Mirelle and I stepped out onto the grand balcony. Only two chairs waited there, each bearing the crest of Velmyra. I spared a glance at the empty one and wondered if the king planned to skip the introductions. That seat was usually reserved for my mother.
My siblings lingered just inside the doorway. Alric offered a quiet smile. It seemed genuine. Thalia gave me a look sharp enough to cut, daring me to falter in front of the court.
The king stood at the balcony's edge. When he turned to greet us, he wore a smile I hadn't seen before. It was convincing, elegant even, and would have fooled anyone who didn't already know how little warmth he held for me.
Mirelle released my arm, and I stepped forward to meet the king's outstretched hand. He drew me in beside him and turned me toward the packed ballroom below.
Dozens of unfamiliar faces stared up, all gleaming with polished curiosity. They smiled, but their eyes weighed every detail.
"This is my fourth child. Prince Darian Serathorne."
Applause followed. Polite and controlled. A few claps landed with the weight of genuine support, but many rang hollow. Obligatory acknowledgments, not welcome.
"Introduce yourself, Darian," the king said. His voice was warm, but the smile stayed fixed. Too smooth to be real. Too careful to be anything but rehearsed.
This was it. The final test of Cerys' lesson plans. The moment I had practiced again and again. First with Orien's blunt coaching. Then with Ella's whispered encouragement. A speech meant to announce not just who I was, but who I intended to become.
"Honored guests,
As my royal father has said, I am Prince Darian Serathorne.
Fourth in birth, and very aware of the path that came before me. My siblings have carved their names into the history of this realm—with strength, wisdom, and diplomacy beyond their years.
It's no small thing, stepping into their shadow. But I hope, in time, to prove worthy of the name we share.
I look forward to meeting each of you, and learning from those who've helped shape this land."
As I bowed, a flicker of silence passed through the ballroom. I kept my eyes on the crowd, even as my posture dipped. That's how I spotted the man who saved me. He was the first to clap, loud and eager. A heartbeat later, the rest of the room followed suit, applause spreading like spilled wine.
The king's hand landed on my shoulder. Firm. Controlling.
"We shall now begin the festivities," he announced, still smiling. The strain in his voice didn't escape me.
He led me to one of the two crested chairs and gestured for me to sit. I did so calmly, though I was a little surprised. It seemed the seat was for me after all
Guests would greet us by rank, which meant my siblings came first.
"Congratulations on your debut, Darian," Alric said, stepping forward with an even brighter smile than before. "It's good to see you warming up to the rest of us. I look forward to seeing what my little brother can accomplish now."
"I thank you, Alric. I hope to meet your expectations."
He patted my shoulder and moved to speak with the king.
I watched him go, still uncertain what to make of him. Since the day I returned from the forest, he hadn't sought me out once. But I'd learned that I owed him more than I realized.
He was the one who kept Orien at bay while I was missing. Apparently, he had tried to apologize the moment I woke. If he were still captain of the guard, he probably would've had a search party in the woods before I'd even encountered the cub.
Thalia approached next, her expression guarded.
"You've changed, Darian," she said. "If I'd known a near-death experience would be so effective, I would have dragged you to the front lines years ago."
Typical. Direct and cutting. But also a hint of a compliment.
Thalia, whose fiancé had tried to kill me at least once. Of all my siblings, she'd always been the harshest. Stern, disciplined, and openly contemptuous of the old Darian. But she was also frequently gone—first leading the charge against Auremath, now reinforcing Alric's victory at the demon front. Her service made her blunt, not scheming. Which is why I didn't think she was involved in the attempt on my life.
"I thank you for the compliment, sister," I said, keeping my tone level.
She gave the faintest nod, then turned to speak with the king.
Mirelle followed behind her, all elegance and subtle amusement.
"I was flattered by your debut speech," she said. "I look forward to our dance."
She offered a graceful curtsy and disappeared into the crowd before I could respond. Clearly eager to dive into the social chaos.
Now came the real challenge. At least thirty noble houses would approach, each eager to reintroduce themselves, all in strict order of political weight.
The first had already begun his ascent.
Tavren Draventhyr, heir to the northern duchy, moved with the kind of measured gravity that came from being watched his entire life. Tall and severe, with bone-white hair and crimson eyes, he was said to be the image of his father. Twenty-three, a year older than Alric, and already shouldering the burden of the North.
"House Draventhyr offers formal greetings to the fourth small storm of the kingdom."
The phrasing was archaic, just as Cerys had predicted. Our father was known as the incarnation of the God of War and Storms, and so his children were sometimes called "small storms." The phrase had fallen out of favor, but the North liked their traditions cold and unchanging.
"By the storm that heralds battle, I receive your greeting, Heir of the Black Flame," I replied, matching the formality. "Your work in the North is appreciated by all, and I trust your father is well."
Tavren blinked in surprise, then broke into a wide, startled smile. Apparently, knowing the basics of his house's legacy was enough to exceed expectations. House Draventhyr had long been known for their signature magic—the ability to cloak their blades in black flame. Not exactly obscure knowledge. But when the bar is buried beneath the floorboards...
"I am honored you know me, Your Highness. My father is currently engaged in the northern campaign, pressing back the demon line."
"Then we rest easier, knowing we are under the Black Flame's protection."
"You flatter us. I see now that I must reevaluate myself. It seems gossip has done you a disservice."
"All gossip starts with a spark," I said evenly. "But sometimes you find the smoke long after the fire has burned out."
I'd decided it was better not to reject the old Darian completely. Too many people had seen him firsthand. Better to acknowledge the smoke, and shape what they thought they saw.
"I will take Your Highness's words to heart," Tavren said, bowing once more.
And with that, the next noble stepped forward. The procession had only just begun.
Next came Duke Corven Alvareth, representing the eastern border with Auremath. Young, polished, and clearly overworked, he offered a swift but sincere greeting. He seemed genuinely relieved by the prospect of my engagement, no doubt hoping it would cool tensions and ease the burden on his lands.
After him was Duke Aldren Thorne of the western front, accompanied by Maera. I had been surprised to learn that she was from a ducal house when it came up in my lessons. Then again, it was apparently even more unusual for someone unlanded like Orien to rise so far in the royal guard.
I assumed they brought Maera because they believed we were familiar. We were. Just not in the way they hoped. Our relationship was... complicated. Still, the formalities went smoothly enough.
The final ducal house was the famous Solinar, represented by none other than Duke Ilysera Solinar herself.
House Solinar was unique. It had only one member—Ilysera—a result of an agreement made with the Mages Guild forty years ago. Despite being over seventy, she looked no older than thirty, her ageless beauty the subject of endless speculation. She had fiery red hair and ruby eyes to match.
"I offer greetings from Solinar," she said, voice bored.
"I am honored to accept the greetings of the Wise Head of Solinar," I replied. "Mirelle has spoken highly of you and your guild. She says you have been an invaluable ally to her tower."
"Yes, that little girl shows promise. If only she'd abandon her foolish obsession with parties and apply herself fully to research. I could achieve immortality with her help, you know. Real immortality. Not just the kind people accuse me of already having."
"You speak as freely as I've heard."
"Oh, come now. Is that really something the tyrannical bastard prince should be saying to me?"
My eye twitched.
I had hoped to win her over. Orien's advice had been simple: be blunt, challenge her, call her out when needed. She liked boldness. But this felt less like testing me and more like mockery.
I let my Birthright flare and reached for her with it, intending to press just enough weight to accompany a sharp response.
Then something strange happened.
The pressure of the Birthright didn't land on her—it shifted.
It was still active, but it had been moved, redirected to float just beside her.
It was like touching water with one hand and feeling the wetness on the other. A mismatch between intention and result. I'd never felt anything like it.
I adjusted, widening the area to surround her completely.
She moved it again.
Now the force floated in the middle of the ballroom, suspended harmlessly above the crowd.
I switched to soul sight, hoping for clarity. Instead, I got the opposite.
Where Ilysera should have been, there was a void.
I hadn't noticed it before, but the space between living things gave off a faint ambient light—so faint it had escaped me until now. That light was missing here. She was a hole in the world, and the swirl of my displaced Birthright hovered far from her, pulsing in isolation.
"Darian."
The king's voice snapped me back. I glanced over. His look was calm, practiced, and sharp enough to cut stone. Stop. Now.
I broke the connection.
When I looked back at Ilysera, the boredom was gone. In its place was a wide, delighted smile.
"Ohoho. You're far more interesting than I expected. I look forward to getting to know you better, little storm."
"Uh. You too."
Not my finest moment. I was still caught off guard by what just happened.
But I needed to pull myself together fast.
Because the next guest in line was the one who'd haunted my thoughts for the past two weeks.
"House Caerthaine offers greetings to the fourth prince of the kingdom."
Marquess Theren Caerthaine. First among the lesser nobles, and the man who had maneuvered his way into marrying Thalia. Still young for his achievements, with only the faintest streaks of gray threading through his blond hair. His beard was neatly trimmed, untouched by age. Green eyes watched me with the calm patience of a snake in the grass.
"I am honored to accept greetings from the Weaver of the Breadbasket of Velmyra."
Not even a flicker of surprise. If anything, his stillness confirmed that he'd been watching me closely.
"I've heard Your Highness has been working hard to meet the expectations of your bride," he said. "It's heartening to see such dedication."
"Indeed. I had to learn the hard way that danger can reach you even in your own home, never mind foreign soil."
The assassination attempt wasn't supposed to be public knowledge. But I couldn't help myself. I wanted to see how he'd react.
To his credit, he played the role flawlessly. Shock. Concern. Even a flicker of hurt.
"I'm afraid I don't know what Your Highness refers to," he said, voice smooth with practiced sincerity. "What danger could possibly exist for a prince within the palace walls? It troubles me to be so completely in the dark."
He offered a sympathetic incline of his head.
"Should you ever face difficulties, I hope you'll allow me to be of service. But I must urge discretion. For your own safety, of course."
He bowed, perfectly measured.
We exchanged the usual pleasantries and promises to speak again.
A blur of faces followed. Handshakes, practiced smiles, and carefully worded pleasantries. By the end of it, I was more exhausted than any training session Orien had ever put me through. Most nobles had the good sense not to parade their daughters in front of me, given the very public engagement, but a handful just couldn't resist introducing me to "the pearl" of their province.
My throat was parched. My patience was gone. And, unfortunately, the night wasn't over.
Right on cue, Mirelle swept in—like she'd been counting heartbeats from the shadows.
"You must put on a brighter face," she said as she pulled me toward the center of the ballroom. "That sour look will scare away our spectators."
"I merely strive to preserve your dignity. If I smile, no one will be looking at your face."
She stomped on my foot—gracefully, of course—as we took our positions.
Despite the jab, I didn't mind dancing. I was surprisingly decent at it. I'd never danced in my previous life, but the basics came quickly, especially when we stuck to a simple routine without flourishes. It was one of the few things I could do well here that didn't come with strings attached.
As the first song drew to a close, I slipped neatly out of the final step, bowed to Mirelle, and made my way off the floor.
A servant handed me a glass of cool wine. I drained it in a single go. It actually tasted good—though that might have just been the dehydration talking.
I lingered near the edge of the room, gratefully left alone. No one was eager to mingle with the prince being sent off to marry a foreign princess, and for once, I appreciated the distance.
I scanned the ballroom for familiar faces. Thalia was already gone. Alric and Mirelle were surrounded by admirers. Orien was cornered by a group of towering men, likely fellow knights or overeager nobles hoping for tips on swordplay.
I wasn't in the mood for any of them.
Then I spotted Kaela.
She stood alone by a side exit, posture straight, eyes scanning the crowd like a true professional.
And for the first time all night, I saw someone I actually wanted to speak to.
Maybe it was inappropriate to ignore a room full of high-ranking nobles just to speak with a junior guard. I didn't care. Kaela had shed her nerves around me faster than expected, revealing a foul-mouthed, sharp-tempered realist beneath the polished exterior. I considered her one of the few people here I could actually call a friend.
As I approached, she muttered, "What the f—" before catching herself.
"Shouldn't Your Highness be mingling with someone more... important?" she said through a strained smile.
"Yeah," I replied, and took another sip of wine.
Her eye twitched. I could practically see the vein in her forehead start to bulge.
"Wouldn't it be considered an insult," she hissed, "to ignore your guests in favor of wasting time with a glorified wall ornament?"
"Yeah." This wine is dangerously good. I should stop before I develop a dependency.
She opened her mouth, no doubt to deliver a well-deserved tongue-lashing—
And then the floor trembled.
The hall rumbled violently, glasses shattering, tables toppling in all directions. Screams broke out as chandeliers swayed and guards surged forward.
Then everything stilled.
A voice followed. Deep. Unnatural. As if it were spoken from the bones of the world itself.
"Mṛṣārājñe Mṛtyuḥ."
The phrase didn't just echo—it bored into my skull until it swallowed every other sound. I saw people screaming, nobles scrambling for exits. Kaela's mouth moved in a panic, yelling something I couldn't hear.
I collapsed, clutching my head as the pressure built. Pain pulsed behind my eyes, and I felt warmth trickle from my nose.
In desperation, I lashed out with my Birthright, trying to attack the sound, shield myself from the pressure. The moment it flared, the agony lessened.
And the meaning struck me like a blade across the soul.
Death to the false king.