He hadn’t seen Katerina again—not truly. Her presence lingered only as a shadow behind her brother’s sneer, a memory folded between seasons. Yet, she returned to him in thought more often than he cared to admit, especially on the days Sir Riordan barked orders with that ever-condescending edge.

It wasn’t until summer, after the seasons had turned twice, that she reappeared.

The evening was laced with warmth, the wind heavy with the mingled scents of wildflowers and roasted meat. In the heart of the royal tournament grounds, fire crackled in a towering pyre, casting amber light over tents and lanterns strung like stars above the field. Music danced on the air—lutes, flutes, the deep thrum of drums—accompanying bards who spun old songs into the night. Nobles and commonfolk alike sang, drank, and swayed as one.

It was the eve before the first event of the royal tourney. Tirnovia’s court was gathered in full flourish, and guests from distant provinces had come to celebrate and compete beneath the banner of the crown.

Thallan stood among them, a quiet observer to the revelry, the flame’s glow reflected in his blue eyes. Festivals like these always stirred a bittersweet ache in him. This marked his fifth summer as a squire, and he knew the cycle by now—how the presence of foreign courts often turned elven attendants into novelties.

There was always some human lordling who tried to bait him into sport, eager to measure elven “prowess” with thinly veiled amusement.

It wasn’t that elves were rare across the continent—they simply kept to their own, choosing isolation over insult. Thallan often envied them, their distance from the grind of human politics. Still, there was a part of him that didn’t mind the attention. He had earned every inch of the recognition he held, however begrudging it was. Let them whisper and gawk. He would show them. Not through boasts, but through proof.

“You won that with elven magic,” came a drunken slur at his side. A man—broad-shouldered, dull-eyed—clapped the shoulder of his unconscious companion. “You lot got some kind of gift for drinkin’, don’t ya?”

The passed-out man remained slumped over the table, tankard in hand, lips slack.

Thallan sipped from his own cup, unfazed. “Our metabolism’s simply superior. Probably why I can drink like this”—he gestured to himself—“and still look like this. And you…” his eyes dipped toward the man’s gut, “carry the spoils of your struggle without restraint.”

The brute’s expression soured. “You elven shite—”

He swung. Thallan didn’t flinch. The punch sliced through empty air, momentum carrying the man forward. He turned, swung again—but this time a firm hand caught his arm mid-motion.

“And they say aristocrats are born with grace,” said a voice, smooth as aged wine. “Clearly, you’re the exception.”

The stranger shoved the drunkard’s hand aside. The man huffed, muttered, and stumbled into the crowd, lost to his own shame.

“I could’ve handled that,” Thallan said, turning to his would-be rescuer.

Tall and clean-cut, the man had the poise of someone raised in court, every feature too polished to be accidental. Gold hair, warm brown eyes, a smile like practiced sunlight.

“I’ve no doubt,” he replied with ease. “But virtue demands interference from time to time.”

He extended a hand. “Sebastian Wright, Duke of Langley.”

Thallan offered a nod. “Thallan, son of Baron Aniarn Quinrel of Eilador.”

“A Quinrel,” Sebastian mused, tilting his head. “Are you competing tomorrow?”

“No, my lord. I’m still a squire.”

“A pity,” the duke said. “I’d have liked to see you in action.” His eyes flicked toward the far end of the clearing. “Ah, and there arrives the royal family. Duty calls.”

Thallan followed his gaze. The crowd parted reverently as the royals approached, their procession a tide of silks and gold. At the head walked the princess, radiant in twilight hues, and behind her trailed her ladies-in-waiting—each poised and graceful in movement.

And there—dark-haired, cloaked in poise—was Lady Katerina.

So, that was the reason she’d been on the palace grounds that night. A lady-in-waiting. That role explained much and yet… not why she was attempting to steal a horse, or where she had planned to flee to.

His curiosity stirred like a breeze against still water. Without realizing, his steps fell into rhythm behind her, slipping through the crowd, drawn once more by the ghost of that night and the questions it left behind. He wasn’t sure what he expected to learn by watching her from afar. Perhaps he sought a crack in her poise, proof of that reckless but fascinating girl. Or perhaps he simply hadn’t been able to help himself.

Katerina’s eyes met his across the lanternlit field.

Her expression shifted at once—face hardening, eyes narrowing, but her lips curled with something close to amusement. Recognition, yes. A knowing glint that said she remembered too.

Before he could fully process the exchange, someone stepped into his view.

“Lord Quinrel, correct?” a voice broke through, gentle and tentative.

He lowered his gaze to find a young woman with light brown hair, pale skin kissed with freckles, and cheeks flushed rose-red. She looked up at him with wide eyes and a shy, hopeful smile.

“I—I was wondering if you might accompany me to the fire?”

Just behind her, her attendant lingered, watchful and alert, as all proper chaperones were.

This part—this performance—was what he liked even less than the slurred insults or clumsy challenges from drunken noblemen. The soft, fluttering attempts at courtship by young ladies bred on stories of valiant elves and tragic romances.

He knew the etiquette well enough. He’d been taught the rules of human courtship: the bows, the measured steps of the dance, the words to say and not say. The smiles that must be given even when his heart wasn’t in it.

But that didn’t mean he wanted to play the role.

Still, he could never quite bring himself to wound the pride of those who approached with trembling voices and hopeful eyes. Human women were curious about him, that much he understood. They saw his height, the elegant sharpness of his features, the way he moved. They called him pretty, once—meant as a compliment, though it never sat right on his skin.

But it wasn’t him they wanted. It was the novelty. The blood in his veins that set him apart, made him something rare, other.

“Of course,” he said smoothly, slipping a practiced smile onto his face. He clasped his hands behind his back, keeping them in clear view of the chaperone nearby.

It was not just out of respect for the girl’s reputation. It was self-preservation.

One misstep—one rumor, one misunderstood glance—and it would never be seen as a moment’s indiscretion. It would be the elf’s fault. His nature blamed. The beast within accused of lacking control.

Because monsters didn’t deserve justice.

They were met with steel.

And he knew exactly where the sword would fall.