The marble steps rang solid beneath their boots. Kaelus drew a long breath, flicked fine dust from his glove, then looked at Eveline with no great expression.

  “My lady,” his voice flat and familiar, “where to next? Or shall I see you home?”

  Eveline stared down the quiet lane, then returned his gaze with a gentle lift of her brow—the way a leader weighs small things into importance. “Will you wait and meet your soldier friends from earlier?” she asked, voice soft but measured. She paused, then added, “I can go home on my own, Kaelus. If you want to take Thalion, do so. Or—if it’s easier—you can leave him with me.”

  Kaelus snorted—a sound more like a cynical smile than a laugh. “Leave him?” he answered bluntly. He turned toward the carriage, looking at the small figure still silent behind the glass. “Those soldiers? Don’t count on it. When their duty ends they head straight to the tavern. But not today.” His eyes softened briefly on Thalion. “Let me keep the boy. It’s his first day in Brightwater; it’s not the time to introduce him to jests and empty cups. He should learn responsibility— not beer.”

  Eveline nodded; a thin smile touched her lips—warm, assuring, yet authoritative. “Very well. Take him. Stay close to me.”

  Kaelus shrugged, half satisfied. “Fine. I’ll teach him to stand straight—not to swig.”

  They climbed into the carriage together. Thalion sat tidy, small against the seat, his eyes fixed on the slit of the window as if watching something only he could see. When Eveline stepped in, she greeted him gently. “Sorry to keep you waiting so long, Thalion.”

  The boy shook his head quickly. “It’s okay, Lady Eveline,” he said, voice small but clear. There was a faint relief in the tone—an ember of safety he perhaps had not felt since the tragedy.

  The carriage rolled on; wooden wheels traced Brightwater’s stony lanes with a calming rhythm. Outside, the holy village settled back into its pace: clerics lowering prayer flags, women carrying baskets of offerings, children chasing bubbles along the gutters that caught Lumithar’s light. That simple scene—humble, earnest—tugged at something in Eveline’s chest: a responsibility larger than title or ceremony.

  “How are you feeling now?” Eveline asked, voice soft.

  Thalion let out a small breath. “A little… lighter,” he said. “The place was beautiful. But also… frightening.”

  “Frightening?” Kaelus leaned in; his cynic’s tone took on curiousness. “What is frightening about stone halls and incense?”

  Thalion fiddled with his fingers, searching for words. “It feels like… something can hear us.”

  Eveline looked at him kindly. “That’s because you’re sensitive, Thalion. Most people feel nothing.” Kaelus beside her raised an eyebrow as if to say, Lucky me—I’m not one of them. Eveline shot him a sharp look that halted any further remark—a look that left Kaelus only a grin.

  The carriage climbed, and the gates of Aurelion’s castle rose before them. The white stone walls stood firm, weathered by hundreds of seasons. Guards in the tower wore the kingdom’s blue cloaks; their steel helms shone dimly as they bowed to the returning Duchess.

  “Welcome back, Duchess Eveline!” a guard called, tapping his chest in salute.

  Eveline inclined her head with graceful acknowledgment. “Thank you.” Her voice was calm; every movement carried authority. “Where is Duke Darius?”

  “In the main hall, My Lady. He’s been attending to the people’s complaints since morning,” the guard replied quickly.

  A small worry crossed Eveline’s eyes—a sense of duty she could not set aside. “Very well. We’ll go there.”

  The castle courtyard buzzed; clerks hurried with scrolls, soldiers organized queues of waiting citizens, questions and answers echoed off the walls. Kaelus watched the crowd with a wary eye. “Looks like we’ll be busy,” he muttered.

  Eveline drew a short breath—not despair, but readiness. “Such is our duty,” she said. “Thalion—stay close to me, okay?”

  The boy nodded, then stepped down with them. The scent of Brightwater’s damp earth clung to them like a homecoming greeting.

  The great hall thundered—not with welcome, but with complaints. People pressed forward; some shoved, others clutched children and stifled sobs. A man slammed his fist on the table until the wood vibrated, demanding attention. In a corner two nearly came to blows; guards intervened, but their authority felt thin against a day’s accumulated anger.

  Those voices—protests, petitions, cries—rose like a swelling tide. Some shouted about overbooked lodging, others accused someone of damaging sacred carvings, a woman wept of a child slipping on the slick courtyard, and whispers of unsafe boats at the docks drifted through. The restlessness filled the air until even the crystal lamps seemed to dim beneath the weight.

  Darius moved among them, unraveling problems into practical steps—stonemasons, repair schedules, registries—yet practical answers often failed to touch the people’s religious concerns. They had come for more than logistics; they wanted their rituals acknowledged. The tone shifted; the official meeting grew tense.

  The hall stilled as the doors opened. Before anyone could relish her arrival, the room inhaled as one. Eveline’s steps on the threshold brought a silence not of fear but of respect—a pause that signaled someone had come who could gather many voices into one direction.

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  She entered with measured steps. Her gown brushed the floor, her hair neat though dust from the road clung faintly—evidence she had just completed her duties on the road. Faces that had been carved with panic turned; eyes sought answers from the woman who moved without haste. Eveline nodded once, swept her gaze gently across the crowd, then stopped at Darius’s table.

  Darius rose—instinct of leadership. Relief softened his features—not because problems had vanished, but because the burden was shared. He stepped forward, laid down a scroll with practiced hands, and bowed slightly in a greeting both warm and formal. When they met publicly, there was a small exchanged smile, a light touch as Darius briefly rested a hand on Eveline’s back—a gesture meant to steady, not to command.

  “Rest a moment, my love,” Darius whispered, voice for her alone. “Let me handle this. You look tired.”

  Eveline turned, eyes gentle. There was tenderness, but also a boundary held firm—a leader who knew when to step back and when to stand. “I cannot go, Darius. They ask for more than orders—they seek a hand to hold. If I leave now, we’ll lose this fragile trust.” Her voice was low, steely, full of empathy.

  Darius understood. He inclined his head slightly, taking up some burden without many words. “Very well. We will sort it together,” he said. His touch lingered briefly, then he stepped back to give space.

  Eveline faced the people, scanning each face—hope, anger, doubt, and exhaustion mixed in varying measures. She opened her mouth with a voice soft but clear, like a song that rearranged chaos into rhythm.

  “Listen,” she began, “first, concerning the temple courtyard: the carvings are not mere ornament. They are prayers—a language for those who speak to the River. We will not hand them over to ordinary masons. Tomorrow morning I will send a sculptor who has worked on an offering altar—someone versed in rites—alongside structural craftsmen who can handle the foundations. The work will proceed only on days agreed with the priests so it does not disrupt the pilgrimages.”

  An old man nodded, eyes wet. “They feared the carving would be damaged,” he murmured.

  “We will not just mend stone,” Eveline added, “we will preserve prayer. The work will be supervised by the officiating clergy, and I will order a dedicated castle officer to ensure rituals remain intact during repairs.”

  Request after request came fast; Eveline answered each not with bureaucratic jargon but with solutions that embraced ritual meaning: repair hours aligned to prayer times, temporary offerings moved to designated spots, and craftsmen instructed by the clergy.

  When lodging troubles were raised, Eveline’s response was measured. “We will open two great halls tonight. Beyond that—we will prioritize: nursing mothers, families with small children, the ill. A registry at the gate will manage rotations to prevent crowding. The castle kitchens will prepare rolling meals until the situation eases.”

  A young cleric raised his hand, uneasy. “What of the night rituals? Pilgrims often come late. If the docks are under watch, silence is lost.”

  Eveline turned to him, honoring his concern. “Night checks will continue, but as befits a sacred place, they will be cautious. We will form a joint night patrol: castle guards paired with volunteer fishermen familiar with the rites, so the watch feels like guardianship, not invasion. Lighting for the watch will be directed away from ritual points; rounds will be regular but gentle so worshippers may still pray.”

  Word by word, Eveline unraveled tension. She spoke of maintenance that honoured belief, security that respected sanctity. The people’s agitation eased; their breaths slowed, faces softened. Thalion stood not far off, wide-eyed—admiration brightening every movement of the Duchess.

  The grand hall settled. The complaints that had filled it dwindled to low whispers—relief from citizens who had finally been heard. Soldiers began to tidy their ranks while clerks closed the books of petitions. The ceiling crystals steadied their light again, a pulse finding its rhythm.

  Eveline lowered her hands slowly after answering a final question from an elderly mother who now looked considerably calmer. Her smile remained gentle; authority flowed so naturally that no one doubted her decisions. Beside her, Darius stood tall—a prince by posture, a husband by pride.

  Near a pillar, Kaelus leaned with arms crossed. His cynical gaze had tracked the session, but it flicked occasionally to Thalion, ensuring the boy wasn’t boxed by the crowd. He gave no reprimand, no touch—yet the care was there, cloaked in his hard manner.

  When the last citizen closed the hall’s doors outside, Eveline inhaled quietly and turned. Her gown moved like clear water.

  “We are done,” she said, voice soft but firm.

  Darius bowed his head slightly. “And as usual… you make it seem easy.” He touched the back of her hand with an elegant, fleeting motion, full of meaning.

  Kaelus smirked. “Almost like a wedding sermon. Just add music.”

  Eveline glared at him. “Kaelus.”

  “I know,” Kaelus raised his hand. “Civility in the hall. I’ll say it again, so it’s recorded.”

  Thalion stifled a small laugh—a spontaneous, innocent reaction that made Kaelus clear his throat as if pretending not to enjoy the moment.

  Eveline stepped forward. “Now that everything is calm… Kaelus, Darius, I would like to properly introduce Thalion.”

  Darius moved closer. His face was gentle, but still bore the weight of a prince responsible for his domain. “Come here, child.”

  Thalion advanced slowly. His movements were small; his unsettled heart made each step hesitant. His hands clasped in front of him—an attempt to hide a tremor he might not have noticed.

  Darius bent slightly to be level with him. “Thank you for accompanying my wife. You are safe now in Brightwater.”

  Thalion stood straighter, not bowing—less out of courage than uncertainty about what was expected. A short silence followed, enough that anyone used to court manners would notice.

  Kaelus leaned in a little and nudged Thalion’s shoulder. “Dip your head a bit,” he whispered in his usual deadpan. “This place likes formality.”

  Thalion obliged with a stiff bow. “P-pleased to meet you… Duke.”

  Darius smiled, sincere. “A pleasure to meet you, Thalion.”

  His gaze traced down and found the shape of the boy’s ears—not quite sharply pointed like a full elf’s, but clearly not fully human. He raised a hand slowly, giving Thalion room if he wished to step back, and then touched the ear tip with the gentle care of a father checking a child.

  “Half-elf…” he murmured more to himself than to anyone.

  Thalion tensed at once.

  Darius continued softly, “If you want to find your elven kin… I can send soldiers. Or we can escort you to a neighboring kingdom. Whatever you wish.”

  Thalion’s lips moved slightly, but Kaelus was quicker.

  “He’s an orphan,” Kaelus said bluntly, without flourish. “His home’s gone. His parents were killed two days ago. One of the bandits’ bodies has small dagger wounds—patterns like his little blade.”

  Eveline shot Kaelus a sharp look. “Kaelus.”

  “What?” Kaelus raised an eyebrow. “Information is information.”

  Thalion bowed his head. His shoulders slumped slightly, like wet cloth losing its support. A small hitch in his breath—no sob, but the wound still bleeding inwardly.

  Darius exhaled shortly. “Forgive me, Thalion. I didn’t mean to touch that wound.”

  Thalion shook his head slowly. “It’s… okay…”

  But his voice cracked faintly—enough to make Eveline want to gather him up at once.

  Kaelus spoke suddenly again, this time quieter. “I want to adopt him.”