Caerwyn had not changed, not truly. Its gilded spires still pierced the sky, and its banners still danced on winds. But the city felt like a stranger to him now. Foreign in its familiarity.

Thallan rode at the head of the vanguard, the polished steel of his pauldron catching the light, the Blue Rose crest gleaming. His posture was easy, upright, commanding. Around him, cheers rose. The crowd had come for spectacle, for the rare sight of Wright’s vanguard riding as one.

His name had been known before, but not like this. Then, it belonged to a lineage—spoken in the shadow of his father, and his father before him. Now, it was his alone. Sir Thallan of the Blue Rose Order. There was no scrutiny in the crowd’s eyes. Only awe. Nobles leaned from their terraces. Courtiers watched from behind silken fans. Attendants whispered names like secrets passed between breaths.

A girl tossed a handful of petals into their path. One clung to the leather at his thigh.

Pale lilac.

His chest tightened—sharp and sudden. A single color unraveling memory. He swallowed, forced his focus ahead—toward the palace, toward Sebastian riding just a few paces forward. The festival would begin soon. And part of him feared she would be there.

So he didn’t dare look too closely at anyone. Seven seasons had passed. So much had changed—and yet, everything felt the same. Because even now, despite all that had unraveled, he still found himself searching for her in the faces of the crowd. So he kept his gaze distant, fixed ahead, looking without truly seeing.

At the stables, the vanguard began to dismount, laughter weaving between them, light and careless. The talk already turned to taverns and tourney lists. But Thallan lingered. One hand resting on the saddle, the other hanging loosely by his side. 

So many times he had stood in these very stables, once with aching limbs and blistered hands, tending to another man’s horse. But now it was his steed he led through the stone archways.

He trailed behind the others, slower than most, as a palace guard waited to escort them to the guest wing reserved for the vassals and their retinues. They would remain not just for the tournament tomorrow, but for the farewell banquet held the day after—a final celebration before the Blue Rose Order reassembled and departed east for the campaign in Mirelen.

By the time the sun began to sink low, casting long shadows across the stone halls, Thallan had doffed his armor. The spectacle was over. He wore simpler attire now—still fine, still befitting his station—but it felt less like a costume, and more like a second skin. Evening bells began to toll in the distance. Vespers was near.

Thallan walked the edges of the royal tournament grounds, boots pressing into the dry summer grass where a thousand others had already passed. The air was thick with the sounds of revelry—laughter, clashing practice swords, the shrill call of merchants haggling over overpriced wares. Color bloomed everywhere: streamers of gold and crimson flapped from tall poles, house banners stitched with crests he half-remembered swayed in the wind, and garlands of wildflowers hung limp in the heat. Children darted between carts, faces smudged with honey and ash.

Men called to one another in boasts of valor, flexing for wandering eyes. Ladies walked beneath silk parasols, watching the knights from shaded fringes, their laughter like glass. The scent of roasted meats, mulled wine, and trampled earth clung to the air in heavy waves.

In the far field, the massive wooden pyre had been constructed and lit. It towered above the tents and training yards, a bloom against the fading sky. 

He kept his gaze low, hands at his sides, walking the worn paths between pavilions and posturing men. 

The sounds washed over him—laughter, music, the distant ring of steel—but then he caught a glimpse. Dark hair, tousled by the wind. A deep violet gown that clung like shadow to the figure’s frame. She moved as though about to turn his way.

Thallan veered sharply, ducking behind a wooden cart. His shoulder slammed into something solid, and he staggered, crouching low with a wince. His hand came up to rub the sore spot before his gaze finally focused on what—or rather, who—he had collided with.

A man, just barely, with a face that hadn’t yet lost its boyishness, sat sprawled in the dirt, palm pressed to the ground as he stared up at Thallan with wide hazel eyes. “By the gods, you’re built like a wall,” the boy groaned, brushing dirt from his trousers. “I nearly cracked a rib.”

“Keep your voice down,” Thallan muttered, crouching beside the cart.

“What for? Are you hiding? Did you spurn a lady’s favor?” The boy leaned up on his toes to peer over the wood.

“Must you be so loud?” Thallan sighed. “The woman in the violet dress—dark hair. Is she still there?”

The boy squinted toward the crowd. “You mean Lady Olivia?”

“Who?” Thallan’s brow drew together as he followed the boy’s gaze. The same figure—same color, same hair—but not her.

“Ah,” he exhaled, a dry laugh escaping him. “Of course.”

“Lady Olivia is a perfectly kind girl. I don’t know what you’ve done, but I refuse to be your accomplice in skulking around like a thief,” the boy said, raising his hand dramatically. “Lady Oliv—”

His shout was cut short as Thallan seized the front of his tunic and yanked him back down behind the cart.

“You’re drawing attention,” Thallan hissed, crouching beside him.

“That’s the point,” the boy muttered, unfazed, trying to rise again—only for Thallan’s grip to tighten, keeping him grounded.

“Unhand me, or I swear, my father will—”

Thallan clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes flicking over the edge of the cart. Olivia had begun to walk away, surrounded by a few other finely dressed ladies. Relief started to creep in—until he felt something wet against his palm.

“Did you just lick me?” he asked sharply, narrowing his eyes.

The boy shook his head beneath his hand, voice muffled, but the guilt was written all over him.

“What is wrong with you?” Thallan muttered, pulling his hand away and wiping it on his trousers with visible disgust.

“It got you to let go, didn’t it?” the boy replied shamelessly, arms folding across his chest like he’d won something.

Only now did Thallan truly look at him—the neatly parted golden hair, the rich cut of his tunic, the arrogance. The boy’s earlier threat made sense now. Some noble’s spoiled brat.

“Enjoy hiding behind carts,” the boy said, brushing past him. “I’m going to enjoy the festival like a normal person.”

Thallan remained crouched behind the cart a moment longer, blinking at the absurdity of the encounter. Then he ran a hand through his hair, a dry laugh escaping his throat. Gods, he needed to get a grip. A brief lull before they marched east into blood and earth. He needed to take it for what it was: a moment of reprieve. And he needed a drink. Badly. Caerwyn had begun to unearth things he’d long buried, and he could already feel the old ache pressing in. He wanted to dull it, to drown it. He wanted to forget.

He made his way through the growing crowd, toward the courtyard where the other knights had already begun drinking. Tankards passed from hand to hand, voices rising in bold tales and boastful challenges. Some wrestled for sport, others locked arms in loud retellings of battles—half of them embellished, if not outright lies.

Thallan took a drink. Then another. The weight behind his eyes eased with every swallow. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he listened, even joining in—adding to one of his retinue’s stories with a detail that had never happened.

Then his gaze caught on a figure among the onlookers.

A lady stood among a cluster of other women, their painted fans half-concealing their expressions—but not their interest. She peeked over hers, cheeks flushed with wine or laughter, and when her eyes met his, she smiled.

It was the kind of smile that lingered.

She closed her fan, turned to go—but not before casting one last glance over her shoulder. An invitation, unspoken but unmistakable. He knew that look. He’d answered it before. And tonight… he would again.

Thallan set his tankard down and slipped away from the courtyard, following the swish of crimson silk and the faint click of heels that led toward the palace gardens. The center path diverged, splitting into smaller trails, each one veiled by hedgerows or stone. Secluded. Intentional. He had lost sight of her, but the sound of her steps lingered, echoing softly along the stone.

He took a narrower path half-hidden behind a weathered stone statue, only to be stopped short—fingers curled into the front of his tunic, tugging him off balance.

No words passed between them. She rose to her toes, breath warming the space between them. Wide, dark eyes looked up at him through her lashes, her cheeks flushed with reckless boldness as she brought her lips to his.

He caught her wrists, pried her hands from him—but not to retreat. He turned her, gently but firmly, pressing her palms to the cold marble behind them. Her back arched, her hips tilting back to meet him, offering without shame.

“I thought knights were meant to be more chivalrous,” she whispered, voice like velvet.

“One doesn’t lure in hope of chivalry,” he murmured against her ear, his voice low and edged in heat. “So do not speak. Enjoy what you came here to take.”

Her lips parted around his fingers as he pushed them between them—eager, welcoming, silenced. His other hand slipped beneath the drape of her gown, bunching the fabric until he felt lace, soft and damp. He nudged aside the barrier and pressed forward, slow only for a breath, then fully—the thick head of his cock breaching her in one firm stroke. No warning. No gentleness.

She moaned low and needy on his fingers, her back arching. He sank deeper, burying himself inside her inch by inch until her body had no choice but to take him fully. The warmth of her, the velvet-tight grip—gods, it threatened to undo him.

His hips began to move. Deliberate. Demanding.

“So wet,” he breathed, his lips brushing the curve of her shoulder. “So eager to be used.” His boot slid between her ankles, nudging them wider—a silent command she obeyed without question, her body parting, presenting.

He pulled his fingers from her mouth and let them trail down, slipping beneath the neckline of her bodice. Her breast spilled free with the motion, full and flushed. He caught it in his palm, thumb grazing over the hardened peak before grabbing her hips again, pulling her back into each thrust. 

She gasped, her moans rising in the garden’s quiet stillness. Her slick dripped down his balls, warm and obscene. He groaned as his cock struck something deep within her, a place that made her shudder around him.

Blonde locks spilled over her shoulder as she turned to glance at him—gaze heavy-lidded, lips parted, her breasts bouncing with every thrust. Her nipples caught chill in the air, tight and pink in the moonlight.

But he caught her chin and turned her face forward again, his palm tracing the column of her throat. He didn’t want to see her. Not truly. This was meant to numb, not remember.

Her body pressed against him, hot and open, every motion greedier than the last. Thallan’s grip bruised at her hips as he fucked her. His breath grew ragged, chest rising in hard pulls as the heavy heat in his testicles began to peak.

Each thrust dragged him closer, before his rhythm faltered and roughened. His muscles strained with the need to hold back just a moment longer. Her walls squeezed around him, maddeningly tight, and he groaned, deep and guttural. He cursed under his breath as he tore himself away suddenly, his cock slipping free with a wet sound as her body trembled from the absence of him. The cold night kissed his slick length, glistening with her arousal. His hand wrapped around himself, stroking once—twice—hard and fast.

His eyes stayed on her—bent over and panting, her thighs trembling, her dress askew and breast still bare. A living portrait of ruin and want. That was all it took. A low growl tore from his throat as he came, his seed spilling thick across the stone path at their feet, warm streaks painting the garden path. 

Thallan fastened his trousers, already turning away without a second look. 

“Wait—where are you going?” her voice called out, thin with confusion, edged by hurt. The hurried click of her heels followed as she adjusted her bodice, fingers fussing her breast back into place beneath the rumpled gown.

“To drink,” he said without slowing, his voice flat—neither cruel nor kind. Just done. They both had gotten what they came for.

She faltered behind him, but he never looked back.