Celestino Adesso, General of the Ilysian armies, Champion of Tyton, advisor to the Horned King of the South, felt like none of that in the intimate banquet hall that really shouldn't have been considered a banquet hall. Nor should what his king promoted as a welcome for the young northern prince be called a feast. But in the king's defense, the child that Simo sent for negotiations shouldn't have been called a proper ambassador, either. Especially one that was more than fashionably late to his own welcome dinner. 

Celestino was well aware that it was trying King Vincente's patience, though to put full blame on his tardiness wasn't entirely an accurate appraisal of the situation. When the letter was received, not even a week ago, it was sent in a simple yet elegant whitewood box, accompanied by the ivory feather of a Simonese snowbird, bred by the royal northern line for centuries. It was supposed to be a symbol of peaceful diplomacy, an ideal muddled by the directness of the letter's contents. With no couth nor cordiality, it was proclaimed that soon their agents would arrive, carrying the implication that said agent would be Prince Alfred, second born and battle-tested General of the Frozen Army.

So rightfully, King Vincente was perturbed when not he, but the third, virtually powerless prince stepped forth from the vert and argent envoy.

"He is handsome."

Princess Alessandra's idle chatter drew Cele's attention back to her and her lady-in-waiting, who, while born to a simple soldier, rose in the ranks like it was what she was born to do. And it didn't hurt her that she shared the same taste in gossip as the princess.

"Maybe in a few years." Adele shrugged. "Why is his waist so slim, though? Don't they eat bear fat up north?"

"Well, he's only a baby, like you said," Her lady replied, as if the princess herself wasn't only a few years older than the foreign prince. She shifted her weight, her heavily ornamented hair jangling as she did. "And he obviously has no sense of time."

And a knack for wearing King Vincente's leniency thin.

Cele placed his goblet on the table and stood, feeling impetuous.

"Don't scare him too much, general!" The princess called after him puckishly.

The general didn't intend to scare him at all, though he hoped a stern and prudent discussion would have the prince acting a bit more properly for one in his position.

Entering into the corridor, Cele thought back, attempting to find an image of the boy's father in his memory. The late king Gotthard was an imposing man with high cheekbones and a gaze that seemed to know no distance.

The general remembered meeting that gaze for the first time two years ago, nearly 300 meters away, and still clear as a bell, all the way down to the brass iris that might as well have belonged to a ravenous hawk. 

And the late king saw him - not just his face, nor his men, nor the kingdom he defended - but Celestino himself. And when he did, that late king raised his wooden cup.

From that vast distance, he taught the Ilysian general the difference between adversary and enemy.

Cele's belly tensed when he heard the soft but dynamic inflections of the northern tongue. Perhaps he would consider it melodious had he not known from which mouth it sprung. Instead, he primed himself for their inevitable meeting when the young prince would round the corner of the corridor.

It was almost unsettling how he could barely hear the footfalls, especially since he knew the foreigner had been given the leather sandals that were renowned for slapping against the stone floor.

Still, it was the prince, not he, who was taken aback when face to face with each other. And to say it wasn't satisfying to see the Simonese face alight with surprise, fine features constrict - if only for a moment - upon seeing the general, would've been a lie. 

Another would've been to say that the stoic expression that was gathered after was just as satisfying. But it wasn't, because with that stony face, he no longer seemed like a baby princeling blundering about.

"General Celestino Adesso,"

The name dripped from his tongue with a nearly illusory northern accent, as if it was not him, only moments before, speaking in Simonese. But to any onlooker, from nobleman to commoner and every other in between, that would've been a demonstrably false statement. While this prince looked nothing like his father, Gotthard, there was no repudiating his northern lineage. From his flaxen hair to his viridescent irises, nothing about his image was comparable to any southern creature - not even to the gods. And, admittedly, his face belonged etched in marble, but in the game of crowns and kingdoms, that was more of a disadvantage, Cele figured.

"Are you done appraising me?"

Only because a soldier surveying an enemy may also look like a man raking over a whore, Cele lifted his gaze to the prince's.

"Your presence was missed, Prince Heiko. I came to gather you before the food turned to ice."

"In this heat?" He countered without a breath, stepping past Cele like he owned the corridor, and the general was simply a pillar in his way.

The servant boy who followed in the prince's wake stepped lively and elegantly, footfalls as silent as his master's. Curly red hair encased the soft features, with eyes so deeply green they made the prince's look watered down and almost blue in comparison. The thin layer of fat in his cheeks was evidence that he had not yet finished growing. He couldn't have been any older than thirteen, the general figured.

The bruises littered the boy's skin didn't go unnoticed. There was a cut on his lip, and the skin around his right eye was the rancid yellow of a healing welt. The sight put Cele in a sour mood, but not enough to make him lose his focus as he followed the honored guests back down the corridor.

Prince Heiko paused at the threshold of the banquet hall, the battered servant at his heels, before he flashed his gaze back to the general.

Perhaps he was waiting to be introduced, and while generally, Cele wasn't made to do those lowly duties, he also knew an irate king was stewing on the other side. Squeezing past the servant, Cele stepped back into the hall, deliberately not making eye contact with the prince.

“Your Majesty,”

Regardless of the presage, the few attendants of the feast had turned to witness the entrance of the prince. For most, Cele figured, because they were able to finally eat.

King Vincente, on the other hand, stood, turning his body entirely to face the young Simonese.

“Prince Heiko, welcome.”