Rowan

The armory door stands not too far ahead. The castle—and every other corner in Sky Citadel—has been making a ruckus about the upcoming ball. The chatter, the excitement, the ceaseless clamor—it all grates on my nerves.

I came here seeking peace. Tending to my weapons has always brought me calm, a steady rhythm to drown out the chaos. Yet before my hand touches the iron handle, the doors swing open.

Silas Bellator Leifholt steps out, practically glowing with triumph. The younger noble is shorter than me by a good measure, lean and wiry, his movements honed by countless duals and a lifetime of curated meals.

His golden hair catches the light of flickering sconces, and his sharp blue eyes lock onto mine. The mischief that seems permanently at home in his gaze has me instinctively bracing for trouble.

“Rowan! Not at all surprised to find you skulking here,” he greets.

I eye his still radiating expression. “You look as though you’ve taken a kingdom.”

“Not quite.” He shakes his head, looking as smug as a cat with cream on its whiskers. “Though I certainly feel victorious. There’s a ball to prepare for, my good man.”

He claps a hand on my shoulder, which requires him to reach up, his smaller frame dwarfed by my own. His cheerfulness is grating, but I have long since learned to endure Silas when he’s in one of his joyous moods.

Once, in our youth, I foolishly thought he would grow serious with time. Instead, he has only gained more reckless energy.

“You, Rowan,” he continues, “should be as enthused as I am. A ball means fine wine, finer company, and,” he winks, “a chance to charm every eligible lady in attendance. Men like us have no excuse. Time marches on, and we are expected to marry.”

The idea pulls a scowl from me. Silas laughs, delighted, as though he’s poked a bear and lived to tell the tale.

Marriage. It is a subject I have been forced to endure since I was given my title. Each conversation about it has been more tedious than the last.

It is not the women of Stormvalla. I have nothing against them. The noble ladies of our kingdom are polished, beautiful, and clever, but I am no born noble. My title was a reward for blood spilled and battles won.

I know where I stand when I have a blade in my hand and a war to win, but in drawing rooms and ballrooms, I am as out of place as a wolf amongst sheep. What kind of husband would I be to these women? I am nothing like the other noble lords, nothing like Silas or Cedric with their grace and charm.

“You will enjoy yourself, no doubt,” I mutter as I step past him and into the armory.

“Oh, I intend to,” he calls after me, his voice growing fainter as he walks away. “I’ve a suit to commission that will make me the envy of every man and the desire of every maiden. Until later, Rowan!”

The doors swing shut behind me, cutting off his voice. The armory’s cool air greets me, carrying the familiar scents of steel and leather. The tension in my shoulders begins to ease.

I spot Cedric quickly. He’s already sitting, inspecting his own gear. I should have expected to see him here. Silas rarely bothers with the armory. He’d rather escort his latest fancy to some extravagant meal than care for his blade.

Cedric and Silas’s friendship goes back years, both having been fostered together in the king's castle for three years before I was brought in by my mentor. After, we were raised as brothers, though I’ve always felt like an outlier. Perhaps this is because I only joined them some years after they had already formed their own bond with each other.

Cedric is quiet, a scholar to his core, a sharp contrast to Silas’s flair. He glances up and acknowledges me with a nod. I return it, before heading to the weapons rack at the room’s rear.

My blade waits there. It’s not ornate, not the kind of weapon nobles flaunt, but it’s practical, balanced and deadly—a legacy passed to me by my old teacher. I run a hand along the hilt, feeling the worn leather grip, then unsheath it.

The steel gleams faintly in the armory’s light. Setting it on the workbench, I inspect it with practiced care. My teacher had no son, so the blade was passed to me, his favored pupil.

The blade and its previous master deserve my respect. I will not dishonour either by neglecting my duty. Testing its edge with my thumb, I find it sharp but hone it nonetheless. The routine sound of the whetstone fills me with comfort. Lastly, I oil the metal to guard against rust and inspect the scabbard for wear.

Deeming the sword ready, I pick up a throwing knife, its blade far duller than my sword’s.

Cedric has not said a word, which I appreciate. Silence is rare in weeks like this, and I take what I can get. But, like all good things, it doesn’t last.

“Silas,” Cedric says suddenly, his tone carrying the resigned edge we both reserve for our youngest friend, “intends to court and marry Corinna Blanchard.”

The whetstone pauses in my hand. The name pulls my focus. “Blanchard?”

Cedric gives a slight nod, his expression as unreadable as always.

“The daughter of Commander Henning Blanchard?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“Yes.” Cedric studies me, trying to gauge my reaction.

Commander Blanchard, the hero of Stormvalla. A man who led countless victories and shaped the very tactics that saved this kingdom time and time again. His name is still spoken with reverence among soldiers.

His death, eight years ago at the Battle of Brecan, still stings. We lost a great man that day, and his daughter must have lost an even greater father.

I put the knife down. “Silas cannot be allowed to dishonor her.”

I have watched him flit from one woman to the next, always seeking something and never finding it. He’s left a trail of disappointment and heartbreak behind him and I will not stand by and allow the daughter of Commander Blanchard to be one more woman that falls to his whims.

“He cannot do that to the daughter of the greatest military strategist Altheim has seen in a century,” I say.

Cedric lets out a dry chuckle. “No one has ever succeeded in stopping Silas from doing whatever he pleases.You know that as well as I do.”

I grunt, picking up the knife again. “I’ll have words with him if I must.”

“Good luck with that,” Cedric says with a sigh that speaks of his years trying to somewhat control Silas’s reckless behaviour. “Silas is like a bird with clipped wings. Tell him he cannot fly, and he will leap off a cliff just to prove you wrong.”

There is no argument I can give to that. Silas is a force of nature, his free—spirited ways are equal parts infuriating and endearing. He has this maddening ability to charm his way through life, always laughing in the face of rules and consequences. It is hard not to envy him at times. But mostly, it’s exhausting.

“He is reckless.” I mutter, sharpening the blade. “One of these days, his charm will fail him and the consequences won’t be so easy to escape.”

Cedric smiles faintly. “Perhaps. But you can’t help rooting for him, even when he deserves a throttling.”

I let out a low chuckle despite myself. “I’d throttle him now if it would save us trouble later.”

Cedric snorts but says no more, returning to his work. I finish tending to my knives, my thoughts drifting back to commander Henning’s daughter. Corinna. It is hard not to wonder about her.

Did she inherit her father’s bravery? His honor and loyalty? If she has even half of his qualities, she must be remarkable. The kind of woman a man could respect, perhaps even—

I shake the thought away. Marriage is not for me. Yet, the traitorous thought lingers.

The watchtower bell tolls softly. The sound is faint but clear enough to mark the midnight hour.

“Midnight already,” Cedric mutters as he rolls his shoulders and sits straighter.

“I’ve always been under the impression that Commander Blanchard’s daughter was called something else,” I say abruptly.

Cedric tilts his head to look at me and raises an eyebrow. “Something else?’

“Yes. I could have sworn her name was. . . Araminta? Or perhaps Bella?”

Cerdic shrugs, looking unconcerned. “I wouldn’t know. My time has been spent with books, not noble lineages.”

I hum thoughtfully. “It doesn’t add up. If Silas is only now interested, she must be a new debutante. But that would make her younger than I expected. The commander had a daughter much closer to Silas’s age didn’t he?”

Cedric gives a noncommittal grunt.

“Perhaps she’s been out of sight,” I muse. “Maybe she avoids these events unless she’s forced to attend. That would explain why Silas hasn’t noticed her until now.”

Cedric sighs and waves his hand dismissively. “You are thinking far too much about this.”

“Maybe,” I admit, shrugging. “But I am certain her name wasn’t Corinna.”

“Whatever her name is,” Cedric says, standing and adjusting his coat, “we’ll learn it at the ball.”