than a disappointment, a skill neither Rhea nor Dorian had yet to master. What did they expect? They rebelled at every turn, refused tradition and decency for their own pleasures. Sacrifice was the price they all had to pay as nobles… [i]as royals.[/i]

[i]Yet…[/i]

There was still a small dormant part of her, hidden somewhere beneath silk and boning, deep somewhere under her ribs that tensed at the scene. It was a subtle sharp pang like when Amira fastened her corset too tight. She did not understand it, nor where it came from, only that it subsided when their father intervened. And as the hall seemed to exhale in unison, Maeve too let out a breath she was unaware she was holding. 

Dorian was not skilled at remaining invisible or knowing he should stand aside. The moment his mother forced a conversation that should have happened in private, he was no longer leaning against the side of the throne lazily, but standing upright with his arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t know the meaning or reasoning behind the attention until his sister was forced to recount what happened, but he didn’t need to know either. He was no stranger to their mother’s temper nor the vile ways it usually reared its head. 

It seemed, for a moment, they had navigated the treacherous conversation… until their mother did not just snap, but challenged their father—[i]the King[/i]—openly, without restraint. Dorian tensed, jaw clenching and eyes slowly closing at the sight of Rhea not only willingly stepping into the line of fire, but descending step by step down into the furnace. His attention drifted over to Declan who held his post unmoving, but there was a rigidity in his posture where there was once ease. No words were exchanged. None were needed. Just a small nod that would go unnoticed by most and then Dorian moved.

The King was at Rhea’s side before she finished standing. She wanted to fall into his embrace and beg for forgiveness. Her lips parted to say something, but he shook his head before she could give the words life. A single tear slipped free, leaving a glistening trail down her cheek that her father quickly wiped away with the back of his knuckle before too many curious eyes could see. He then tucked a loose curl behind her ear and gave her arm a gentle squeeze. [color=dbbc77]"Return to your brother,"[/color] he instructed her gently. 

Rhea turned toward the dais and Dorian was already there, descending the stairs toward her with a sympathetic smile and his hand extended, a quiet comfort that only she would understand. Her brother preferred to remain fairly unnoticed during ceremonies, rarely spoke or stepped out of turn, yet there he was. He was not called upon or summoned, but moved of his own volition because he knew… knew their mother’s anger, knew the strength it took to face adversity with her head raised, and knew an offered hand could keep someone from falling apart. 

She drew in a deep shaky breath as her fingers slipped into his palm, holding tight to him like a lifeline that would keep her from drowning beneath the weight of their mother’s shame. His thumb gently stroked her knuckles, a quiet gesture of reassurance as he helped her back up the stairs and to her spot beside him. But as they turned around to face the court and Great Hall once again, he didn’t return to leaning against the throne, but offered her his arm as a silent support through the chaos. 

Rowan cleared his throat in an attempt to turn the Lords’ attention back to him and give his daughter as much of a respite as he could manage. [color=dbbc77]"My apologies, Lord Einarr, Lord Emil. My daughter meant no offense or ill will. She has a kind soul, but is a free spirit. I assure you, she could no sooner harm a mouse than your son intentionally."[/color] His smile was warm and fond as he spared Rhea a quick glance. [color=dbbc77]"And please forgive me for my wife’s outburst. She is jaded by the crown and often forgets that [i]some[/i] conversations are better kept behind closed doors."[/color]

Elrik held himself still as his father inclined his head, the movement precise and heavy with intent. [color=365699]“Your kindness is noted, Your Grace,”[/color] Einarr said evenly, voice carrying just far enough to be heard without courting the hall. [color=365699]“I am certain my youngest might have taken greater care to avoid such a situation, but neither heir stands mortally harmed, and that is all that concerns me.”[/color] His gaze lifted, steady and unflinching. 

[color=365699]“House Járnbjørn will hold no resentments.”[/color] There was a pause then, a breath suspended, before Einarr added quietly, almost painfully, in a tone Elrik had [i]never[/i] heard from his father before. [color=365699]“Roric would never forgive me if I did.”[/color]

Emil bowed his head at once, too quickly, as though afraid the moment might turn again if he lingered upright, or perhaps scared to find their father was an actual human being with feelings that did not include rage and cruelty. [color=943131]“Thank you, Your Grace,”[/color] he said, voice unsteady but sincere. [color=943131]“And… my apologies, my Queen. I never believed harm was meant, I’m simply grateful I could protect the Princess in the moment.”[/color] 

The words seemed to cost him something, Elrik saw it in the tightness of his shoulders, the way Emil’s hands curled as if bracing for a blow that never came. Selja did not speak at all, her expression drawn and anxious, eyes flicking briefly toward their mother as though wishing she were anywhere else but here.

Elrik remained silent as well, his face carefully composed as he stared ahead, listening without truly hearing. The King’s warmth, his defense of his daughter, the apology offered so openly, it all unsettled him in ways he did not yet understand. He found himself caught between irritation and something dangerously close to respect, neither emotion sitting comfortably in his chest. Words pressed at the back of his throat, unformed and unwelcome, and he forced them down with the same discipline that had kept him alive on colder ground. 

So he said nothing. He let his father’s voice speak for Ironcrag, let Emil’s gratitude soften what edges it could, and let Selja’s silence pass without comment. Elrik stood as he always did, unmoving, unreadable, while inside him thoughts churned like water beneath ice. Whatever he felt about the Princess, the King, or the strange mercy threaded through this hall, he would not give it shape here. Not yet.

The King’s smile slowly found its warmth once again, eased by Einarr’s understanding but glowing from Emil’s kindness that reminded him of Rhea in many ways. [color=dbbc77]"You’re a good lad."[/color] He nodded his head toward the young man in silent gratitude. [color=dbbc77]"Perhaps it is in poor taste, but I am grateful it was you she ran into."[/color] He laughed, a loud and radiant roar that filled the hall with the levity it had lost. [color=dbbc77]"Not many would be so understanding and save the rider in turn. You have a kind heart. I can tell,"[/color] he added, not that it was simply fact, but something of pride, not shame.

Rowan gave Lord Einarr one last pat to the shoulder, an attempt to ground themselves in something more pleasant and hopefully move past whatever in the nine hells his wife thought she was doing. [color=dbbc77]"I am pleased you made the journey."[/color] His grip tightened faintly. [color=dbbc77]"Let us share fine company, stories, and far too much wine that we forget [i]all[/i] about this."[/color] 

He nodded his head toward each member of the Járnbjørn house, before turning and starting back up the steps of the dais. But with his back towards court and the waiting Lords, the King’s smile faltered and a darkness bloomed behind his eyes as his gaze drifted over toward his wife who could not be bothered to return the glance. He lowered himself back onto his throne, resting his elbow on the armrest as his hand stroked his beard, masking his mouth from anyone watching. [color=dbbc77]"Challenge me publicly again, and it will be the last time you set foot out of your chambers."[/color]

Elrik heard his father answer without hesitation, the words carrying a familiarity he rarely allowed himself to hear. [color=365699]“As am I, old friend,”[/color] Einarr said, voice low and even, before he turned slightly and lifted his hand in a subtle command for his family to withdraw from the center of the hall. The moment shifted, ceremony loosening its grip as attention began to scatter elsewhere, and Elrik moved when expected, posture precise, steps measured. He felt the evening tilt toward revelry, toward wine and noise meant to bury what had nearly surfaced

As they stepped aside, Elrik allowed himself a single glance back toward the dais. His eyes caught first on Princess Maeve, poised and immaculate, her presence sharp with intent and polish, exactly as the court would wish her to be. But before he could anchor there, before discipline could lock his attention where it belonged, his gaze betrayed him, flickering instead to Princess Rhea. The sight of her, steadied now beside her brother yet still fragile at the edges, struck him with an unexpected force, and he turned away at once, jaw tightening as though the weight settling in his chest might crack something open if he lingered.

He followed his family into the periphery of the hall, torchlight dimmer here, voices blurring into a distant tide. His face slipped into shadow, expression sealed, though inside him thoughts pressed and shifted with unwelcome insistence. He did not like the way the evening had rearranged something within him, did not like the pull of it, the questions it left unanswered. Ironcrag had taught him that uncertainty was a weakness best exercised quickly.

As they came to a stop, he felt rather than saw the watchful presence nearby—a King’s Guard stationed close to the royal family, red hair catching the firelight like a warning flare. The man’s expression was unreadable, eyes sharp and assessing as they tracked the Járnbjørns’ retreat without comment. Elrik did not meet that gaze, he kept his eyes forward, shoulders squared, every inch the disciplined son his father demanded. Yet even then, with the hall pressing in and the music beginning to stir, the weight in his chest did not ease. [/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent]

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