The grand hall of Zarethrone, once cold with tension, now pulsed with quiet reverence.
Banners that had barely survived the fires of battle were re-hung with care. Soot and ash had been swept away, and the golden floor tiles gleamed dimly beneath flickering chandeliers. Citizens stood shoulder to shoulder with merchants, farmers, nobles, and servants alike. At the centre, the knights lined the room in shining rows, armor still scraped and blood-stained from war.
Every general, every soldier who could still stand, had gathered beneath the high vaulted ceiling, surrounded by the pillars that bore the kingdom's proud history. The room was thick with the scent of oil, sweat, and something sacred.
Then, the trumpets blew.
A slow rhythm of boots echoed down the corridor. Guards stepped forward, and from the arched entryway, King Aldric appeared.
Clad in dark robes lined with gold thread, his crown rested heavy on his brow, but it was the sword at his hip that held everyone's attention, still stained from the battlefield. His steps were even stronger. His gaze was unwavering.
The moment he entered, a roar surged through the hall:
"Long live the King!"
He raised one hand.
Silence followed like breath held in reverence.
King Aldric climbed the dais, turned, and faced the gathered kingdom. For a moment, he said nothing. He simply looked at them these survivors, these fighters, these people who had stood when the world tried to break them.
Then, he spoke.
"Zarethrone," his voice echoed, deep and calm, "was not built of stone and steel alone. It was built of blood. Of oath. Of the bones of those who refused to kneel."
He looked down the line of knights, then to the civilians gathered near the back.
"Three nights ago, we stood on the edge of ruin. A thousand eyes watched to see if we would fall."
His gaze turned to Kaelith.
"But a prince held the line. My son is not just of royal blood but of steel spine."
He then turned to Ronan, who stood with hands behind his back, dust still clinging to his boots.
"And a friend crossed kingdoms to defend what he called, not a neighbour but a brother. Prince Ronan of Vaelaris, your name shall be carved into our stone, sung in our halls. You did not owe us your swords. Yet you brought them. And with them, you reminded us what hope feels like."
A brief pause. The sound of someone sniffing back tears in the crowd.
To our generals, who bore the weight of command. To our knights who did not sleep. To our soldiers, who shielded the helpless. To the guards, who bled at the gate and still stood. You are the spine of this kingdom.
He raised his hand.
"And to those we lost."
Every head bowed.
"Let our silence be their song. One minute. For every soul who gave us dawn."
A hush fell. Complete.
The chandeliers flickered. Somewhere, someone sobbed softly. Others stood stone still, eyes closed, fists clenched in grief.
Then, King Aldric spoke again.
"They thought Zarethrone would burn. Instead, we rise."
A cheer erupted raw, relieved, victorious.
Then the king stepped up onto the dais.
He turned slowly, letting his voice carry one final command.
"By the power of the crown of Zarethrone by right of blood spilt and battle survived. I declare tonight the first of our sacred victory tradition."
Gasps rippled through the hall.
"The War Win: Lost Shame Night... begins at sundown."
The room erupted.
A roar of disbelief, lust, and joy.
Drums thundered from outside. Music surged through the palace. People clapped and shouted, kissing one another in the high galleries. Courtiers threw off their gloves. Soldiers unstrapped their armor. A youth laughed, already pulling off his tunic.
Because in Zarethrone, this was no ordinary night.
This was no court judgment.
This was not discipline.
This was released.
A sacred tradition older than the current crown a night when titles were stripped and sins were welcomed. Where lust replaced law. Where pain turned to pleasure, and shame had no seat at the table.
Virginity was surrendered like tribute.
Men lay with men. Women with women. All with whomever they desired.
Youth, those of age, walked bare beneath silver moonlight, a tradition said to cleanse war's cruelty with the rawness of flesh.
And it will last three whole nights.
Outside, bonfires were already lit. Servants poured crimson wine. Flower garlands adorned naked shoulders. Nobles shed their silks and silences alike.
Kaelith stood frozen a moment as his people celebrated around him. The flicker of firelight danced against his cheekbone. He turned as Hale approached, a sly smirk tugging at his mouth.
"You don't strike me as the kind to enjoy Lost Shame Night," Hale murmured, voice low enough only for him.
The firelight danced across bare shoulders and silk-draped thighs. Music drifted through the garden arches like smoke, slow, sensual, and thick with the scent of wine and sin.
Hale stood near the balcony edge, watching as nobles tossed aside formality for flesh. Somewhere below, two women twirled in nothing but golden chains, laughing as flower petals scattered at their feet. In another corner, a knight kissed another man's throat, careless of who saw.
He exhaled slowly, then turned to Kaelith beside him. His voice was low, almost amused.
"Lost Shame Night... Zarethrone is full of surprises. This is even wilder than Court Judgment."
Kaelith didn't look at him. He only smiled, eyes fixed on the moonlit revelry below.
"Welcome to Zarethrone," he murmured. "You've just witnessed our first hidden festival. And no, this isn't the most decadent thing we've done."
Hale arched a brow. "Don't tell me there's something worse than this."
Kaelith finally glanced at him, a flicker of mischief in his eyes.
"This isn't shame, Hale. This kingdom wasn't built on obedience or purity. It was built on desire. On the raw, unfiltered need to feel alive after death has walked our streets. In Zarethrone, pleasure is law. Shame is a forgotten ghost."
Hale blinked, taken aback by the calm certainty in his tone.
"And the King doesn't punish anyone for any of this?"
Kaelith shook his head gently.
"No one dies for sin here, not during this. Not when grief needs release."
There was a pause, long and thoughtful, as Hale let his gaze drift over the glowing chaos of the courtyard below.
Then he turned back.
"What gave birth to Lost Shame Night?" he asked.
Kaelith studied him quietly. The firelight etched shadows across his cheekbones.
"I'll tell you," he said softly. "But first, answer something for me."
Hale nodded once.
"What did we just finish today?"
Hale tilted his head. "A war."
Kaelith's gaze deepened. "And I assume you noticed… people died."
Hale's jaw tightened.
"Yes. Too many."
Kaelith stepped closer, voice lower now.
"And if we declared a Desire Festival for three nights straight… with no rules, no restraint… how many pregnancies would we have?"
It clicked.
Hale's mouth opened, but no words came at first.
Then softly.
"You're creating a new life. To replace the ones lost."
Kaelith nodded. "It's more than a celebration. It's balance. We bury our dead, but we plant something in their place, something living. Passion is the seed of healing in Zarethrone."
For a moment, neither spoke. The wind carried the scent of myrrh and wine. Laughter rose in the distance. Moans, too. And music.
Then.
"Please tell me you're not giving him philosophy at an orgy," a voice drawled behind them.
Ronan strolled into view, shirt open, wine goblet in one hand, his other slung lazily around a red-haired noble's waist.
Kaelith didn't turn.
"You're late."
"I was busy showing the Vaelaris way of sin," Ronan smirked, lifting the goblet in mock toast.
Hale quietly, bowing first to Ronan with practised ease, then to Kaelith lower, slower. His eyes flicked briefly between them as if sensing the weight in the air.
"I'll step out. Just… looking around," Hale said, voice light.
Kaelith shifted, closing the space between them in a single step. His voice dropped, just loud enough for Hale alone.
"Everyone else is free to enjoy Lost Shame Night…" His breath brushed Hale's ear. "Except you. And me."
Hale lifted his head slightly, surprise flickering across his features. He didn't ask why, but the question hung in his silence.
Kaelith's jaw tightened. "Don't even think of touching anyone."
Hale hesitated. His lips parted, but words never came, not with Ronan standing just a few feet away.
Kaelith's eyes didn't soften. "That's not a warning," he said. "It's an order."
The tension crackled between them, thick as smoke.
Then Kaelith stepped back.
Hale bowed once more, this time slower. His gaze lingered on Kaelith for a second too long, then he turned and walked away, boots silent against the stone.
Kaelith exhaled as Ronan stepped forward again, smirking faintly.
"You're a lot more possessive than you used to be."
Kaelith didn't answer.
Not with so much unspoken still between them.
Welcome to the era of Lost Shame Night where lust is law, and no desire is too dark to be obeyed.