The banquet that night is all glitter and noise.

The great hall is transformed with banners, candles, and an excess of food no one truly tastes. Musicians play on the dais, and nobles from both kingdoms mingle, swapping stories and testing each other's boundaries with questions that sound friendly and feel like probes.

Elian sits at the head table with Isla at his side, their hands occasionally brushing when they reach for their goblets. Each touch feels like a reminder: this is happening. This is real.

They dance, of course. They must.

The first dance is a formal thing with prescribed steps, designed less for enjoyment and more for everyone to assess how well they move together.

"She's lighter on her feet than Prince Corin," Elian hears someone murmur as they pass.

"He's less stiff than I expected," someone else replies.

He tries not to hear any of it.

Isla's hand in his is cool and dry. She follows his lead without effort, their movements precise. On the surface, they look exactly like what the court wants: a poised future king and queen.

"Relax your shoulders," she mutters once, under the cover of the music. "You're holding them like you expect someone to stab you between the blades."

"That's an oddly specific image," he mutters back.

"It's a common tactic," she says. "You should ask your trainers about it."

He almost laughs, despite everything.

As they turn, his gaze snags on a familiar figure standing at the edge of the hall. Rowan, in formal armor, watching the room with that careful steadiness that always makes Elian feel both safer and more exposed.

From where he stands, Rowan can see everything: the way Elian's hand tightens fractionally around Isla's, the way Elian's gaze drifts too often to the doors, the way he smiles when he must and lets it fall when he thinks no one is watching.

Their eyes meet for a split second.

The music swells. Someone spins too close. The moment breaks.

Later, when the formal dances loosen into less rigid patterns, Elian excuses himself. Isla gives him a small nod that he suspects is as close to permission as he'll get.

He finds a quiet alcove near one of the tall, narrow windows, behind a curtain of ivy brought in for decoration. He pours himself wine from a tray left unattended and drinks too quickly.

The liquid sits hot in his stomach.

He pours another.

Footsteps approach. He tenses, expecting his mother or one of the councilors.

Rowan steps into the alcove instead, the light catching on the edge of his breastplate.

"Thought I'd find you here," he says.

"Here?" Elian asks. "Hiding behind potted greenery?"

"You're predictable," Rowan says lightly.

"Insulting."

"True," Rowan says.

Elian takes another swallow of wine. It's stronger than he realized. Or maybe he's more tired than he'll admit.

"How is the future queen?" Rowan asks after a moment.

"Sharp," Elian says. "Detached. Honest. Tired. Terrifying. Reasonable." He tips the goblet, watching the wine slosh near the rim. "She doesn't want me to love her."

Rowan's eyes flicker. "And how does that make you feel?"

"Relieved," Elian says. "And also…"

He trails off.

"Also?" Rowan prompts.

"Also like it doesn't matter what I feel," Elian says. "Love, no love. Desire, no desire. I'm a… function. A symbol with a pulse."

Rowan's jaw tightens. "You're more than that."

"Not tonight," Elian says. "Not to this room."

There's a pause. Rowan reaches out and, without asking, takes the goblet from his hand.

"Hey," Elian protests.

"I've seen you drunk enough to know the trajectory," Rowan says. "It doesn't end with you feeling better."

"I'm not drunk," Elian says.

"Not yet," Rowan replies. "That's the point."

Elian flexes his now-empty fingers. "You're spoiling my attempt at self-destruction."

"I'm spoiling a headache and an unfortunate speech," Rowan says. "You can thank me later."

Elian leans back against the wall, letting his head thump softly against the stone. "She said love is for songs."

"Who?"

"Isla," Elian says. "She said love is for songs, usefulness is for people like us. She's probably right."

"She's not," Rowan says.

"How would you know?" Elian asks, eyes closed.

There's a beat of silence. Elian feels more than sees Rowan shift.

"I just do," Rowan says, and there's something in his voice Elian can't untangle without looking at him.

He opens his eyes.

Rowan stands a little too far away to touch, a little too close to ignore. His hand is still wrapped around the stem of the goblet, knuckles pale.

"You seem… angry," Elian says slowly.

"I'm not angry," Rowan says.

"You're lying," Elian replies. "Badly."

Rowan exhales. "I don't like watching you carve pieces off yourself to fit into something that doesn't deserve you."

Elian's breath catches.

"That's not your decision to make," he says weakly.

"I know," Rowan says. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

For a moment, the noise of the hall fades. Elian hears his own heartbeat in his ears.

"If I asked you," he says quietly, "to take me away from all of this, what would you do?"

Rowan's eyes darken. "Don't ask me that."

"Why not?"

"Because you know I would," Rowan says, barely above a whisper. "And we both know I shouldn't."

The honesty of it feels like standing too close to the edge of that balcony he sometimes thinks about.

Elian swallows hard. "So we go back in," he says. "We smile. We nod. We dance with the people we're supposed to."

"Yes," Rowan says. "And you drink water."

He sets the goblet down on an empty side table and picks up a different one, sniffing it briefly before offering it to Elian.

"Water," he says.

Elian takes it. Their fingers brush. Time shrinks to that point of contact for a heartbeat before stretching out again.

"You're infuriating," Elian murmurs.

"So you've said," Rowan replies.

Elian drinks. The coolness helps.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

Rowan studies him. "For what?"

"For being here," Elian says. "For taking the cup. For… not telling me that this is all fine and I'm overreacting."

Rowan's expression softens. "You're not overreacting."

"That should worry you more than it does," Elian says.

"It does worry me," Rowan says. "All the time."

A call of his name from across the hall cuts the moment. Elian glances toward the sound. His mother is beckoning, a bright, practiced smile on her face.

He straightens.

"Back into the fire," he says.

"I'll be just behind you," Rowan replies.

"I know," Elian says. It helps. And it doesn't.

He steps out of the alcove, back into the bright noise, into the swirl of expectation.

Behind him, Rowan follows, a steady presence at his back.

Ahead of him, Isla waits, glass raised, eyes watchful.

Between them all, Elian walks the thin line drawn for him, feeling every step like a promise he never chose to make.