The great hall of Castle Caerleon shimmered with candlelight. Tapestries depicting the victories of past kings hung on the stone walls, and the air was heavy with incense and the scent of roasted meats. Nobles from across the kingdom raised goblets in cheer, their voices swelling with celebration for the engagement of Lady Helena Wynthorpe and Prince Cedric Caerleon, the beloved son of King Alaric’s second marriage.

At the high table, Cedric sat with effortless charm, the picture of warmth and polish. He smiled at Helena, soft and attentive, whispering words meant to delight. The kingdom adored them both, hailing Helena as the perfect bride and Cedric as the flawless prince. From every angle, they were harmony made flesh.

Helena returned his smile, poised, serene, flawless in her demeanor. To the courtiers, she was the jewel of the evening: gracious, elegant, untouchable. Yet beneath that mask, her chest tightened with the weight of duty, her fingers brushing the silver pocket watch her late brother had gifted her—the only token she carried of grief and love lost to war.

Then the doors of the hall slammed open.

A hush fell. Torches flickered as Prince Alaric Caerleon, the firstborn of the King’s first marriage, strode in. Armor dented and dull from campaigns, cloak dusty from the road, his presence filled the hall with a quiet, lethal intensity. Mud clung to his boots; his jaw was set, his dark eyes hard as steel. Whispers spread: the Bastard Prince, the Warlord, the King’s shadowed heir.

The soldiers who had followed him from the front rose, fists thudding against their chests in salute. For all the court’s murmured doubt, none could deny Alaric’s reputation: brilliant strategist, relentless in battle, and unflinchingly loyal to his kingdom.

The King’s face stiffened, his goblet trembling in his hand. Cedric’s smile faltered, a flicker of unease crossing his polished features.

Alaric did not bow. He did not speak. His gaze swept the hall, finally landing on Cedric—and then Helena. The perfect bride, the jewel of the court, sitting calm and composed, yet clutching the watch he did not notice.

“So,” his voice, roughened by war and command, cut through the silence like a blade, “while I’ve bled for this kingdom, my brother has secured himself a bride.”

The nobles shifted uneasily. Cedric’s polite grin tightened. The King’s glare could have burned stone.

Helena inclined her head, her voice even, clear, and edged with steel. “And while you were away, my lord, we learned to celebrate peace.”

Alaric’s mouth curved, not into a smile, but into something colder. Their eyes met, sharp and assessing, the clash of wills immediate, a storm beneath the gilded veneer of the feast.