The grand hall was draped in rich silks and glowing with candlelight, the air thick with the scent of decadent cuisine. Wine flowed freely. It was the first evening of their arrival, and this—an opulent banquet—had been personally arranged by Emperor Elliott as a gesture of good faith.

The delegation from the rival empire—led by Count Veylan, the Altherian emperor’s right-hand man—had arrived precisely on time, all polished smiles and deferential bows. Too deferential, Aiden would later say.

Aiden sat beside Elliott at the head of the table, his hand twitching toward his dagger every time one of the envoys made a sudden move. Elliott noticed and quietly placed a hand over his, calming the younger man with a silent touch.

“The prince fidgets quite often,” Lord Veylan observed with a sly smile. There was something about his expression that set Aiden’s instincts on edge—too many teeth, too much control. Like a serpent wearing a man's face.

Elliott responded smoothly, offering a polite smile.

“He just slept poorly last night. It’s nothing personal, Lord Veylan.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Veylan replied, bowing his head. “I wouldn’t imagine otherwise.”

As the banquet continued, one of the Altherian attendants stepped forward, carrying a veiled offering. When the silk was lifted, it revealed a stunning jeweled falcon.

Lord Veylan’s voice rang through the hall, commanding attention.

“A humble gift from the Altherians to His Majesty Elliott Lancaster, the benevolent emperor.”

The word *benevolent* lingered in the air, nearly dripping with mockery.

Aiden’s eyes narrowed.

“A symbol of your keen vision,” Veylan added smoothly.

At that moment, Aiden was distracted, inspecting the desserts for any trace of saffron—Elliott’s severe allergy. Although the kitchens had been strictly instructed not to use it, Aiden had been on edge ever since the envoys arrived.

He didn’t look up as he muttered in response, “Or a threat. Falcons hunt.”

Elliott tightened his grip on Aiden’s hand beneath the table in quiet admonishment. Then he raised his voice cheerfully.

“How generous, Lord Veylan. Do convey my gratitude to the Altherian emperor. I shall ask my butler to place the falcon somewhere it won’t be tempted to prey—I am rather fond of the birds in my gardens. Wouldn’t want any accidents.”

Veylan’s smile faltered. Just for a moment. Then it was back, polished and impenetrable.

Aiden allowed himself the smallest of smirks. His heart felt just a little lighter.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of polite small talk. Elliott played the perfect host. Aiden stayed tense, his fingers still wrapped tightly around Elliott’s hand beneath the table. The emperor didn’t mention it, but he understood—it was Aiden’s quiet way of reassuring himself. That Elliott was still there. Still safe.

Toward the end of the meal, Lord Veylan rose, lifting his goblet. His eyes gleamed with something too sharp to be called mirth.

“To the gentle emperor,” he declared. “May your reign be as enduring as your mercy.”

The toast echoed around the table. Aiden didn’t drink. He didn’t even lift his glass.

Enduring. 

A carefully chosen word. A threat wrapped in silk.

Elliott’s expression didn’t shift as he raised his own goblet.

“And may your people prosper alongside mine.”

Before Elliott had even finished his drink, a Vellurian aide stepped forward with a refill. His fingers lingered on the vessel just a second too long.

Before Elliott could accept or decline, Aiden moved.

He took the goblet from the aide's hands with deliberate calm, placing it back on the table and pushing it away. “Father will have to decline. He doesn’t drink much in the evenings—it gives him headaches.”

Elliott looked up, slightly surprised, but said nothing.

In the days that followed, negotiations began.

The Vellurian aides had prepared for the Altherians’ typical obstructionism—the impossible conditions, the stalling, the posturing. But to their astonishment, the envoys were... cooperative. Too cooperative. They agreed to everything: mining rights, trade routes, even a mutual defense clause.

The council was cautious but hopeful. After decades of fruitless talks, many whispered that Elliott’s patience had finally won the Altherians over. That his mercy had worked miracles.

But Aiden only grew more suspicious.

He noticed the small things. How the envoys’ eyes lingered too long on Elliott’s throat. How one of them had casually asked if the emperor often took his evening walks alone. How Altherian soldiers just happened to be drilling closer to the border—even while peace was being discussed.

Still, he remained silent. For now.

For Elliott’s peace.

For Elliott.