The message came mid-afternoon, just after she’d finished inspecting the stores.

  A banquet, the boy had said. Prepared in your honour, Your Grace. Lord Daskar requests your presence at the evening bell.

  Fran had stared at him for a moment too long — not in disbelief, but in a kind of exhausted resignation. As if the absurdity of it no longer surprised her. She’d nodded, said nothing, and sent him off with instructions to inform Elna as well.

  The corridors of Durnhal were quieter now — guards posted, orders dispatched, the last scraps of daylight swallowed by the fortress walls. But as dusk deepened and the watchtowers lit their braziers, another kind of preparation had begun.

  Fran met Verren at the foot of the western stairwell. Before she could speak, he gave a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Mother Elna sends her regards, and says the chapel will be cleared by nightfall if needed.”

  “Good. And the gate?”

  “Double guard, as ordered.” He paused, studying her face. “I take it you received Lord Daskar’s invitation?”

  “I did.” Her voice was carefully neutral.

  Verren’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. “He seems... confident that this will boost morale.”

  The temptation to say something cutting pulsed at the back of her tongue, but she held it. Just barely. “Very well,” she said instead, voice cool as steel. “Let us feast. While the villages burn.”

  She swept past him before he could answer, leaving him standing in the stairwell’s flickering torchlight.

  Now, with dusk pooling in the corners of the keep, she stood before the hall doors and adjusted the clasp of her cloak. From within came the scrape of chairs, a trill of forced laughter, the unmistakable clatter of cutlery on mismatched tin. The air smelled of smoke, fat, and something too sweet — as if someone had burned honey in the hearth.

  She entered alone, without ceremony, her dark cloak still dusted from her walk across the courtyard.

  Durnhal’s great hall had once served emperors — or so the local nobility liked to claim. Its vaulted ceiling bore faint traces of old gilding, dulled now by soot and years. Wall-mounted candelabras bathed the room in amber light, casting flickering shadows on aged tapestries and stonework lions. Above the high table, the Daskar crest loomed in carved wood: a stag caught mid-leap, flanked by spears and a rising sun.

  The hall had been dressed as finely as the place allowed. No gilded chandeliers or crystal decanters — those belonged to cities that hadn’t bled. But fresh rushes lined the floor, banners hung crisp and clean along the stone walls, and the hearthfires burned high at both ends. The long table was set with polished tin, rough linen, and a modest scatter of winter-green branches.

  She’d hoped the cold might dull her senses, but the warmth inside wrapped too close — stale and thick with roasted meat, mulled cider, and damp wool.

  The hall quieted at her entrance.

  Guests turned from their goblets and whispered conversations. The clamor of cutlery softened. A bard somewhere near the hearth plucked at his lute and let the tune fade into silence.

  Alven Daskar stood at the head of the long table, his navy doublet pressed, his silver edging catching the firelight. He looked like a man about to welcome a monarch — or perhaps like a boy playing prince in a ruined court.

  “Your Grace,” he said, bowing low, voice slightly too warm, too eager. “Durnhal is honoured. What a gift, to have you here with us in person.”

  She didn’t answer at first. Her eyes skimmed the room — local captains in formal tunics, minor landowners and their wives, all scrubbed and anxious, some too merry, others watching her with brittle smiles. Not a single soldier’s plate among them.

  Fran raised a brow. “And the barracks?”

  Alven straightened. “They were fed earlier. This —” he gestured to the table, “— is for you.”

  “For me,” she echoed, her voice mild. Too mild.

  He didn’t flinch. “You’ve ridden far, worked harder than most men in this province have in months. It seemed time you were honoured.”

  “Next time, Lord Daskar,” she said, unfastening her cloak, “see to it the honour includes the ones who’ve bled for it.”

  He didn’t reply, but held out a goblet instead. “Will you drink with us?”

  Fran looked at it. A rich red. Mulled, perhaps. Sweetened with cinnamon.

  She didn’t reach for it. “Later.”

  The silence stretched half a breath too long.

  He didn’t press her, but his smile grew strained. When she finally took her place beside him at the table, the tension had already crept in — a thin thread pulled taut beneath the pleasantries.

  The other seats filled quickly: Elna to her left, Verren across the table, a few lords and their spouses, and several officers Fran didn’t recognize. The rest of the hall buzzed with lesser nobility, merchants, and commanders — all dressed finer than usual, all eating better than most of Durnhal’s people had in weeks.

  Servants moved between the tables, filling goblets and laying bread. The conversations that had died at her entrance slowly resumed, though she could feel eyes stealing glances her way.

  The first course arrived on broad platters: thin loaves brushed with rosemary oil, dried fish glazed in wild honey, and cubes of aged white cheese.

  Fran touched none of it.

  Beside her, Alven made conversation about the local wine. Something about altitude and dryness, how it improved the flavour. She nodded once, without looking at him, her attention instead on the faces around the table. Nervous smiles, forced joviality, the brittle cheer of people trying too hard.

  “You know,” Alven said, raising his voice just enough to carry to nearby guests, “when I was a lad in Candlekeep — gods, nearly twenty years ago now — I knew a girl who could memorize a treatise just by walking past it.”

  A few polite chuckles rippled through the conversation.

  “She was fierce, too. Told me once I spoke like a rooster during lectures. Had no patience for noise.” He smiled, as if sharing a fond memory. “Naturally, I considered that a challenge.”

  More laughter this time, some genuine, others merely obligatory.

  Fran leaned toward Elna, her voice low. “He arranged this in a matter of hours?”

  Elna gave a subtle, helpless smile. “The cellars were stocked. The musicians... always eager for coin.” She paused, studying Alven as he launched into another tale. “He’s always had a gift for embellishment. A prettier kind of swordplay.”

  Another pause. Then, more gently: “He was different, once. Before grief made him restless. Before ambition turned inward. I knew his mother. And his brother, the one who should have ruled here. Daskar blood runs strong, but it’s grown thin with pride. I think Alven’s been trying to prove something since the day he inherited a mantle he never expected.”

  Fran’s jaw tightened slightly. “And now he thinks I’m part of that proof.”

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  “Not proof, child. Reward.”

  The servants cleared the first course with practiced efficiency, the scrape of plates and cutlery a brief interruption in the flow of conversation. Wine was poured more freely now, and the laughter grew louder, less constrained.

  Alven continued his stories, each one carefully crafted to suggest intimacy without explicitly naming her. His tone grew warmer with each tale, more possessive, as if the memories belonged to him alone.

  “You haven’t changed much since Candlekeep,” he said, turning to her directly.

  The comment earned him a glance. Brief, cutting.

  “I meant it as a compliment.”

  “You didn’t know me then.”

  “I knew enough.” His smile was confident now, bolstered by wine and the attention of his guests.

  “And I’m not here for nostalgia.”

  Something flickered in his expression — annoyance, perhaps, or wounded pride. He drained his goblet in a single draught.

  The second course arrived: roasted quail, stuffed with herbs and apple, served with glazed chestnuts and braided vegetables. The scents rose warm and rich, the sort of fare most of the province hadn’t seen in weeks. Silver forks clinked against plates, and fresh toasts were raised.

  Fran lifted her goblet once, just enough to appease etiquette. She did not drink.

  As the meal progressed, Alven grew bolder. His hand found its way to the back of her chair — not touching her, but close enough that she could feel the heat of it through her cloak. When a servant refilled his goblet, he drained half of it in one swallow, then leaned closer to speak.

  “I know tonight may seem ill-timed,” he said, his fingers finally brushing against her shoulder as he reached for something on the table. The touch lingered just a moment too long. “But Durnhal needs this. We all do.”

  She pulled away slightly. “Do they? Or do you?”

  He smiled with wine-loosened confidence. “Fran—”

  “You called me that once already today. Once too many.”

  “Come now,” he said, voice dropping lower, meant only for her. “Surely after everything we shared at Candlekeep, such formality seems... unnecessary?”

  The words hung between them like a blade. She turned to face him fully, her voice quiet but cutting. “You were dismissed from the Academy for not knowing the difference between affection and familiarity. It seems you still haven’t learned.”

  His jaw tightened, but instead of backing down, he leaned even closer. “Perhaps. But I learned other things. Like how to read what a woman really wants, beneath all the propriety.”

  The comment was loud enough for nearby guests to hear. Several conversations faltered, and uncomfortable glances were exchanged.

  Fran turned away, ending the exchange. But his hand remained on the back of her chair, a silent claim of possession.

  Her thoughts drifted as the meal continued, seeking refuge from the oppressive atmosphere. She found herself thinking of other banquets — of Orveil, of spring warmth and the smell of fresh bread and citrus. That gathering had been awkward too, filled with courtiers who watched her like a puzzle to be solved.

  But Gale had been there beside her, steady and amused. He had whispered irreverent commentary about the guests, his words aimed low so only she could hear. He’d kept her wine cup full while drinking little himself, and when the music had turned slow, he’d taken her hand to dance — clumsy, unapologetic — until they’d sparked just enough of a scandal to make the whole palace forget itself.

  She missed him. Gods, she missed him. Even now, with the silence between them stretching into weeks, she missed him like a limb still aching after it had gone.

  A burst of laughter from down the table pulled her back to the present. The third course was arriving: stewed mushrooms in red wine reduction, accompanied by another round of toasts. More wine flowed, and the conversations grew louder, less guarded.

  The air grew warmer, thicker, cloying with wine and perfume.

  Alven’s boldness increased with each cup. When she reached for her goblet, his hand covered hers briefly. When she shifted in her seat, he adjusted his chair closer. His voice, when he spoke to others, carried the possessive tone of a man displaying his prize.

  “Magic,” he said, loud enough for half the table to hear, “makes men unreliable. Flighty. A woman needs someone who won’t vanish into books and spells when our land needs defending.”

  It was a cut aimed to bleed. Several guests went very still; one lowered his goblet without drinking.

  “Tell me, Your Grace,” said one of the merchants, clearly trying to change the subject, “how do you find the roads between here and—”

  “Fran knows these roads well,” Alven interrupted, possessive. “We’ve travelled them together before. Haven’t we, Fran?”

  “Your Grace,” she corrected, the temperature of her voice dropping a degree.

  Alven’s smile didn’t waver, but something sharp flashed in his eyes. “You’re not sitting in council now.”

  “I am always your duchess.”

  The exchange was quiet, but in the sudden hush that followed, it carried to every corner of the high table. Several guests shifted uncomfortably, sensing the tension that crackled between them like a blade drawn partway from its sheath.

  The bard had begun playing a slower tune, the chords rippling like water over stone. A few couples rose to dance in the centre of the hall, their movements subdued and elegant. The normalcy of it — the pretense that this was simply an evening’s entertainment — made her stomach turn.

  When the servants began clearing the plates, Fran rose abruptly from her chair.

  “I need air,” she said to no one in particular, her voice carrying just enough authority to forestall questions.

  But as she moved toward the side door, Alven was already rising, swaying slightly from the wine. “I’ll escort you,” he announced to the room. “The night can be treacherous for a lady alone.”

  The words were spoken with the false gallantry of a man who believed his own performance. Several guests nodded approvingly, as if his offer were both natural and necessary.

  She didn’t wait for him to catch up.

  The narrow balcony beyond the side door was a relief after the stifling warmth of the hall. The night air struck cool against her cheeks, carrying the scent of damp stone and the promise of rain. The balustrade was slick with mist, the courtyard below quiet and dark. For a moment, she allowed herself to breathe.

  Then she heard the door open behind her.

  “Cold out here,” Alven said, his voice carrying the thick confidence of too much wine.

  She didn’t turn. “I didn’t ask for company.”

  “But you have it nonetheless.” She heard him set his goblet down on the stone with deliberate care. “You always did prefer storms to banquets. Stars to chandeliers. I remember.”

  “You remember very little accurately.”

  “Oh, but I remember plenty.” He moved closer, close enough that she could smell the wine on his breath, feel the heat radiating from his body. “I remember how you used to look at me in those corridors. Like you were deciding whether to challenge me to a debate or pull me into an alcove.”

  She turned to face him, intending to leave, but he had positioned himself between her and the door. Not blocking it entirely — not yet — but close enough to make his intention clear.

  “That was seventeen years ago,” she said carefully. “And I was very young.”

  “So was I. But some things... some hungers don’t fade.” His eyes travelled down her form and back up with brazen appreciation. “You’ve grown into everything I imagined you would.”

  “Step aside, Alven.”

  “He left you,” he pressed on, moving closer still. “That mage of yours. Ran off to play with his books while you hold these lands together. What kind of man abandons his duchess? His wife?”

  The word wife hit like a physical blow. They weren’t married, not yet, but the way he said it, dismissive and mocking, made her jaw clench.

  “A real man,” he continued, close enough now to reach out, “wouldn’t leave you to shoulder this burden alone. Wouldn’t choose dusty tomes over warming your bed.”

  “That’s enough.” Her voice was cold steel.

  “Is it?” His hand came up to touch her cheek, the gesture possessive rather than gentle. “You’re wasted on him, Fran. All that fire, all that strength — he doesn’t appreciate what he has. But I would.”

  When she tried to step away, his other hand caught her wrist, not painfully, but firmly. Trapping her between his body and the balustrade.

  “I could give you everything he can’t,” he murmured, his face too close to hers now. “Stability. A real partnership. A husband who understands these borderlands, who could help you hold them. Children who will carry our legacy. Think of it — the duchy secured by someone who knows every stone of these defenses.”

  “Let go of me.” But his grip tightened instead.

  “One kiss,” he said, leaning in. “Just one. Let me remind you what you’re missing—”

  The slap cracked across the night air like a whip.

  The force of it snapped his head to the side and sent him stumbling backward, releasing her wrist. His elbow clipped the goblet he’d left on the balustrade; it clattered and rolled. The ring on her left hand — Gale’s ring — had caught him across the cheek, leaving a thin line of blood alongside the angry red mark of her palm.

  He touched his face, staring at her in shock and growing fury. “You—”

  “I warned you.”

  For a moment she thought he might strike back, or shout, or demand satisfaction. Instead, something uglier crossed his features — wounded pride mixed with vindictive anger.

  “You’ll regret this,” he said quietly. “When your precious mage never returns. When you’re left alone to rule a realm that doesn’t want a woman’s hand. You’ll remember this night, and you’ll know you threw away your best chance at happiness.”

  She stepped toward him rather than away, her voice deadly calm. “My best chance at happiness does not involve a drunk fool who mistakes unwanted advances for seduction. Now get out of—”

  Bells.

  The first toll cut through the night air, deep and urgent.

  Alven’s head snapped toward the sound, his entire body going rigid. The wine, the anger, the humiliation — all of it vanished in an instant, replaced by something sharper, more focused. Years of military training taking precedence over everything else.

  Another bell joined the first. Then another.

  “Riders,” he said, already moving toward the door. “From the east.”

  Fran felt the shift in the air, the sudden pivot from personal crisis to something larger. It took her a heartbeat longer to process the change, to pull herself out of the confrontation and back into her role as duchess.

  By the time she turned, Alven was already through the door, his unsteady gait transformed into the purposeful stride of a soldier responding to alarm.

  She followed, her heart still racing from the encounter, but her mind beginning to clear. Behind them, she could hear the distant sounds of the hall stirring to life — chairs scraping, voices rising in question and concern.

  Verren appeared in the corridor, moving fast. “Your Grace. Riders at the outer fields. Smoke beyond the river.”

  Fran’s cloak snapped behind her as she moved, the confrontation on the balcony already becoming something that belonged to a different night, a different world.

  The feast was over.

  Now came the real night.