Three vassals, three retinues—that made for roughly a hundred and fifty knights in total. But only thirty or so were in attendance tonight, as the king had requested each vassal bring only their vanguard for the banquet. A private ceremony had preceded it, as was custom. Thallan stood alongside Lord Wright and the rest of the Blue Rose vanguard, positioned near the dais where the king and the clergy looked on. It was a quiet, solemn thing—the sort of rite spoken in hushed voices beneath stained glass and flickering candelabras.

Lord Adius Dunne was officially dubbed a knight of the Blue Rose Order.

Thallan had yet to speak a word of his suspicions to Sebastian. Being a siphon wasn’t inherently dangerous—not unless one sought to use it maliciously. They posed no great threat to humans. Witches, perhaps, but not men of sword and steel. Still, siphons were tools of rare, untapped power. Which is why, he imagined, many kept their abilities tucked away for freedom.

And as much as the boy got under his skin, Adius had not truly slighted him. Not in a way that warranted exposure.

Still… as an elf, he knew better than to grow too comfortable. He was a wellspring to beings like Adius. A source of affinity, of magic, of strength. And siphons—whether they knew it or not—were always hungry. So he would watch and wait. Because if the boy ever reached for more than what was given, he’d be ready.

The banquet was less ceremony than the knighting had been, but far more structured than the raucousness of the tourney and festival that came before. There was order to this event—place cards, hierarchy, and centuries of protocol stitched into every polished surface and gilded edge.

The grand hall was a vast chamber of stone and glass, arched high enough that sound echoed gently beneath the vaults, and warm with torchlight despite the hour. Tapestries lined the walls, depicting scenes of old campaigns, ancestral victories, and pious blessings that long outlived the men who earned them. The great hearth roared at the head of the room, beneath the high dais where the king and royal family sat, adorned in jewels and shadowed in crownlight.

The king of Tirnovia sat at the center, his figure both lean and regal—older than Thallan remembered, his hair now silver at the temples, though his gaze still held a sharpness that cut past the wine and warmth. The queen was beside him, her poise more frigid than serene, though the courtiers around her fawned as if she’d smiled. Their heirs flanked them.

Below them, the long banquet tables stretched like a battlefield’s lines—lords seated with their retinues, vassals posted with the banners of their house stitched across their cloaks and sleeves. Each knight wore their station like armor.

The Blue Rose Order’s table sat prominently, their crest displayed on silken runners, pale blue roses stitched in delicate embroidery down the length. Sebastian sat at the center, ever at ease, speaking calmly to the knight beside him, goblet in hand. The knights at his flanks laughed in turn, all dressed handsomely but kept in line by the weight of where they were.

Thallan took his place without remark, his gaze sweeping across the room once more. It was the kind of feast where the wine never stopped flowing, but every word held consequence. A place where being seen and unseen both had their cost.

Even the food was arranged like a display of power—trays of roasted pheasant and spiced lamb, pomegranates split open and gleaming like jewels, stews seasoned with saffron and garnished in goldleaf.

Thallan did not eat much. Hunger had long withered beneath the quiet thrum of anticipation. His thoughts stirred elsewhere—on the nearing departure, on the hush of parting that always came too slowly until it came all at once. His gaze, unhurried, drifted among the gathered knights. He had always wondered if the kinship between vassal and retinue was like Sebastian’s with his men. Or if it was rarer than he realized. Were other lords as warm, as loyal? Or did they command from a colder distance?

His eyes lingered on the quiet ebb and flow of camaraderie, then flicked—almost absentmindedly—toward the grand hall’s entrance.

A woman approached, speaking softly to the guards at the threshold. It wasn’t her voice that caught him—it was the dress first, midnight-drenched violet, so deep in shade it drank the candelabra’s light like water, and shimmered black with each movement. Then her lips—rosed and familiar. He knew their shape. The way they curved with polite charm, not too much, never too little. Slender fingers brushed back a curtain of dark hair, and green eyes blinked slowly, lashes casting long shadows across her cheek.

No. 

There were moments like these—too many—when the weight of memory caught him off guard. When the past, unbidden, stole into the light. He would see her. Not truly. But almost. Just enough for his chest to tighten.

She moved, gliding toward the royal table, and Thallan watched her as though she were drifting through a dream. He wasn’t the only one. Others turned to look—brief glances, murmurs passed between them. 

“Duchess Katerina Everard,” came a hushed voice beside him—Adius.

Thallan turned to him, slow. “Pardon?”

Adius leaned closer. “That’s the Duchess of Doreval. Veylan Everard’s wife.” There was a brief furrow in his brow, as though he hadn’t considered that knights bound to the front lines might have little interest in or knowledge of the affairs of court. His gaze flicked to her, then back to Thallan—whose stare was already back to Katerina. “Wait, do you…” he began, trailing off. Whatever words he meant to find, he abandoned them somewhere between thought and breath.

“Why is she sitting there?” he asked, though the words were quieter than they had meant to be. It was not the place of noble wives to dine among the sword-bound. Yet she looked neither out of place nor unwelcome. The men gave her their regard—and not out of pity or politeness. Respect.

“She’s the king’s magister,” Adius answered, his eyes returning to Katerina.

The words did not strike at once. But when they did, they settled heavily. A magister. In the king’s circle. A title not simply given but earned—through war, through trial, through devotion. He couldn’t help but wonder what had unfolded in those seven seasons he’d been gone. She had married—clearly—and somehow found her place among the king’s retinue. So much had changed.

His silence was long enough to stir another glance from Adius.

“I can tell by your expression,” he said quietly, “you’re wondering how a lovely thing like her became something like that.” A pause. “She’s a siphon. As a walking wall of affinity, you’d do well to stay clear of her.” A beat. “Among other reasons it seems.”

Their gazes met. Something unspoken passed between them. A knowing. Adius had noticed—more than Thallan had meant to reveal. 

“Seems you truly weren’t hiding from Lady Olivia after all… the resemblance is uncanny,” he remarked, a trace of amusement laced in his voice. “Still, do keep in mind—just because her husband won’t be riding in this campaign doesn’t mean you should entertain any notions...” He took a sip from his chalice, his tone light, but his gaze sharp. “Thorns always find the hands of those who pluck roses that aren’t theirs.”

Thallan’s lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t bother denying it—there was no point. The words landed with more weight than they should’ve. Not because they were wrong—but because they were true. Thorns had found him. And he’d let them. But before he could summon a retort, a voice from across the table cut in.

“Thallan,” Sebastian called, his voice carrying across the spread. “I’ve been meaning to introduce you to Magister Katerina. She’ll be leading the charge for the royal retinue. Would you mind joining me?”

Sebastian rose slowly, expectant, unaware of the way Thallan’s breath caught—how the notion of being face to face with her pulled something taut inside him. His pulse thudded a little harder, a flicker of panic rising behind his ribs. He swallowed, trying to speak, but nothing came. Of all the things he’d braced for in returning to Caerwyn, this—this, he had not.

But before he could muster a response, Adius leaned in with a effortless, measured calm. “Ah, cousin,” he said smoothly, “I introduced them yesterday. We ran into her at the tourney.”

Sebastian paused, one brow arching, a crooked smile forming—wry, but tinged with confusion.

“You did say to acquaint ourselves,” Adius added, flashing a winsome smile, the lie slipping easily past his lips.

“I did, yes,” Sebastian said with an easy smile. “I just didn’t expect you two to go off introducing yourselves to other retinues—let alone those of courtly standing.”

Adius placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense. “It wounds me that you’d think I wouldn’t try to build connections for our retinue.”

“You hadn’t sworn fealty then,” Sebastian chuckled, casting a brief glance toward Katerina before returning his gaze to the pair. “Still, no need for redundant introductions. But I’ve a duty to maintain appearances and connections, so if you’ll excuse me…” 

He flashed Thallan a grin. “Keep the men in check, would you?” With that, he stepped away from the table, disappearing into the gentle swell of music and conversation.

Perhaps Thallan should have thanked Adius. Perhaps a nod, a word of acknowledgment. But he said nothing. Instead, his gaze settled on the boy beside him—how effortlessly he turned conversation with the knights seated across and around, folding himself into the retinue as though he had always belonged. His laughter, his timing, the easy grace with which he moved between topics.

And still, Thallan’s eyes strayed. Again and again, they returned to her. But Katerina’s emerald eyes never once met his. Perhaps it was for the best.

The taste of wine and roast dulled his senses eventually, blurring the edge of nerves that clung to him like mist. But when the urge rose again—to look, to find—Adius pulled him back, calling his name, drawing him into jest and talk.

A distraction he hadn’t known how much he needed. A kindness he never voiced thanks for.

“Thallan,” Adius called from behind, his voice echoing softly in the stone corridor. “Have you drunk so much you’ve forgotten where the wing is?” His hands resting lazily against his hips, his tone balanced between amusement and judgment.

A few other knights passed them by on their way back from the banquet, faces flushed and eyes glazed from wine. One grinned as he passed. “Thallan’s likely off to let out some steam,” he said with a wink. 

“There’s no better place for it than Caerwyn’s Velvet Row,” another added, nudging Thallan’s arm with the back of his hand. “Got to put all that elven stamina somewhere, eh?”

Adius rolled his eyes as they passed, then fell into step beside Thallan. “Velvet Row? At this hour?” His brows furrowed. “Is that wise? We’re to rise at Matins to depart for Mirelen.”

“I am aware,” Thallan replied, his voice cool and even as he kept walking, his pace steady.

Adius exhaled sharply, then quickened his pace, stepping directly into Thallan’s path, nearly colliding as boots came to a sudden halt on the stone. “Then allow me to offer you a way to find release,” Adius said.

Thallan arched a brow, head tilting slightly as his arms folded across his chest, expression unreadable—but curious.

“Ah—no, not like that. I’m flattered, truly, but you’re not my type.” He cleared his throat, a flush creeping up his neck as he waved a hand vaguely between them. “I meant swordplay. Real swordplay. With actual swords. Gods—” He dragged a hand over his face, pressing two fingers between his brows like he could push the embarrassment back in. “What I’m trying to say is… I’m supposed to stay near you until Mirelen. Learn from you. Train. So if you need to… release tension, maybe we could spar instead. I just meant it’s better than risking a late return over… something meaningless.”

Thallan gave a soft, breathless laugh—more breath than sound. “You truly think someone would choose a spar over being buried deep in another body?”

“Yes,” Adius said, unwavering. “Unless, of course, the great vanguard knight fears being bested by a freshly knighted rearguard.” He stepped aside, one hand gesturing forward. “I’d understand. Pride’s a fragile thing. Perhaps it’s easier to lose it between a woman’s thighs than at the edge of a blade.”

Thallan paused, considering him for a long moment. He knew what the boy was doing. And he knew Adius didn’t stand a chance. But he could admire the boldness of the challenge.

“The guards keep a training yard west of the palace gardens,” Thallan finally said, voice dry but with the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes. “No man in his right mind trains at this hour… so we’ll have the grounds to ourselves.”

With that, he turned, changing course without waiting to see if Adius followed. But of course he did.