The music restarted with a sudden, jarring burst of harps and flutes that felt completely out of place, like someone had decided a cheerful tune was appropriate for a room full of people who had just witnessed a political disaster.
Just like that, the court moved on. Servant boys resumed weaving through the dense crowd with silver platters of roast venison and iced wine, duchesses returned to whispering behind painted silk fans, and ministers immediately huddled in corners to re-calculate their political stock.
As far as the high court of Werestia was concerned, the delicate, annoying issue of the Ostharan hostage had been neatly swept under the expensive northern rug of House Roscaire.
Yet for Xavion, the roaring ballroom felt muffled, as if someone had stuffed thick wool into his ears and dropped a pane of frosted glass between him and the rest of humanity.
He stayed rooted to the spot near the base of the dais, his hands folded neatly inside the wide, stiff sleeves of his tunic. Less than an hour ago, he had stood in the guest quarters, staring at his pale reflection in a chipped mirror, mentally bracing himself for whatever indignity awaited him tonight. He had known the play.
He was a defeated prince, a half-blind war hero, a political pawn handed over to pacify a victorious kingdom. He had fully expected to be assigned to some minor, ambitious border lord who would lock him in a cold tower, treat him like an exotic trophy, and use him to bleed concessions out of Ostharia. He had made his peace with it. Suffering, after all, was a familiar coat he’d worn since childhood.
He had simply never prepared for... this.
His single violet eye drifted slowly across the floor, tracking through the sea of feathered hats and gold-embroidered doublets, until it landed squarely on the tall figure standing by the refreshment tables.
Lioren Roscaire.
The Grand Duke of the Northern Border. A man whose name alone used to make the Ostharian high command sweat through their silk collars during late-night war councils.
Xavion knew who he was. Good gods, everyone knew who he was. Before his own magic was gone, back when Xavion was still leading the imperial vanguard through the muddy trenches, the military strategists had warned him daily: ’If you cross blades with Duke Roscaire, do not engage alone.’
Lioren was a martial anomaly, a golden-aura prodigy who fought like a rabid, chaotic demon and ruled his lands with terrifying efficiency. Xavion had once considered himself unlucky that his sudden downfall had spared him a direct collision with the Northern Duke on the battlefield.
Before his magic was gone, he had secretly looked forward to the day their armies would finally meet. He wanted to see for himself which of them was truly stronger. He’d assumed their paths would never cross beyond distant historical accounts of a war that broke his country.
They hadn’t met as enemies on the front line. No, instead, they had met in a quiet palace corridor over a choked-on piece of pastry... and now, by royal decree, the man was his fiancé.
It was so absurd Xavion felt a strange knot tightening in his chest.
Across the room, a flock of high-ranking nobles had already swarmed the Grand Duke, their faces a bizarre mix of forced smiles, sheer bewilderment, and poorly hidden horror. Xavion watched from afar, his sharp ear catching stray fragments of the quiet, poisonous whispers drifting through the crowd around him.
"A male fiancé? From the enemy line?"
"Has the northern cold finally scrambled his brain?"
"He burned a blank royal favor, a favor that could have bought half a province, on a half-blind bastard?"
"It’s an insult to the high houses! What is Roscaire thinking?"
Lioren, however, handled the onslaught with the breezy, infuriating grace of a duck shaking off rainwater. He laughed off the breathless questions, took a slow sip of his wine, and patted a red-faced marquis on the shoulder so hard the old man nearly dropped his monocle. He looked entirely unbothered by the scandal he had just ignited. In fact, if Xavion wasn’t mistaken, the green-haired duke looked like he was having the absolute time of his life.
Gradually, the surrounding nobles realized they weren’t going to get a straight answer out of the warlord and slowly began to disperse, shaking their heads in disgust.
Once the coast was clear, Lioren turned. His eyes locked onto Xavion from across the hall.
Without a second of hesitation, the Grand Duke picked his way through the crowd, his broad shoulders cutting through the sea of velvet and lace until he stopped directly in front of the blue-haired prince. There was no grand audience watching them now, no King demanding statements, no court scribes waiting with ink pens. Just the two of them standing beneath the tall candle sconces.
Lioren looked down at him, his face softening into that same easy, slightly unhinged grin he’d worn in the hallway earlier.
"Well," Lioren said, his voice dropping into a light, conversational pitch that barely carried over the orchestra strings. "I imagine you’re probably thoroughly confused and deeply shocked right about now."
Xavion stared up at him. A quiet, breathless beat of silence stretched between them.
For the first time in nearly five years, Xavion almost let out an actual, genuine laugh. It was an absurd, rust-edged sound that stayed trapped in his throat, but the sheer understatement of the Duke’s words was mind-boggling. Confused and shocked? That didn’t even cover the first layer of the psychological wrecking ball that had just smashed through his entire existence.
"Confused... is a remarkably gentle word for it, Duke Roscaire," Xavion murmured softly, his voice low and carefully controlled. He kept his single violet eye fixed on Lioren’s face, searching those bright, unapologetic eyes for the hidden trap. There had to be a trap. Men of power didn’t throw away royal favors out of the goodness of their hearts, especially not for broken, useless political hostages. "I am merely trying to comprehend the logic behind your actions tonight."
"Ah. Logic," Lioren hummed, tilting his head with an amused smirk. "People are always asking me for logic. It’s a terribly overrated concept, really."
Xavion didn’t smile. He took a tiny, subtle half-step back, his knuckles tightening inside his wide linen sleeves as his posture stiffened into something defensive.
"You spent a priceless vow from the King," Xavion said, his tone dipping lower, carrying the quiet, melancholy gravity of a man who had been lied to far too many times. "A favor that could have expanded your borders, secured endless gold, or elevated your house above all others in Werestia. Instead... you claimed a betrothal to an enemy prince whose magic is ruined, whose family threw him away, and whose presence brings nothing but political baggage."
He paused, his single eye sharpening as he looked straight into Lioren’s soul.
"So tell me, Your Grace," Xavion whispered, the air between them suddenly growing cold and still. "What is it you truly want from this? What could you possibly stand to gain from me?"
The distant noise of the ballroom seemed to fade into white noise.
Lioren didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull back, nor did he offer one of his usual breezy, deflective jokes. Instead, the Grand Duke leaned in slightly, invading Xavion’s personal space just enough that the faint scent of northern pine and sweet honey tart brushed against the prince’s senses.
A slow, terribly sharp, completely unhinged little grin curled the corner of Lioren’s lips.
"What I want?" Lioren murmured back, his voice a smooth, dangerous whisper meant for Xavion’s ears alone. "Well, Your Highness... what do you think I want?"