"Have you heard the latest scandal concerning my absolutely insufferable older brother?"

Thalorin looked up from where he had sprawled across the stone bench, his silver hair cascading over the armrest like spilled moonlight. The bench itself was built for form rather than comfort—an unfortunate truth about most furnishings in Starfall Palace—but he was determined to make his presence felt anyway. Proximity to this particular noble seemed far more important than physical comfort.

He shifted his weight, angling his body to gain a better vantage point, before reaching one long-fingered hand upward. His fingers found their way into their hair with deliberate gentleness, playing with the strands in that effortless, familiar way that had become second nature. All the while, his violet-blue eyes traced their features with an intensity that belied the casual nature of his gesture.

Gods, they had such beautiful eyes. The exact shade seemed impossible to pin down and for a moment he found himself wondering if the royal jewelers could work with gemstones in precisely that tone. A ring, perhaps. Something he'd wear constantly, a private reminder of this moment, this person, this feeling he couldn't quite name.

When they offered him a puzzled look—that delicious confusion that crinkled their brow just slightly—Thalorin released a soft, theatrical huff from his lips. He rolled his eyes with exaggerated exasperation, as if the mere act of explaining would cause him physical pain. In truth, he was savoring every second of this conversation, the way their attention was fixed entirely on him.

"The Whispers," he began, his voice dropping to that conspiratorial tone he'd perfected over decades of courtly gossip, "claim to have seen my brother—the perfect, the infallible, the unbearably virtuous Aerendil—making regular excursions to some dreadfully common tavern in one of the outer settlements."

He sat up slightly, propping himself on his elbow to better dramatize the revelation. The movement brought him closer, though he maintained the pretense of propriety. His lips curved into a knowing smirk as he continued, his voice dripping with false sympathy.

"It seems my dear, dear brother has developed an absolutely tragic fixation on a tavern singer. A tavern singer, mind you. Not even a respectable performer from one of the royal theaters—but some common songbird warbling away in a drinking establishment of all places. Can you imagine?"

He rolled his eyes again. He settled back into his original position on the bench, though his hand never left their hair. His touch remained light, almost reverent, fingers absently twisting through the strands as if they were the most precious thing in the world.

"The real issue," he continued, his tone shifting slightly, becoming almost pointed, "is what this means for me. Don't you see? If my brother were foolish enough to abandon his duties for some infatuation, the crown would fall to me. And I, as you well know, am entirely unsuited for such responsibility."

His father had spent ninety-nine years reminding him of exactly how unsuited he was for the throne. As if the weight of Aeldoria would shatter under his touch like spun glass.

"The Gods above would have to be spectacularly merciful," he added darkly, "for Aerendil to actually realize the ramifications of his actions. That a prince who abandons his oath for love—or whatever sentiment is currently driving him to this tavern—loses both title and inheritance. And I'd rather fall on my own sword than inherit a kingdom out of my brother's romantic incompetence."

Despite the bitterness in his words, there was a grain of genuine concern buried beneath the sarcasm. He would never admit it directly, but the thought of Aerendil throwing away his future for a tavern singer genuinely unsettled him. His brother was supposed to be the perfect one, the responsible one, the heir who never faltered. If even Aerendil could fall so spectacularly, what did that say about any of them?

"You would make for a fantastic royal, though..."