[center][img]https://imgur.com/6Kzpi0Z.gif[/img] [sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=808080][color=943131][b]#943131[/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=2e2c2c].....[/color] [b]cavern ballroom[/b][/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080]Emil entered the ballroom alone, and the emptiness beside him felt shaped enough to have weight. Ahead, Elrik moved with Selja on his arm, his posture straight, his pace adjusted so subtly to hers that most would miss the kindness of it beneath the discipline. Their father escorted their mother with the rigid courtesy of a man who understood appearances better than tenderness, his hand firm at her side as if even gentleness had to obey command. Emil’s own arm hung loose, fingers curling once against his palm around the space where his youngest sister should have been. For half a breath, he could almost feel her there, smaller steps, quick tongue, the brush of her sleeve against his, and then the procession shifted forward, taking the ghost of her with it. The room opened before him like something carved from a dream left beneath the mountain too long. Candlelight dripped from chandeliers large enough to crush a wagon, each flame catching in silver, polished wood, and the dark gloss of obsidian stone above. Farther in, the finery of the Citadel surrendered to the cavern itself, where moonlight poured down in cool sheets. Emil slowed despite himself, wonder softening the ache pinched between his ribs. He had seen ice caves back home catch dawn and turn blue enough to make a man believe the gods had hidden pieces of sky beneath Ironcrag, but this was stranger, warmer, almost impossible—court and wilderness sharing breath in the same room. He moved along the table with careful steps, partly from soreness and partly because the room deserved a form of quiet observation in the face of its beauty. Platters of roasted aurochs and peppered pheasant steamed under the glow of candelabras shaped like leaves and wings, their scents heavy with dark ale, clove, salt, honey, and hot pastry. Servants passed with practiced grace, hands full, eyes lowered, so easy for nobility to overlook that Emil found himself noticing them all the more, the boy balancing three bottles against one hip, the woman adjusting a crooked runner before anyone important could see, the older man guiding a younger servant away from a chair before a lord backed into him. Even here, abundance rested on unseen shoulders. The thought tugged at him with familiar tenderness, and he wondered if anyone had eaten yet belowstairs, or if they would wait until the grander hunger of the hall was satisfied. His name card waited farther down than his family’s pride would have preferred, though not so far as to be insulting. Emil Járnbjørn, written in careful ink, placed well away from both Princess Maeve and Princess Rhea. The distance was deliberate; he could feel the Queen’s hand in it as clearly as if she had pressed him down into the chair herself. He was not firstborn, not an heir with land and iron waiting beneath his feet, not some glittering prize worth arranging near royal daughters with hopeful precision. He had not ridden into the valley wearing glory over his shoulders. He had only happened to be standing in the wrong place at the right time, flowers in hand, foolish enough to catch a falling princess with his own body. Relief came so swiftly that guilt followed after it. He lowered himself into the chair with a barely hidden wince and let the breath leave him slowly, hands settling around the edge of the table until the sting in his palms steadied him. Far from the princesses meant far from expectation, and far from expectation meant he might pass through these months with little more than bruised ribs and a few polite conversations to show for it. He wanted Ironcrag with a homesickness that sat low and constant beneath his breastbone. He wanted the whitegrain terraces, the emberroot beds, the cliff villages with smoke curling thin from their chimneys, the people who would never care whether he knew how to flatter a queen so long as he arrived with remedies, grain, or a listening ear. If no one here chose him, he could return to where his hands were useful. His gaze drifted across the table before he meant it to, searching the movement and color for something familiar enough to anchor him. Selja had been placed near Prince Dorian, and Emil watched the prince offer her his hand with a warmth that eased some of the tightness in his chest. His sister looked nervous, but not cornered, her smile small and real as she settled into her seat. Their father remained with their mother near the higher table, already half-swallowed by old histories and royal company. Elrik, however, had not gone where Emil expected him to go. His brother stood beside Princess Rhea with a wine decanter in his hand, his shoulders angled in a way that blocked some distant line of sight, his head lowered as he spoke to her with a softness Emil knew few people ever received. The sight made Emil’s brows draw together before he could smooth them. Elrik did not waste movement, did not drift by accident, did not offer gentleness simply because a room might admire it. Yet there he was, pouring wine for the younger princess as if the act had weight beyond courtesy, his attention fixed on her with a steadiness that made the space around them feel quieter than the rest of the hall. Rhea flushed at whatever he said, color rising warm across her cheeks, and then she laughed, small, bright, almost disbelieving. Emil’s lips pursed, not in disapproval, but in uncertainty. He remembered her on the trail with dust on her skirts and panic in her eyes, remembered how quickly guilt had folded around her, and seeing that same face turned upward toward Elrik with startled warmth left him unsure where to place the feeling in his chest. Then Rhea’s gaze shifted, catching him from across the room. For one fragile instant the afternoon returned between them, the white flash of the horse’s mane, the crush of road beneath his back, her hands hovering as if apology could hold a man together. Emil straightened a little despite the pull in his side, and offered her the best smile he could manage. It was small, a touch awkward, but sincere enough to carry what words could not from such a distance, no harm done, no blame kept, breathe easy. He hoped she understood. He hoped, too, that whatever his brother had said had not unsettled her further, though the warmth still lingering in her cheeks suggested something far more complicated than fear. Emil looked down at his empty plate and rubbed a thumb along the tender scrape in his palm, listening to the water fall somewhere beyond the tables, trying to convince himself that complication was none of his business unless someone was hurt by it [hr] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/niwx66V.gif[/img] [sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=808080][color=6f5062][b]#6f5062[/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=2e2c2c].....[/color] [b]cavern ballroom[/b][/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] Aelyria entered the ballroom upon her father’s arm with the measured grace of someone long accustomed to being watched. Candlelight gathered across the gold embroidery of her gown and turned the dark emerald velvet almost black where the shadows touched it. The hall stretched vast beneath the mountain, obsidian walls veined faintly with silver, while moonlight spilled through the cavern openings farther beyond the feast and washed the stone in pale blue. Water fell somewhere in the distance, a steady rush beneath the swell of conversation and music, and the scent of roasted meat, mulled wine, beeswax, and damp stone hung thick in the warm air. Her father slowed beside a man dressed far more simply than the surrounding court. Novar Athanasius Mercy stood near the lower end of the royal tables with dark chestnut hair brushing his shoulders and pale robes falling cleanly from his frame. Silver embroidery traced the cuffs and collar in fine patterns that caught the candlelight when he moved, though there was little else upon him meant to impress. His face carried an ease uncommon among powerful men, something patient and open settled around his mouth and eyes like it had lived there for years. When Lord Daemric offered introductions, Athanasius bowed over Aelyria’s hand with quiet care, his fingers cool against her skin. [color=d6d6d6]“It is good to finally meet your daughter,”[/color] Athanasius said, lifting his gaze toward her father. [color=d6d6d6]“Her beauty is certainly enough for the crown.”[/color] Aelyria lowered her lashes modestly, allowing a small smile to touch her mouth while her father accepted the compliment with smooth satisfaction. Before another pleasantry could follow, movement nearby caught the Keeper’s attention. A servant girl stood several paces away with a tray tilted dangerously in her trembling hands, crystal goblets rattling softly against one another each time she adjusted her grip. Sandy blonde hair clung damply to her temples, her tanned skin flushed deep from the heat of the hall, and her bright green eyes darted anxiously toward the crowd pressing around her. [color=d6d6d6]“Forgive me,”[/color] Athanasius murmured at once. He crossed toward her before she could drop the tray, one hand steadying the silver platter while the other relieved several goblets from its edge. The girl’s shoulders loosened so quickly Aelyria could almost feel the ache leaving them. Athanasius said something too low for her to hear, and the servant gave a startled laugh before ducking her head with visible relief. [color=6f5062][i]Strange,[/i][/color] Aelyria thought, watching the exchange closely. Most men of influence enjoyed being served, but The Keeper of Faith looked more comfortable easing burdens than creating them. Lord Daemric guided her onward, his hand firm at the small of her back as they approached her place at the feast. A servant pulled her chair out at once, though her father adjusted it himself before she sat, subtle enough to appear courteous rather than corrective. Velvet settled heavily around her legs as she lowered gracefully into place, gold chains at her waist giving a faint muted chime against the bodice of her gown. Across the hall, musicians hidden beneath ivy-draped arches coaxed soft strings and flutes through the ballroom, their melodies slipping between conversation like smoke. Aelyria’s gaze drifted naturally toward Prince Dorian. He stood nearby beneath the layered glow of chandeliers and moonlight, speaking easily with those around him while still managing to look attentive to each person in turn. Nearby sat a red-haired northern woman she recognized as one of the Járnbjørns, her posture careful despite the warmth in the prince’s expression. Farther down the table another of the northern sons sat alone, broad shoulders slightly hunched as he studied the room with the uncertain look of a man more comfortable beneath open sky than inside royal stone. Aelyria rested her fingertips lightly against the stem of her untouched wineglass while she watched Dorian over the rim. Her attention lingered with deliberate softness, measured carefully enough to invite notice if he happened to look her way. [/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] selja, lord einarr emil, rhea, elrikk[color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]mentions[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] soleil[color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]collabs[/b] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c]....[/color] none[/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center]