Tenuit

The courtyard glimmered in scattered pockets—lanterns and open flames warming carved stone and gilded reliefs, holding centuries of power against the encroaching dark. Tharion stood at its southern edge, his gaze fixed on the fountain’s trembling waters at the centre. Beyond it rose the eastern wing, austere and silent.

Hedges and grass sank into deeper tones, their colors dulled beneath the moonless sky. Corridors enclosed the space, lanterns lining their walls and casting narrow bands of light that fell short of the garden’s center. Between the arches hung draperies of pine and tea green, their golden embroidery catching stray glints, sparking faintly like embers in the dark.

The scent of roses and jasmine drifted from the gardens, brushing against him as he waited—warm but unwelcome. His hands were clasped behind his broad back, posture still and controlled. The palace loomed behind him, its towers and arches cutting sharp silhouettes into the night, watching–as it always had.

He drew a steady breath as the guard returned, accompanied by one of the king’s aides. The man was unfamiliar, his movements precise, his posture measured.

Borrowed authority, Tharion concluded at once.

“General Tharion.” The man inclined his head. “I am Lord Selwyn, in attendance to His Majesty. The King will receive you now.”

Tharion returned the gesture with a brief nod and followed, leaving the guard behind.

His boots met the red carpet without hesitation. Each step carried a quiet command, earned rather than displayed. Fatigue weighed on him, but discipline shaped his stride—an air that drew attention without seeking it.

He had no wish to be here, least of all on the night of a royal ball. Ceremonies had never tested his patience so much as exhausted it. But duty allowed little room for preference. He had left the border the moment the summons arrived, pausing only long enough for his mount to rest before riding until the capital rose before him.

Tonight, for once, he wished he had arrived a day later.

They stopped before towering double doors of dark, painstakingly carved wood—the rarest kind. Beyond lay the palace’s most extravagant hall, adorned with treasures drawn from distant lands. It was said Queen Novalie herself had overseen its design—brilliant, lavish, impossible to overlook.

Tharion found it excessive. Not worth a second glance.

At Lord Selwyn’s signal, the guards pulled the doors open.

Light spilled outward, carrying the low song of violins and lutes. The air was thick with flowers and burning oil. Laughter rolled beneath the high glass dome, voices weaving together in polished harmony. Heavy crimson curtains lined the walls, their deep folds swallowing light and shadow alike.

Tharion’s jaw tightened.

His gaze was drawn to the far end of the hall immediately, where the king’s chamber rose above the floor, built into the wall itself. A balcony jutted outward, its embossed railing overlooking the crowd. Two armoured guards flanked the throne.

The king sat upright, his presence commanding attention without effort, his gaze passing slowly over the hall as though weighing every face and action beneath him.

They moved through the press of polished nobles—women wrapped in elegant gowns, men draped in loud colours, jewels weighing down throats and fingers alike. Servants slipped between them like fish through a bright shoal, offering costly wine and delicate dishes.

Eyes followed Tharion openly. The women did not bother to hide their interest; the men stiffened beneath practised smiles, jealousy thinly veiled. Tharion remained unmoved. He wanted only to announce his arrival and escape the gilded cage.

At the chamber’s edge, Lord Selwyn stepped aside as Tharion ascended the curved marble stairs, each step drawing him closer to the raised platform where the monarch sat, surveying the hall below.

He reached the balcony and knelt to the king’s right—one knee bent, fist pressed over his heart. “General Tharion, at your service, Your Majesty,” he intoned, bowing his head.

“Rise.”

At the command, Tharion straightened.

The weight of years settled quietly around the king. He was draped in azure, a deep crimson cape edged with fur resting upon his shoulders. The fabric was heavy with jewels and threads of gold. King Aurelius II Edwin Sinclair sat upon his gilded throne, a simple crown rose in slender points upon his head.

His hair bore streaks of white now, cut shorter than Tharion remembered. Despite the grim rumours that clung to his name, his face was gentle, almost kind–deceptively so. A tired smile lingered, fine lines gathering at his eyes as King Aurelius regarded his general.

But it was his eyes that unsettled Tharion. Calm. Light brown. Carrying a softness that did not belong to a cruel man—and yet, they did..

“You stand before me sooner than expected.”

“It was my duty to report at once, Your Majesty,” Tharion replied evenly.

The king studied him for a moment, eyes unreadable. “Discipline has not left you.” A pause, then a nod. “Tomorrow, you will attend the council and swear your oath. Your duties—and your title—will be laid before you then.”

“As you command.”

From this height, the music and laughter below seemed distant, swallowed by stone and power. The king’s gaze shifted briefly as he leaned back against the throne. “Rest tonight,” he said. “The capital will not slow for you.”

“I will be ready at dawn.”

Tharion bowed once more and withdrew.

As he stepped down, Lord Selwyn inclined his head. “Your quarters have been prepared within the warriors’ barracks, General.”

Tharion acknowledged him and moved back into the hall.

Now that his focus had loosened from formal duty, he noticed a handful of familiar faces—but did not stop. Another time, he reasoned. Fatigue pressed heavily upon him, and he longed for rest.

Then his gaze caught.

Platinum hair, half-bound, catching the candlelight.

Tharion slowed without meaning to. A strange calm settled over him, even as a chill traced his spine.

The figure stood poised, luminous—porcelain skin framed by pale hair, pearls woven into the half-bun atop his head. Silk clung and flowed in equal measure. Yet it was the eyes—warm brown—that held Tharion fast.

He moved before he realised it.

“Prince Orle.”

The man turned, surprise flickering across his face as his gaze lingered—assessing, searching. Orle glanced brief to his side, eyes narrowing subtly, before returning his attention. “And you are?”

Tharion’s gaze flicked, and he hesitated.

Had time changed him so much? The hard-earned muscle of his shoulders, the longer hair tied back differently, the rougher edge time had carved along his jaw—had the years blurred him beyond recognition?

He clenched his fists lightly at his sides and was about to speak when a figure stepped forward from the edge of the crowd, as if emerging from shadow itself.

The man bowed with practised precision, hands clasped before him. “General Tharion,” he said, turning to Orle. “Your Highness—you may not recognise him. The General has matured quite a bit.”

Orle’s eyes widened, just barely. The reaction was gone almost before it formed—but Tharion caught it.

Impossible, he thought. Or perhaps—

“So,” Tharion said quietly, tilting his head, “you’re still angry that I left.”

Orle drew a measured breath, shoulders straightening, composure settling like armour. “Of course I am. You left without a word.”

“I wrote.”

“And I received it.” Orle’s gaze flicked aside, grounding himself in the room. “Acceptance will come when I decide.”

Tharion’s pulse quickened. Every measured gesture—the tilt of Orle's head, the slight flare of nostrils, the controlled arch of his shoulders—spoke volumes. The hall faded. Music, laughter, light—all fell away until only the space between them remained, heavy with years unspoken.

“It is late,” the aide murmured, bowing his head. “You have an early morning our Highness.”

“Very well. I will see you around, General Tharion.”

At the sound of his name spoken with rank, Tharion allowed himself the faintest smile. He bowed and stepped aside.

Orle passed through the hall with measured grace, nobles and servants parting instinctively before him. Candlelight slid across silk and steel, shadows stretching long across the walls but Tharion’s attention never wavered from the retreating figure.

He watched until the prince disappeared into the crowd.

Time had tempered him. Orle carried himself with greater control now, more measured, honed by years of rule. Yet beneath it all lingered the same familiar presence, unchanged at its core.

A quiet unease settled in Tharion’s chest.

If Orle truly did not recognise him, then something was wrong.

And if he did—

Then this court held more dangers than Tharion had been summoned to face.