"Is that Steven, Prince? He appears to be genuinely somber."
"Be not deceived."
"But see his footsteps."
"He's acting like one."
There was no frown on his face.
He kept going.
He just strolled with his pupils unwavering and his chin up.
What was a court, after all, lacking malice in its smiles?
As he arrived at the banquet room, two royal guards swung the enormous doors open with precise timing.
The warm, heady aroma of barbecued meat, vintage wine, and fresh herbs wafted into his face.
Hanging from the walls were tapestries that showed important battles, crowned forefathers, and legendary creatures that had long ago vanished.
Steven stopped for a moment.
Power met here every night to dine and make plans.
He moved forward.
"Steven, late again?"
He turned, well aware of where that graceful malice had come from.
Queen Delight perched at the top table, her posture stiff and royal. She wore an emerald silk gown with a corseted bodice. Her sapphire eyes were calculating yet bitter.
With a flawless response, Steven stepped up and said, "Fashionably late. Wouldn't want to deny the court their preferred subject of rumors."
The table became still.
Amid their steps, even the servants stopped.
Queen Delight raised one flawless eyebrow. "People seldom take a prince who jests seriously."
Steven bowed slightly.
Ramsey laughed, but there was an alert flicker in his eyes. "Be careful, my little brother," he whispered. "Overly sharp tongues often get bitten off."
Steven mockingly sighed, "True."
Ice against tempered steel, their eyes met.
Some nobility muttered to themselves. Others instantly became silent, uncertain whether Steven was teasing them with fire or wit.
Upon arriving at the table, his gaze swept across the gathered faces.
King Ascot was drinking wine and had a stern look.
Garman, the eldest prince, was engaged in a lengthy discussion with one of the generals. He was the ideal heir in every way.
Steven walked up and bowed.
"My son," the king said steadily. "Join us."
With confidence, he moved through the crowd, sat down, and poured a glass of wine for himself.
Dinner had apparently officially started.
As Steven settled down, he felt the pressure of multiple eyes on him.
The food was presented, including spicy vegetables, roasted games, and beautiful sweets.
The Queen stayed silent, but her eyes were fixed on Steven like a lion assessing a wounded pup.
As the tension started to suffocate the air once more, a gentle chuckle shattered it like glass.
"To be honest, Steven," a kind voice stated. "The bear does not need to be prod."
Steven turned to see Tianna, his stepsister, with her golden-blonde hair falling like waves over her shoulder. She stared at him with amusement, one hand holding her wineglass gingerly.
He loosened up a little. "It was more like a gentle prod with a dagger," he stated.
Tianna leaned closer and laughed. "Take caution, or I'll have to start incorporating your taunts into my poetry."
"Please don't, I want a dignified legacy." His response was quiet.
"You're assuming there's still dignity to be remembered." She responded while rolling her eyes.
A few of the younger nobility laughed at their banter, but the majority maintained a neutral expression.
One misplaced glance might be costly.
Steven looked at his father—King Ascot was now observing Garman, who talked with unflinching assurance.
"The Duke of Goodmond is untrustworthy," Garman was stating. "In his most recent letter, he alluded to joining the Eastreach Alliance, and he is stalling on the grain tariffs."
King Ascot scowled a bit. "We can't afford to lose Goodmond."
Garman spoke confidently. "Then we exert pressure on them. Lockdown superfluous titles, tighten trade relationships, and send the Black Knights down their southern highways as a reminder."
"You clearly talk like a king," Ascot remarked, his voice too sharp to read.
Garman smiled modestly. "Just trying to live up to the crown."
In silence, Steven observed the conversation. "Well," he thought, "that's the way it is. Pleasantries encased politics, and power was exchanged like currency."
"Steven, are you in agreement?" Suddenly, King Ascot turned to face him and asked.
Steven blinked. "The Duke?"
"Yes." King Ascot attested to this.
He was hesitant. "I believe... A man who is hungry for loyalty will nonetheless crave treachery.
He then continued. "Reminding him who has the blade should be followed by a reminder of why we have not drawn it."
The room quieted down once more.
After examining him for a considerable amount of time, King Ascot gave him a single nod. "A smart response."
The Queen sneered.
Ramsey tried to make his smile more menacing. "Very impressive remarks from someone who has never even been to court council."
"Perhaps I learn more than you realize," Steven remarked.
"Swords are not books," explained Ramsey. "And combat is not won by words."
"Blind ambition does not either," Steven retorted.
The tension flared up once more, but Tianna stepped in and grabbed a croissant.
She warmly exclaimed, "Enough. You two argue like cats in the kitchen."
There was a resounding burst of laughing.
Even King Ascot gave a small smile.
Dinner resumed with conversation and shifting courses.
For the remainder of the dinner, Steven listened and studied in equal measure.
He took note of who poured whose wine, who listened to whose ear in whispers, and who looked at whom when no one else was around.
He scanned the room, noticing the alliance among the nobles. He gripped his goblet tightly as his mind was filled with endless thoughts.
Steven went back to his chambers with a serene expression on his face, but the silence greeted him with a weight he could not ignore.
He threw off his coat and slumped into the cushioned bench next to the fireplace.
Amid the thorny teasing and unseen dangers, one thing gripped his mind like a noose.
The letter.
Still hidden under the hefty silver goblet on his desk, he groped for it.
Once more, his gaze slowly followed the scrawled lines: "My Prince, Please pardon the informality. I am your uncle, Baron Durwin, and must burden the Crown with private affairs.
Our routes are controlled by the bandits, and Baron Atkins has taken my daughter as payment.
We will forfeit our land if we are unable to repay the debts by the end of the month."
Steven cautiously lowered the letter.
He furrowed his brows.
His recollections of Durwin were still forming, so he was not really sure what had happened, but something sparked when he saw the name.
"I cannot overlook this," he whispered.
Wearing a disguise lined with dark fur, he got up and walked out into the hallway.
At the sight of Steven, the seasoned guard turned. "Your Highness... Having trouble falling asleep?"
Steven remained silent as Clinton was reading the letter.
It was not until he got to the last few lines that his expression changed. "Talvace... the once-powerful nobles have sunk so low," he remarked, carefully folding the parchment.
"Yes," said Steven. "They are alerting me that a noble house connected to the royal line will fall if I do nothing, and my personal reputation may suffer as well."
Clinton nodded a little. "What are you interested in doing?"
"Tomorrow, I'll ride out," Steven replied.
"Alone?" Clinton arched an eyebrow.
Steven answered. "No. I want people you can trust. Just swords and riders, and no too many inquiries."
The guard took a moment to examine him. "When are we going to depart?"
"Dawn," Steven gave a determined response.
With a nod, Clinton turned. "I will ensure that they are prepared."
The guard disappeared down the corridor, and Steven glanced again at the folded letter in his hand.
---
The passageway was too silent, within a gloomy fortress. With a pounding heart, an aristocrat stood in front of the door. Raising his hand to knock, he hesitated, then lowered it once more.
He raised his shivering fist and knocked twice.
There was a heartbeat.
A deep, silky voice filtered through the gaps. "Come in."
The nobleman opened the hefty oak door with a push.
A tall person was by the fireplace, the garment gathered over the seat.
His face was shrouded under an obsidian-black mask.
The nobleman stammered, "My lord," bowing so profoundly that he almost dropped the paper he was holding.
The masked man remained silent.
He simply held out his gloved hand.
The aristocrat handed the scroll forward with trembling hands. "He—he—he is alive, Prince Steven."
There was a lingering quiet.
The flames burned with rage.
The wood was cracked.
Slowly, the man in the mask closed the scroll and set it on the table next to him.
He tapped once, twice, and then clenched his gloved hand into a fist.
"You can leave," he finally said.
Once more, but this time lower, the nobleman bowed. "Certainly, my lord."
He retreated swiftly, almost tripping across the threshold.
After leaving, he wiped the perspiration and let out a deep breath.
He vanished into the darkness, his legs still shaking.
Finally, the masked figure stood.
He moved slowly and deliberately.
He grabbed his sword belt, put it on with a smooth motion, and drew his cloak tight.
He murmured, his voice like silk over steel, "Get ready, Black Vultures. We are riding north."
A few moments later, horses were snorting as well as stamping. They were incredibly well-trained, silent, and motionless.
The man in the mask then emerged from the arches and saddled his black stallion. He signaled with a raised hand, and the moonlight gleamed over them as they rode out towards Goodmond.