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[indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080]The King’s words loosened the hall, and sound returned in a slow swell, boots shifting on stone, voices rising, the faint chime of glass as servants moved in anticipation. Elrik stood where he had been placed, posture unbroken, letting the noise gather and pass around him like water around rock. The moon had begun to claim the windows, silver light slipping across polished floors and catching in the edges of armor and silk. It cooled the air just enough to be felt through the weight of his clothing, a welcome reprieve from the earlier heat, though it did little to quiet the restless edge beneath his ribs. His attention should have turned forward with the rest of the court, but it did not.

His gaze drifted again, quietly, almost without his consent, back to the dais. He caught sight of her in the space between movements, between one breath and the next. It was not deliberate at first. A flicker of pale fabric, the line of her shoulders, the echo of that earlier laugh still caught somewhere in his thoughts. He did not understand why it lingered, why it refused to fade as all such moments should, dissolving into the greater noise of court and duty. Instead, it returned again and again, faint but persistent, as if something in him had marked it and would not release its hold.

Princess Maeve’s movement was clean and certain, a step taken with intent rather than impulse. Her hand found Princess Rhea’s arm, fingers closing with a pressure that did not belong to comfort. Elrik saw the shift at once, the way Rhea stiffened, the sharp intake of breath she could not fully hide, the tension that settled into her posture like something held too tightly for too long. He watched the exchange without hearing it, but he did not need the words. The meaning was carried in the grip, in the angle of Maeve’s shoulders, in the way Rhea pulled free with more force than grace would have required. It was controlled, contained, but it was not gentle.

The sight settled in him with a weight he did not immediately name. He had been raised in a house where such moments were not rare, where control wore many faces and silence often carried more meaning than speech. He recognized the language instinctively. It was not cruelty in the open sense, no raised voice, no public fracture, but something quieter, sharper for its restraint. The kind that left no mark anyone could point to, but lingered all the same. It did not sit easily with him.

Maeve had been the expected path. Everything about her aligned with what his father would want— discipline, poise, the ability to move through court without misstep. Elrik had already begun to accept that, to place himself within that expectation without resistance. It was the simplest course, the cleanest, the one that served his house best. But as he watched her now, that image shifted, not in some dramatic break, but in a subtle misalignment that refused to settle back into place. Something in him cooled toward her, not with anger, but with a quiet withdrawal. Princess Maeve carried too many similarities to Einarr for Elrik to feel comfortable with. If he courted her, if they wed, if she bore his children, would she treat them as he watched her treat her own sister? The questions poised within his own mind stirred discontent, but there was one certainty in him that he had since he was but a mere boy in the face of his own father’s cruelty; he would never allow his own children to face such pain. 

Princess Rhea moved away from her sister with a small, determined distance, rubbing her arm where the pressure had lingered. The motion was quick, almost absent minded, but it caught his attention more than anything else had. There was no performance in it, no careful shaping for the benefit of watching eyes. It was simple, unguarded, and gone almost as soon as it appeared. She crossed the dais with the slow weight of her skirts dragging against the stone, like something resisting her movement. When she reached her brother, her hand found his arm with an ease that spoke of habit, of trust, of something that did not need to be questioned.

Elrik realized, distantly, that he had been watching too long. The thought came sharp and unwelcome, pulling him back into himself with a faint tightening of his jaw. His gaze broke from her at once, shifting away with a deliberate steadiness that bordered on force. He frowned, though only slightly, the expression more felt than seen. This was not where his attention should rest. It served no purpose, offered no advantage. It complicated what should have remained simple. And yet, even as he turned away, he knew the pull had not lessened.

His father moved then, guiding Serene forward with a hand that was firm without appearing so. The motion signaled their own retreat from the hall, and Elrik stepped into place without hesitation. Selja stood beside him, her posture composed but not entirely steady, her attention scattered in a way he recognized from earlier. He offered his arm, and she took it quickly, her fingers light against his sleeve but not fully relaxed. He adjusted his pace to hers without thought, grounding her movement in his own.

For a brief moment, when he was certain their father’s focus had shifted ahead, he allowed himself a small shift. His expression softened at the edge, just enough that his sister could feel the warmth in him, and he tipped his head slightly toward her. It was not a smile meant to draw attention. It was quieter than that, a reassurance offered without words, without spectacle. Selja’s grip steadied, her breath easing just enough for him to notice. Family, to him, was not an idea shaped by court or expectation. It was something carried, something guarded. He had learned that early, learned it in ways that left no room for softness in the open sense, but something deeper, more enduring. He would stand for them without question, without hesitation. Even when it went unrecognized. Even when it was misunderstood. The thought of that did not trouble him.

What troubled him was the way his mind kept circling back, unbidden, to the image of a hand held too tightly, to the echo of a laugh that did not belong to this place. He did not like what it suggested, did not like the direction it pointed him toward. There were expectations laid before him, clear and unmoving. His father’s ambitions. His house’s standing. The future already half shaped in the space between introductions and glances. And yet, as he guided Selja forward, stepping away further from the dais and toward the promise of feast and noise, he felt that quiet misalignment settle deeper. Not enough to break him from his path. Not enough to change his course. But enough that he knew, with a certainty he did not welcome, that this would not remain simple.

The doors opened and the scent reached him first, meat rich with spice and smoke, wine warmed by the room, honey and baked fruit threaded through it all. It settled low in his lungs as he crossed the threshold, the air cooler here, touched by the hush of water somewhere deeper in the stone. Light moved differently in this place, candlefire caught and doubled in polished surfaces, then broken again where moonlight filtered down from the cavern above. The space did not feel built so much as carved open and claimed, shaped by hands that understood both excess and restraint. Elrik took it in as he walked, not lingering, but not blind to it either.

The tables stretched long and deliberate, every detail set with intention, cloth laid smooth, silver placed just so, the weight of it all speaking to a different kind of strength than the one he knew. In Ironcrag, feasts were gathered around fire and timber, benches worn smooth by years of use, food passed hand to hand with little thought for symmetry. There, the noise came quick and loud, laughter rising without permission, drink poured freely, and when their father was not present the formality broke entirely, leaving something warmer, rougher, more alive. Here, even the abundance carried a certain discipline, a sense that indulgence itself had rules to follow. He did not dislike it. But it pressed at him in a way that made him aware of every inch of his posture, every movement measured against a standard he had not been raised within.

He felt it most clearly in the way he held himself, the unfamiliar awareness of being seen not as a man among his own, but as something to be weighed. The Járnbjørns were made for harsher ground, for wind that cut and cold that demanded endurance, for cloaks lined with fur and hands warmed over open flame. This place gleamed in ways that had no use for that kind of survival, and though he moved through it without falter, he knew he did not belong to it in the same way the others did. When he glanced down at Selja, he saw it reflected there in quieter form, the tightness in her shoulders, the careful way she carried herself as though one misstep might echo too loudly. He slowed his pace by a fraction, just enough to give her space to match him, and let his other hand rest briefly against her arm. It was a light touch, deliberate, meant to steady rather than draw attention.

[color=5b90b5]"All will be well,"[/color] he murmured, voice pitched low for her alone. [color=5b90b5]"The prince will see you seated. You will endure whatever conversation finds you, and then you will dance, with me first, then with him, and then with whichever fool thinks himself worthy enough to ask."[/color] There was the faintest edge of dry humor beneath it, subtle but present. [color=5b90b5]"It will be so tedious you will wish for your books before the second cup of wine is poured. Ease your fears, Kærr Systir—[i]beloved sister."[/i][/color]

He felt the tension shift beneath his hand as she let out a breath she had been holding too long. [color=c77652]"þökk fyrir—[i]Thank you."[/i][/color] she murmured softly, the old words settling between them with quiet familiarity. He inclined his head slightly at that, not answering aloud, but acknowledging it all the same. The use of their shared tongue softened something in the moment, grounding it in something older than this hall, older than the expectations laid out before them. There was no need for more between them. There rarely was.

Together, they moved forward through the press of bodies and sound, weaving toward the place where her name waited among the others. Elrik kept his attention ahead now, steady, purposeful, already preparing for the next step in the evening’s unfolding. He would see her placed where she was meant to be, offer her hand where it was expected, and then step back into his own role without hesitation. As the distance between them and the prince narrowed, he adjusted his grip slightly, a final, quiet assurance. 

Dorian rounded the head of the table, drifting toward the space where his name clung to a place card, calligraphed in rich ink, waiting for him to take his seat and fall into the perfect monotony of courting and pomp. His fingers had just wrapped around the finials atop his chair when his gaze snagged on a mane of red hair, so fiery and bright that his own sisters’ locks paled in comparison. Lady Selja was a vision—like the rest of the nobles that graced their halls, men and women alike—adorned in crimson and ivory as if his own mother had chosen the gown herself. She was everything a Queen [i]should[/i] be: beautiful, poised, elegant… The type of woman he would have been arranged to marry if his mother had her way. She was the type of Lady that suited the Prince Declan was, not the unwilling heir Dorian became. 

He could have let the eldest Járnbjørn escort her the remaining distance to her seat, but he also knew of expectation and the lingering glances that followed his every move with a sharp scrutiny. This was not his birthright and Dorian felt that with each word he spoke and every move he made that showed the difference between himself and his father or brother. Once the months start drifting towards winter he knows his prospects will dwindle, as well as any assurance the nobles [i]might[/i] have in him as a ruler. But, at least for this one night, he could keep up the charade, before drink and time gave light to who he truly was… A second son and nothing more.

The Prince gently pushed off of his chair, turning towards the approaching siblings with a warm smile and welcoming bow. As he stood back upright, Dorian extended his right hand toward Lady Selja, palm turned upwards in a chivalrous offering without pressing. [color=846d49]"My Lady, it appears as though we shall be dining together. Might I have the pleasure of escorting you to your seat?"[/color] he asked with a kind and gentle tone that didn’t quite suit a prince, that beneath all of the formality was still him. 

For a single, unguarded moment, Selja’s composure faltered. Her gaze flicked toward Elrik, quick and instinctive, seeking something steady in the familiar line of his presence, an anchor in a room that felt too bright. There was uncertainty there, bare and fleeting, a quiet unease that touched her features before she gathered it back in, smoothing it away like a crease in silk. By the time her attention returned to the prince, her expression had settled into something softer, something carefully composed, though the echo of that moment still lingered beneath her ribs.

[color=c77652]“Thank you, your Grace,”[/color] she murmured, her voice low and even as her hand rose to meet his. His palm was warm, his grip gentle in a way that startled her more than it should have, and she allowed herself to be guided the final distance with a measured step. There was a kindness in him that felt unfamiliar, unpracticed, almost, and it caught her off guard, made her acutely aware of the difference between this place and the one that had shaped her. Her fingers rested lightly in his, smaller, a touch rougher at the edges, the faint callouses of her work a quiet contrast she noticed without dwelling on.

As they moved, her thoughts turned inward, quick and restless beneath her calm exterior. The idea came unbidden, settling low in her stomach with a subtle weight—what would become of Ironcrag’s people, of those who came to her with quiet trust and small, aching injuries, if she were ever pulled away from them? She drew a slow breath, letting it steady her as they reached her place, brushing the thought aside before it could take root too deeply. It was a passing notion, nothing more. There were women here far better suited to stand at a prince’s side, and she knew it as surely as she knew the rhythm of her own pulse. Her eyes drifted briefly across the room, catching on Lady Aelyria where she stood radiant beside her father, her laughter soft and easy, her presence perfectly at home among the polished grace of the court. Selja felt no sting in the comparison, only a quiet certainty, and it loosened something in her shoulders. 

[color=c77652]“We don’t do feasts quite like this in Ironcrag,”[/color] she said then, her voice pitched for him alone, her gaze lifting toward the vaulted expanse above them, where light pooled against carved stone. [color=c77652]“There’s less… ceremony, I suppose.”[/color] A faint smile touched her lips, wry and warm in its honesty. [color=c77652]“Mostly drinking, singing, dancing. I feel rather out of my element.”[/color] A hint of color rose to her cheeks, soft but unmistakable, and she glanced back at him with a small, apologetic tilt of her head. [color=c77652]“Forgive me, your Grace. I’ve said more than I meant to.”[/color]

Dorian’s smile widened as the image of Ironcrag feasts painted a vision in his mind. He could see plain before his eyes, similar to the revelry that transpired in the tavern after the sun had long set and stuffy Lords had waddled back to their homes. Drinks passed freely from hand to hand regardless of station, golden lantern light illuminating jovial faces, and bare feet twisting along stone in beat with the rhythmic thumping of drums and pluck of strings as men and women danced with unbridled revelry. He couldn’t begin to fathom a gathering with so much freedom among nobles within the halls of the citadel. His mother would surely turn red in the face and Maeve would clutch her chest as if the sight was a personal offense. Yet… The thought of seeing Rhea free of the weight of their mother’s scrutiny, Declan free from the shackles of the guard, and himself… in his truest form… The Storvane siblings in all of their authenticity for one night. [i]That[/i] was how one found a love match, not ceremony and formality.

The illusion drifted away like smoke on the wind as their feet stopped beside two identical place cards adorned with ornate calligraphy spelling out their names side by side. The prince’s chuckle was warm and almost forlorn for an Ironcrag celebration in exchange for this uptight farce. He gave Selja’s hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze before releasing her fingers and stepping behind her seat. [color=846d49]"No apologies needed, my Lady."[/color] His hands took hold of the hold of the wooden sides of the chair and started pulling it out as he continued. [color=846d49]"All this formality is my mother’s doing. An Ironcrag feast sounds much more in line with how I prefer to spend my leisure time."[/color]

Once her chair was adequately far enough from the table, Dorian took her hand once again and guided her into the seat, letting her set the pace and take however much time she needed. [color=846d49]"Now, do not misunderstand me, a beautiful lady—[i]such as yourself[/i]—dressed in all of her finery is truly a sight to behold… But there is something about seeing a person in their natural element. It is… [i]unrivaled.[/i]"[/color] He couldn’t deny that the thought of her free from the burden of court enticed him, crimson hair like fire, bouncing wild and free as she danced however the music guided her. His gaze swept across the ballroom, the image shifting in his mind’s eye to something out from beneath the weight of the crown. An idea was brewing… One his mother would hate and his brother would reluctantly assist in, but something far more memorable than silver chalices and rivers of silk.

The words settled over her like warmth she had not prepared for, and Selja felt the flush rise before she could temper it, color blooming soft and bright across pale cheeks, unpracticed and wholly genuine. It was not the compliment itself that undid her, but the attention threaded through it, the simple act of being seen and spoken to so openly. Her mother’s voice stirred faintly in memory, likening her once to a flower that could not recognize its own bloom, and Selja felt that truth now with quiet clarity. In Ironcrag, admiration did not come freely, not with her father’s shadow cast long and sharp, not with Elrik’s reputation carried at her side like a drawn blade. Here, the absence of that restraint left her unsteady, as though the ground beneath her had shifted without warning.

Still, she smiled, soft, dimpling, carefully composed, as she placed her hand back into his and allowed him to guide her into her seat. The gesture was smooth, practiced, and she matched it with a grace that had been taught rather than lived. [color=c77652]“Thank you, your Grace,”[/color] she said, her voice quiet but even, the words offered without clarification, allowed to rest where they might. Once seated, she drew her hands lightly into her lap, smoothing the fall of her skirts more for something to do than any real need. [color=c77652]“I believe you would quite enjoy Ironcrag, if you can tolerate the weather, of course.”[/color] The faint curve of her smile lingered, softened at the edges by something more personal, something that carried the shape of homesickness.

There was a fleeting second where Dorian had almost let slip his hedonistic nature. A comment about relying on wine and another’s body to warm him through the cold danced on the tip of his tongue, but to his own surprise, he managed to temper it with a soft chuckle and a shrug. [color=846d49]"I am certain I could adapt,"[/color] he offered instead. [color=846d49]"If the revels are half as lively as you mention, I have no doubt it shall warm my blood and spirits on the coldest nights."[/color] Then, before too much of the prince’s nature could escape—in the first night, anyway—he bowed his head deeply, giving Selja the reverence she deserved with a radiant smile that never waned. [color=846d49]"Thank you for the honor of helping you to your seat. I look forward to the conversation we might share over broken bread."[/color] Dorian then left her to settle as he made himself available to aid the next lady that had the fortune—[i]or misfortune[/i]—of crossing his path.

Her gaze drifted from him then, charmed by his words, drawn outward to the movement of the hall as she sought steadiness in observation. Faces passed in a slow current, strangers wrapped in silks and jewels, voices blending into a low, constant murmur that filled the vaulted space. A man with dark, windswept curls accompanied by the slender woman stood close to another striking woman whose sharp features held a quiet authority; nearby, another sat poised in thought, her deep-toned skin catching the candlelight in a way that made her seem almost sculpted from it. Selja’s attention moved quickly, careful not to linger too long on any one figure, her curiosity tempered by caution. It was all too much at once, this sea of unfamiliarity, where every glance might carry weight she did not yet understand.

She folded her hands together in her lap, fingers threading lightly as she focused on the rhythm of her breath, slow, measured, something she could control amidst the swell of overwhelming sensation. A servant approached, and she inclined her head in quiet acceptance, watching the dark liquid fill her goblet before letting her gaze settle once more. When the seat beside her was claimed, she turned, drawn by the subtle shift in presence. The woman there held herself with a strength that felt immediate, something honed rather than softened, and Selja met it with a small, sincere smile, shy at its edges, but genuine all the same, offered without expectation, only acknowledgment.

Elrik released Selja’s hand only when it was properly transferred, her fingers settling into the prince’s hand where they belonged for the evening’s performance. He gave Dorian a brief nod, measured and respectful, then stepped back without lingering, trusting that the prince would do what was expected of him. The motion should have carried him cleanly into his next role, toward the place set for him, toward Princess Maeve, toward the path already laid out. His gaze shifted that way out of habit more than intent, only to find it already occupied. The Varrow heir stood there with practiced ease, close enough to Maeve that his presence filled the space Elrik had been meant to claim, his hand guiding her seat as though the moment had always been his.

The sight registered, settled, and passed through him without the sharpness it might have once carried. There was no flare of anger, no immediate sense of something stolen. He had chosen his course a moment prior, even if he had not named it as such. Selja had needed him, and that had been reason enough. Whatever place was lost in the exchange had not been taken, it had been set aside. Elrik let that truth anchor him as he turned from it, stepping instead toward the edge of the table where servants moved in practiced silence, their hands filling goblets before they could be found empty.

He reached for the bottle with a short nod, fingers closing around the neck before the servant could finish his motion, tweaking it into his own hand with ease. The man faltered, uncertainty flickering across his face, but Elrik gave no further explanation. He did not need to. The weight of the glass vessel settled into his hand, cool and solid, and he turned with it, intent already formed, toward Maeve, toward obligation. He took two steps in that direction before something shifted, subtle but insistent, drawing his attention elsewhere with the same quiet persistence that had followed him since the hall.

Princess Rhea sat a short distance away, skirts gathered around her like a white tide that had yet to settle, her posture composed but not entirely at ease. Elrik’s steps slowed without conscious command, the line of his path bending until he stood beside her instead. He paused there for the briefest moment, as though only then aware of where he had come to stand, the bottle held loosely in his grip. His gaze dropped, almost without permission, to the place where her hand had rested earlier, where he had seen her rub the lingering ache from her sister’s grasp.

[color=5b90b5]“Your Grace,”[/color] he said at last, his voice low and steady, carrying none of the flourish that colored the voices around them. It was not softened into something it was not, but there was an openness to it, a quiet consideration that shaped the words as they left him. His eyes lifted then, meeting hers without pressing, without claiming more than the moment allowed. At that moment, he could not bring himself to care for obligation. [color=5b90b5]“May I have the pleasure of filling your wine glass?”[/color]

At the sound of a voice beside her, Rhea, for whatever reason, had assumed it was a servant making their rounds filling plates and goblets like they did for every meal. Her hands lightly pressed against the edge of the table, turning to address whomever spoke to her with a welcoming warmth, bright smile, and gratitude she always shared with the help, no matter how much her mother protested. Her hazel gaze lifted and to her surprise, she was not faced with Talice or Henry who often served her, but the man she watched from the window as he arrived on horseback, Emil’s elder brother… [i]Lord Elrik.[/i] His presence was far more imposing as he towered over where she sat, without a dais to separate them. He looked like a warrior, a honed blade from years of meticulous practice that wasn’t brandished to show power, but sheathed within the confines of court to show potential. 

His question fell open and honest between them in a way that caught her off guard, like stepping on slick stone or uneven soil. Rhea’s gaze fell to the silver decanter, ornate and polished, held delicately in the rough and calloused hands of a swordsman. Duty, prowess, and privilege converging in something so simple she struggled to wrap her mind around it. From what she knew of nobles, they never worried themselves over a task that was beneath them. Like her mother and sister, they would rather die than pour their own wine. Yet, there he stood, offering to serve her. Something about that struck a cord within her, more than a well placed compliment or lingering gaze ever could. 

Then the second realization cut deeper with the searing heat of piercing gazes trained solely on her. She knew the discomfort of her mother’s judgement, but it was another set of eyes from farther down the table that were sharpest. Rhea’s bewildered smile sank like feet in wet sand, slow and consuming, as her gaze drifted past the Lord to her sister who watched her with a disdain so venomous she felt it in her core. Maeve was the eldest daughter, a proper lady, and the most advantageous prospect for every Lord within the Black Citadel. And still… her goblet was dry and the heir to Ironcrag’s back was to her as if [i]she[/i] was the second born daughter. Rhea felt her sister’s ire more sharply with a single glance than any words could spare. 

The correct answer would have been to direct him toward her sister, but as her lips parted something else filled the prolonged silence between them. [color=10636f]"Yes, of course,"[/color] Rhea replied. Her gaze found its way back up to his and her smile returned, a bit smaller and a little more uncertain as she felt the sting of glares lingering on her, but it was still sincere and laced with a warm gratitude. [color=10636f]"Thank you, my Lord."[/color] 

Without giving it much thought, Rhea reached out across the table and curled her fingers around her empty goblet. She turned back toward Lord Elrik with the cup in hand and started to hold it out, then paused. Her gaze fell to the small bowl of polished silver that reflected a distorted image of red hair warped within a sea of dark charcoals from his tunic. She looked back and forth from the empty glass to the spot on the table it once inhabited. The servants [i]usually[/i] stepped up beside her and poured wine into her cup without either of them touching it, something so small and missable that she hadn’t realized it until that moment. But now the silver hovered in the air, clutched between her delicate fingers. Rhea started to place the goblet back down, then paused, half turned back toward Elrik, then paused again. Her brows creased from intense focus as her body mirrored her internal debate, shifting the cup back and forth a couple more times before a soft, and slightly embarrassed chuckle escaped.

Her shoulders fell, a fraction of a movement that would have gone unnoticed by most as if someone had snipped the puppet string that kept her posture pin straight, releasing the faintest bit of tension along with it. [color=10636f]"I probably should have left it on the table…"[/color] she confessed as a soft pink flush bloomed across her cheeks. Rhea accepted her blunder and held up the silver cup between them with a bashful curl to the corner of her mouth. [color=10636f]"I suppose if we are breaking tradition, what harm is there in making it a little worse,"[/color] she mused, her authenticity bleeding through, followed by a quiet chuckle that said she was not only comfortable, but accustomed to bending the rules. 

Elrik felt the shift in the room before he named it, the subtle tightening of attention that gathered not around the table, but along a single line of sight. He did not need to turn fully to know where it came from. Years of moving through harsher spaces had taught him how to read pressure without looking directly at it, how to sense when something unseen began to weigh on a moment. His body answered before thought could intervene. He stepped closer to Rhea, not abruptly, not in a way that would draw comment, but with a quiet precision that altered the space between them. A slight shift to the right, the angle of his shoulders broadening just enough, and the view from further down the table vanished behind him. It could have been dismissed as practicality, as a man positioning himself to pour without obstruction. It could have been nothing at all. But he knew exactly what he had done, even if no one else marked it.

He lowered his head a fraction, closing the distance between their voices rather than their bodies, and in doing so, allowed something within him to ease. The expression he wore, so carefully held in place throughout the evening thus far, gave way just enough to be felt. The sharpness softened, the weight behind his gaze lightening as his attention settled fully on her. The smile that followed was small, restrained, but it was not hollow. It reached his eyes, quiet and deliberate, as though offered rather than worn. Her voice, pitched low for him alone, carried a warmth that did not belong to courtly exchange. It was unguarded in a way he was not accustomed to, and it struck him more cleanly than any practiced charm could have. And when she laughed, soft, fleeting, almost shy, it threaded through him with a strange clarity, as if it had found a place he had not known was open.

Her flush drew his gaze without effort. It was not the calculated color he had seen painted across faces for effect, but something that rose naturally, warming her skin in a way that spoke of sincerity rather than intent. He watched it for a moment longer than he should have, the corner of his mouth shifting slightly, his composure loosening by a fraction more. Then he moved, tipping the carafe with a steady hand, the dark wine slipping into her goblet in a clean, controlled stream. He did not rush it, nor did he linger unnecessarily. The motion was practiced, though not from habit in such settings, and he brought the pour to a careful stop at the midpoint, as though even this small act deserved consideration.

[color=5b90b5]"Tradition becomes our security, and when the mind is secure, it begins to decay,"[/color] he said quietly. His voice carried its usual roughness, worn by use rather than softened by courtly polish, yet there was a gentleness threaded through it that he did not often allow. He spoke not to impress, nor to instruct, but because the thought had found its way forward and he did not turn it back. The idea lingered between them, not heavy, but present.

[color=10636f]"I have never been much for tradition,"[/color] the princess confessed with a hushed tone, like a secret shared between the two over the broken formality of wine poured by noble hands. She slowly lowered the goblet once it was filled, resting the heel of her hand against the carved wooden armrest of her chair. Her gaze fell to the rich burgundy liquid, cradled in silver, reflecting the candlelight from the chandelier overhead. The tip of her thumb traced the brim of the cup as she looked back up at the Lord with a smile that was surprisingly bright considering the embarrassment her mother had dragged her through, as if no rain cloud could keep the sun at bay forever. 

He remained where he was for a moment longer, the wine still in his hand, the space between them held in a quiet balance. His gaze rested on her, steady but not pressing, as if he were measuring not her reaction, but his own understanding of the moment. [color=5b90b5]"Despite what my father may wish,"[/color] he continued, more slowly now, the words deliberate in their formation, [color=5b90b5]"It is I who will rule Ironcrag one day."[/color] There was no pride in it, no edge of defiance meant for others to hear. It was a simple truth, spoken without ornament, shaped by inevitability rather than desire. And yet, in speaking it here, to her, it felt different. Less like a burden declared, and more like something acknowledged.

He drew back then, the motion as controlled as his approach had been, restoring the distance that propriety demanded. The decanter lowered, his shoulders settling once more into the posture expected of him. But the softness did not vanish entirely. It lingered faintly in the set of his mouth, in the steadiness of his gaze as he inclined his head in a small bow. [color=5b90b5]"Thank you, my Lady,"[/color] he said, voice even, though still touched by the quiet warmth of the moment. [color=5b90b5]"I look forward to having the honor of asking you to dance later this evening."[/color]

Rhea was not often a woman left without words, but where a response was expected she struggled to make words appear. This was what the evening was for, what the following months were for… Creating familiarity, bonds, [i]courting.[/i] But where her sister had prepared like a knight for a joust, Rhea had continued about her daily life as if nothing would change. She had accepted that the Lords would be lining up for Maeve, not her. Sure, second born sons, lechers, or grasping nobles for higher status might spare her a glance, but not a first born son. Not the heir to Ironcrag. It set the coming events between that evening and the winter solstice into a surprising clarity. But more than that, it was in that moment she truly realized how vastly unprepared she was and how the prospect of a single dance made something foreign stir in her chest. 

Then, before thought could catch up to reason, the words found her tongue and slipped free like an admission that didn’t belong in decadent halls or at formal feasts. [color=10636f]"I pray you have sturdy toes."[/color] The jest landed softly between them as if she was speaking with her brothers and not a Lord who sat at the top of her sister’s list of prospective suitors. Her tone was laced with a warmth that felt misplaced in the chill of the cavernous ballroom, yet even as it settled like uneven stones, her sincerity never faded. The flush returned faintly across Rhea’s cheeks the moment she realized what she had said, but rather than sinking into embarrassment, she laughed at herself. It was quiet enough that it didn’t travel beyond them, but unmissable in the way her eyes squinted and how the shadows formed where her smile curled into her dimples. [color=10636f]"Apologies. I spend far too much time around my brothers."[/color]

The words struck him cleanly, without ornament, and for a moment Elrik simply stood there, feeling the shape of them settle. It was not what she said alone, but how she said it, unguarded, easy, spoken as though she had forgotten where she was meant to be careful. It pulled something from him before he could contain it. A quiet, honest chuckle slipped free, low in his chest, the sound unfamiliar even to himself, as though it belonged to a version of him long set aside. The tension that had lived in his shoulders since entering the hall eased by a fraction, enough to be felt if not seen.

He inclined his head slightly toward her, drawing his voice down into a space meant only for her ears. [color=5b90b5]"My Lady,"[/color] he said again, tone softened but steady, the usual edge worn down to something quieter, more deliberate, [color=5b90b5]"Never apologize to me for being true to yourself."[/color] The words came without rehearsal, shaped by instinct rather than calculation, and once spoken, he did not regret them. He held her gaze as he said it, not demanding, not claiming, only present, as though offering something he did not often give. Her laughter lingered still, faint but persistent, threading through his thoughts in a way that unsettled and steadied him all at once.

He wasn’t entirely sure what made him say it. There was a certainty in him though, born from her laugh, from the flush on her cheeks, from the sudden and overwhelming desire to keep her gaze on him, even when other heirs tried to woo her. It settled into place with the same inevitability that defined everything he did. It was a known quality amongst the Járnbjørn, once their mind was set, there was no point in attempting to dissuade them. That certainty did not come loud or brash, but quiet and immovable, like a mountain beneath snow.

[color=5b90b5]"If I may be allowed the privilege of honesty,"[/color] he continued, and now there was something lighter in his voice, though no less assured, [color=5b90b5]"I intend to win your heart before I ask for your hand."[/color] The words held no jest, no half-measure. They were spoken plainly, carried by the same steady confidence he brought to battle and blade, but tempered here with something gentler, something chosen rather than imposed. He stepped back then, restoring the distance expected of him, and offered her a deeper bow, one that felt less like obligation and more like acknowledgment.

Rhea blinked and her lips parted, but no sounds followed, her words stolen before they could form. The redness that spread across her cheeks was sudden, warm, and deep enough to rival the curls that framed her face. Her expression did not show anger or disgust, but a stunned and utter bewilderment that robbed her of thoughts. His words were like a stone dropped into still water that churned it into rapids, and everything the princess [i]thought[/i] she knew had changed. For the first time in her life, Rhea felt truly out of her depth, but her gaze… traitorous and unyielding did not turn away, but remained locked on him, as if he had gone mad… or perhaps it was she.

When he straightened, his composure had settled once more into place, though not as rigid as before. [color=5b90b5]"Please, enjoy the meal, my Lady. I am certain it will be excellent, though I’ve never dined with royalty before, so my confidence may be misplaced."[/color]

He turned from her without looking back, his steps measured, unhurried, carrying him toward his place at the table as though nothing had shifted at all. Yet beneath the surface, something had. For the first time in his life, Elrik allowed himself something he had long denied—a choice. Not one carved by his father’s will or his house’s expectation, but one made by his own hand. And once that decision took root, it held fast, as all things did with him. Elrik moved with quiet purpose to his place, the weight of the decanter settling back into the rhythm of service as he approached the place set for the elder princess. He passed the vessel to a nearby servant with a brief nod, the gesture simple but deliberate. The boy who received it was slight of frame, sun-touched skin warmed by the firelight, his green eyes bright despite the press of duty. There was a quickness to his movements, a kind of nervous diligence, but at the acknowledgment, his mouth curved into a small, surprised smile before he bowed his head.

Elrik inclined his own in return, then turned toward Maeve, the shift in him subtle but complete. He bent into a measured bow, precise in its depth, his voice smoothing into something cooler, shaped for court rather than quiet, personal conversation. [color=5b90b5]"Good evening, your Grace,"[/color] he said, tone respectful and controlled, each word placed with care. When he straightened, his posture settled beside her with the ease of a man accustomed to standing where he was expected, even if his thoughts had not entirely followed.

The servant boy lingered a step behind, already moving to fill Elrik’s goblet, but Elrik lifted a hand before the wine could be poured. The motion was calm, unhurried, his gaze flicking briefly toward the princess. [color=5b90b5]"The Princess’s first,"[/color] he said evenly, [color=5b90b5]"and then Lord Rhaevyn’s."[/color] He did not elaborate, nor did he need to. His head dipped once more in quiet acknowledgment, both to the boy and the instruction given.

The servant startled slightly, then nodded quickly, murmuring a soft apology that softened at the edges of certain sounds, his speech catching just enough to mark his haste. He turned at once to carry out the order, hands steadying as he moved between them. Elrik watched only long enough to ensure it was done, then let his attention settle forward once more, his expression returning to its composed stillness as the evening unfolded around them. [/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent]

[center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img]
[color=808080][b]interactions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] dorian, rhea [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]mentions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] seraphina, valerius, lyra, saphira, maeve, rhaevyn, aelyria [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]collabs[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [@Mjolnir][/color]
[img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center]