The doors clicked shut behind Xavion with a dull, heavy thud that sounded entirely too much like a cell door locking into place.
Inside the reception drawing room, Elorius and the other officials sat around the table. Stacks of parchment and heavy brass seal presses covered the table between them, leaving little room for anything else.
Yesterday at the victory banquet, these same men had treated Xavion with a rigid, desperate sort of public deference, carefully maintaining the illusion that he was still an imperial prince of Ostharia worthy of high court etiquette.
Today, behind closed doors, that fragile veneer was completely gone.
Elorius didn’t bother to rise from his chair. He merely tapped his long, manicured finger against the edge of a land transfer document, his thin lips pressed into a flat, unforgiving line as his eyes tracked Xavion’s approach.
"Sit, Your Highness," Elorius said. The title came out dry, stripped of every drop of reverence.
Xavion didn’t hurry. He moved across the thick carpet with quiet, liquid grace, pulling out a carved wooden chair across from the envoy and sitting down. He folded his hands neatly in his lap.
"You are no longer standing in the imperial palace in Ostharia, Prince Xavion. You are in Werestia, and your personal standing is... rather uncertain, to put it mildly. Your entire future now hangs on how gracefully you navigate the cage these men build for you."
Xavion said nothing. He didn’t even blink.
The officials seated to Elorius’s left, a man named Edrien who had spent the entire war managing supply logistics far behind the front lines, cleared his throat with a raspy, condescending grunt.
"Do not let Duke Roscaire’s grand theatrical display last night turn your head," Edrien warned, pointing a feather quill at Xavion’s chest. "A warlord of his caliber does not throw away a blank royal favor, a favor that could have bought three gold mines or five border towns, out of the goodness of his heart. Men like Roscaire expect a return on their investments. If he claimed you, it is because House Roscaire sees a weapon or a bargaining chip in your bloodline that we have yet to discern."
"He speaks the truth," Elorius chimed in. "You are a hostage. Do not get comfortable in his bed chambers, and do not foolishly assume you hold any leverage here. You have no magic, no troops, and zero backing from the imperial throne back home. If you provoke him, if you act out or embarrass Ostharia, House Roscaire has enough military power to crush our land without asking the Werestian King for permission."
Xavion listened without interrupting, keeping his expression carefully neutral. His fingers tightened slightly against his lap beneath the table, but he loosened them before anyone could notice. He kept his breathing steady and his gaze lowered, letting the words pass without giving them the reaction they were clearly meant to provoke.
His utter lack of reaction slowly began to grate on them. They had expected him to flinch. They had expected the disgraced hero, the man who used to command thirty thousand men before he was poisoned and lost his powers, to show at least a flicker of shame, anger, or wounded pride.
Seeing him sit there, perfectly calm, made Edrien’s face flush a mottled, angry red.
"Have you nothing to say for yourself?" Edrien snapped, leaning over the table, his eyes darting maliciously toward the dark leather eyepatch covering the right side of Xavion’s face. "Or has losing your eye and your magic ruined your hearing as well? Look at you! A crippled shell of a prince, living on the charity of the very man who slaughtered your vanguard! You ought to be trembling!"
Xavion lowered his single violet eye for a brief moment before looking up again, his expression carefully composed.
Then, he raised his head. He didn’t hide his face. He didn’t hunch his shoulders.
"I am entirely aware of my circumstances, Lord Edrien," Xavion said softly, his voice smooth, clear, and utterly devoid of heat. "My sight is ruined, my power is gone, and we lost the war. These are facts. Repeating the same misfortunes to me will not make them any more convincing, nor will it change what happened."
He paused, his expression remaining perfectly mild.
"If anything, I would be grateful if we could speak of what is to come instead. I suspect that would be considerably more useful to all of us."
Edrien’s jaw snapped shut. Xavion watched the brief change in his expression and understood at once what had caught him off guard. The man had likely expected some reaction from him, anger, embarrassment, perhaps even a little resentment. Xavion could hardly blame him. Most people seemed to find it easier to speak when they believed the person across from them was too ashamed to answer.
But there was nothing particularly new in what Edrien had said. Xavion had spent months hearing variations of the same things from people who looked at him and saw only what he had lost. His ruined eye. His missing power. The defeat of Ostharia. He knew them all far too well. There was little point pretending otherwise, and even less reason to be offended simply because someone had chosen to recite them aloud.
Elorius frowned, his thin fingers tapping a faster, more agitated rhythm on the table. They were losing control of the room, and he knew it.
"Be that as it may," Elorius cut in sharply, trying to regain his dominant footing, "you would do well to remember that your position in House Roscaire is incredibly fragile. If Grand Duke Lioren grows bored of you, or if he realizes that a fallen prince brings him more trouble than prestige, your life in the North will become considerably more unpleasant than a palace guest wing. Do not cause trouble."
Xavion tilted his head slightly, his single, deep violet eye locking onto the Count’s face with a sudden, razor-sharp intensity that made the old diplomat’s breath catch in his throat.
"Tell me, Count," Xavion murmured, his tone polite, almost conversational, "is there anything else you wished to inform me of today? Perhaps... something I do not already know?"
Silence slammed down onto the room like a lead weight.
Elorius opened his mouth to deliver another biting reprimand, but the words withered on his tongue. The absolute, unshakeable calm in Xavion’s demeanor made the envoy feel small, like a barking dog yapping at the heels of a lion that simply refused to turn around.
"The... the practical arrangements have been settled," the official stammered, avoiding Xavion’s gaze. "You will remain in the palace guest wing only until the formal diplomatic contracts are signed at noon. By tomorrow morning, you will be taken to the Roscaire estate."
The man looked up, offering a tight, patronizing smile. "In a sense, Your Highness, you should consider yourself remarkably fortunate. To be placed directly under the protection of Werestia’s greatest Grand Duke... it is far better than being shipped off to some damp, provincial border fortress."
Xavion offered a tiny, elegant nod of his head, his lips curling into a faint, ghost-like smile that didn’t carry a single drop of warmth.
"Indeed," Xavion replied softly, his velvet voice ringing clear in the quiet room. "I am always deeply grateful for the unexpected kindness shown to me. Unlike some people."
They froze.
Edrien’s eyes widened. Elorius’s jaw tightened.
For a moment, neither man spoke. They exchanged a quick glance before looking back at Xavion, each trying to make sense of his last two sentences. Had the ruined prince just insulted them to their faces, or had he simply been referring to the Duke?
He simply sat there with the same quiet expression, as though he had stated an ordinary fact and saw no reason to take it back.
Elorius stood up slowly from his chair, smoothing down his silver velvet cloak with stiff, agitated jerks of his wrists.
"Whatever game Duke Roscaire is playing, Xavion... never forget who you are."
"I haven’t forgotten," Xavion whispered softly to the empty air as the delegation turned and swept out of the room. "Not for a single second."