The Vosswell breakfast table had grown quieter over the past weeks, though the fine silverware still clinked gently against porcelain, and the morning sun still filtered through the high windows in golden shafts. But the stillness wasn't peaceful—it was watchful, uncertain.
Duchess Larissa and Seraphina sat next to one another, their voices light with polite chatter as they discussed their thoughts about how the Tournament will play out. Their tones were warm, their smiles demure, but neither spared Delphia so much as a glance.
She didn't mind.
Seated at the far end, Delphia sipped the last of her tea, her posture steady and unreadable. Her plate had long been cleared, her napkin folded with idle precision beside it.
Across from her, Lucian hunched slightly over his eggs, eating with silent concentration. He occasionally flicked his gaze toward Delphia, as if he wanted to say something—then promptly looked back down at his food. He always seemed caught in the middle, too uncertain to reach for her, too uncomfortable to treat her as invisible.
Delphia made no effort to bridge the silence.
Let them have their discomfort. It suited them.
Her attention drifted to the ornate clock mounted on the far wall. Nearly time. Zypher would arrive any moment now. They had agreed to meet at Vosswell Manor to travel together to the Palace grounds for the Royal Summit and Tournament. A small detail, but meaningful.
A quiet shift.
Just as the minute hand clicked into place, the butler entered, his voice cutting gently through the morning hush.
"Lord Zypher Thorne has arrived. He waits in the front hall."
Seraphina blinked. "Zypher? Here?" She asked, her tone equal parts curiosity and disbelief.
Duchess Larissa straightened in her chair. "At the Manor?" She echoed, as though she hadn't quite heard correctly.
Delphia stood smoothly, the slight rustle of her skirts a soft punctuation to the question hanging in the air. She didn't glance toward them, only adjusted her gloves with methodical grace.
"Yes," she said calmly. "We arranged to arrive at the event together."
There was a beat of silence.
Seraphina's brow furrowed, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. "But you didn't mention—"
"I didn't feel the need to," Delphia replied, her voice even and pleasant. "Our plans were already made."
Duchess Larissa's lips tightened slightly, but she gave a nod so subtle it barely qualified as acknowledgment. Lucian looked up from his plate, startled.
Delphia stepped around the table just as Zypher appeared in the archway, framed by sunlight. He looked at ease—composed, sharp in a deep indigo coat embroidered with silver sigils. But his expression softened the moment his eyes found Delphia.
"Ready?" He asked, warmth threaded into the single word.
Delphia's lips curved into a quiet smile. "I am."
She moved toward him, reaching for the hand he extended.
His fingers closed around hers with familiar ease. Behind her, the atmosphere in the room shifted—confused, slightly off-balance.
Zypher had not crossed the Vosswell threshold in years, not since long before the engagement had begun to feel real. Now, here he was, smiling at Delphia like she was someone worth choosing.
Delphia turned back just once, her tone perfectly polite. "We'll see you at the arena, I'm sure."
With that, she and Zypher exited together, the train of her gown trailing behind her like a closing curtain as they stepped out into the light—and left the breakfast table behind.
They walked in easy step down the polished corridor, the soft sound of Delphia's heels and Zypher's boots echoing off marble and carved wood. The manor's staff—footmen, maids, and chamber aides—stood frozen in doorways and along the walls, their usual expressions of polite neutrality replaced by open surprise.
Delphia caught the widening of eyes, the subtle lifting of brows, the whispered murmur that trailed in their wake. A few even bowed twice, as if unsure whether to acknowledge her first, or him.
She didn't fault them. It had been years since Zypher had last walked these halls. And never—not once—had he come for her like this, with quiet certainty and a smile in his eyes.
The corner of her mouth lifted as she glanced up at him, amusement sparking in her expression. He felt it immediately—the shift in her posture, the subtle tug of emotion through their joined hands. His eyes flicked toward the onlookers, then back to her. Catching the thread.
Understanding it.
Without a word, as they approached the grand doors that had been drawn open for them, Zypher lifted their joined hands to place a kiss to the back of her hand that lingered, lips warm against her glove.
The gesture was deliberate. Elegant. Claiming.
Delphia's breath hitched—but she didn't look away.
Zypher lowered their hands and guided her towards his carriage, the glimmer of something unspoken in his maroon eyes, then turned and opened the carriage door himself. He offered his hand once more, and this time, when she took it and stepped inside, the entire manor seemed to hold its breath.
The carriage ride began in silence—not from discomfort, but from a quiet kind of contentment. Zypher settled beside her, not across, and his hand found hers with ease, their fingers intertwining as if it had always been second nature. Delphia leaned lightly into his shoulder, letting herself breathe.
Outside, the early morning sun cast a soft glow across the streets. The city stirred to life with measured elegance, merchants arranging wares, banners fluttering in anticipation of the Tournament, and noble carriages already beginning to queue near the Palace gates.
Inside their own little world of polished wood, velvet cushions, and sunlight dappling through sheer curtains, Delphia found peace.
She glanced at their joined hands. His thumb traced idle circles against her knuckles. "You're nervous," she said softly, not accusing—just knowing.
"Only about the number of handshakes I'll have to endure before noon," he replied dryly, earning a quiet laugh from her.
The Palace came into view in the distance—its towers gleaming in the morning light, its banners snapping sharply against the breeze. As the carriage passed through the grand gates, Delphia felt the familiar prickle of scrutiny settle over her like a shawl.
Guards straightened. Mages turned to look. Courtiers paused in their conversations. Zypher's presence was always a statement—but this time, so was hers.
When the carriage came to a halt, Zypher stepped out first, then turned to offer her his hand with courtly grace. She took it, noting how her gown caught the sunlight as she descended, the House Vosswell colors rich and regal. Around them, the onlookers stirred. Some whispered. Some merely stared.
Zypher didn't acknowledge them. Instead, he lifted her hand once more and pressed a kiss to her knuckles—not as performance, not for them—but for her. Delphia felt her cheeks warm despite herself, a small, private smile breaking through her practiced composure.
They walked together toward the entrance, steps measured, the weight of gazes trailing behind them.
"Are you sure you want to sit through the morning's discussion?" Zypher asked, his voice pitched just low enough for her.
"I'd rather hear nobles bicker than watch Tower delegates try to look disapproving while you sign in," she said, lifting a brow at him.
He gave a short laugh. "I might smirk. Just once."
"I'll allow it," she murmured.
The courtyard was alive with motion—nobles and mages flowing around them, pausing, adjusting, whispering. The Tournament wouldn't begin until afternoon, but already the air buzzed with layered intent.
"I'll find you before the matches begin," he said, drawing to a stop before the path that split between Tower delegation halls and the council wing. His hand lingered against hers, reluctant to let go.
Delphia nodded. "Good luck pretending to be obedient."
"Good luck pretending to enjoy diplomacy."
They shared a look, half amusement, half something heavier beneath.
And then he was gone—swept into the tide of Tower robes and quiet authority—leaving Delphia to turn toward the council chambers with the knowledge that she wasn't playing this game alone anymore.
The council chamber was already thick with tension when Delphia arrived.
High-arched windows flooded the room with golden morning light, casting long shadows across the mosaic-tiled floor and highlighting the gilded accents of the chamber's furnishings. Painted frescos of long-dead monarchs and storied battles watched silently from the dome above. Rows of tiered seating curved around a central platform, where the current debate unfolded with all the grace of a thunderstorm.
Delphia sat near the back, tucked beside a column, her notebook open in her lap and her gaze steady as voices clashed below.
Duke Mooresbane was speaking—again—his baritone voice booming through the chamber. "We cannot continue to divert northern resources southward without compensation. Our borders are the realm's first line of defense, and they are strained."
Directly across from him, Duke Faremont replied with clipped elegance. "And the western farmlands cannot feed those borders without adequate infrastructure. Do not mistake your position as more vital than ours."
The exchange was old, worn by repetition, and yet every word bristled with tension.
Delphia's pen moved slowly. The substance of the argument was less important than the subtext—the growing cracks in unity, the shifting tones of resentment. This wasn't simply about taxes or grain. It was about posturing. Positioning. Preparing for something larger.
Around her, nobles whispered behind gloved hands. Some sat stone-faced, others leaned forward, calculating where to place their loyalties when the next wave of power shifted. No one truly expected a resolution. Only proof of who would yield and who would not.
"Where is Vosswell in all this?" A voice murmured behind her.
"He's quiet today. Watching."
"He always is. It's the silence you should fear."
Delphia's gaze drifted toward her father.
Duke Vosswell sat like a statue—his fingers steepled, his expression unreadable. When addressed directly, he answered with calm clarity, offering no strong stance, only the illusion of reason.
"Both arguments hold merit," he said now, his voice cutting cleanly through the noise. "But if we fracture over who shoulders the greater burden, we risk weakening the entire foundation. There must be balance, or none of us will stand."
A few murmurs of agreement followed, though Delphia caught the edge of irritation in Duke Mooresbane's jaw.
As the discussion shifted into a dense exchange about trade tariffs and border routes, Delphia quietly closed her notebook and stood. The motion was subtle enough to go unnoticed by most, save for a few glances from nearby nobles—none brave enough to question her departure. Her silk skirts whispered against the marble floor as she slipped from the chamber into the corridor beyond.
The air outside the council room was cooler, touched with the faint breeze that wafted in through the open archways along the Palace hall. Sunlight spilled in patterns across the polished floor, filtered through stained glass that painted the stone in jewel tones.
Delphia moved with purpose, her eyes scanning the hallways as she descended the steps toward the outer courtyard.
The tournament was set to begin soon, and Zypher would be performing a demonstration to open the afternoon's events. She knew he would have already checked in—likely reviewing the spell arrangements with the Tower's officiants or speaking with the coordinators—but a quiet thrill in her chest urged her to find him before he stepped into the arena.
A cluster of nobles passed her by, deep in conversation about the exhibition and upcoming duels. She caught snippets—"Tower's finest on display," "first Archmage to participate since the Third Accord," "Thorne's about to rewrite expectations"—but she paid them little mind.
The Palace courtyard opened before her, a wide expanse of stone and greenery buzzing with anticipation. Banners fluttered along the outer walls, each emblazoned with the crests of the great Houses. The faint crackle of residual spells and the echo of applause drifted from the dueling grounds beyond.
She turned the corner toward one of the private paths leading to the competitor's wing—and there he was.
Zypher stood just beyond a marble archway, half in shadow, adjusting the cuffs of his deep grey demonstration coat. The fabric caught the light subtly, enchantments woven into the weave shimmering like thin threads of lightning. Wards had been stitched into every seam—refined and powerful, not for protection in combat, but to enhance precision and control.
He looked up at the sound of her steps, and the focused edge in his expression softened the instant their eyes met.
"Leaving the chamber early?" He asked, a familiar tease threading through his voice as he stepped toward her.
Delphia smiled, the tension from the summit's debates sloughing off her shoulders. "Only to see you before you show the Kingdom what real magic looks like."
He took her hand without hesitation, his fingers folding around hers with easy affection. "Then I'm already off to a strong start."
She let her gaze linger on him for a breath longer. "You're not nervous?"
His smile tugged crooked at the corner. "Should I be? It's only a Tower-sanctioned demonstration in front of every noble and magical institution in the Kingdom."
"Your humility is as subtle as ever."
"It's part of the charm."
Behind them, a crystalline bell tolled—a bright, harmonic sound that echoed across the Palace grounds and marked the official start of the afternoon matches.
Zypher glanced toward the sound, then turned back to her with a warmth that made her pulse stutter. "Time to make a bit of a spectacle."
"Just remember—this is about inspiration, not intimidation."
"No promises," he murmured, then leaned in and kissed her—soft, quick, but full of meaning. A spell disguised as affection.
And then he was gone, striding through the stone archway and disappearing into the competitor's wing.
Delphia lingered for a beat, her lips still tingling from the kiss, before turning to find her seat among the high tier of spectators. The audience would come expecting fireworks. But she knew better.
They were about to witness the storm itself.