Veyrith had been awake for some time when a knock sounded at the chamber door. Lyara, who had spent most of the evening sitting beside his bed, lifted her head. She had barely left his side since they returned to the palace, and even now, with the physician assuring them that Veyrith would recover, she seemed reluctant to believe that the worst had passed.
“Come in,” Veyrith called.
Dynor stepped into the room, carrying none of the usual grandeur that accompanied royal visits. He had changed out of his tournament clothes, and his expression held none of the easy amusement with which he had faced his opponents earlier that day.
“I heard what happened,” he said, approaching the bed. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”
Veyrith attempted a smile. “Disappointed to find me alive?”
“Terribly. I had already begun planning how to divide your possessions.”
“Take the silverware. Leave my sword.”
“Your sword? After what you've done to yourself, I wouldn't trust you with a butter knife.”
Veyrith laughed, though the movement made him wince. Dynor immediately stopped smiling.
“Careful,” he said. “I'm not visiting just to watch you injure yourself further.”
“Then you should have chosen a more entertaining patient.”
It was only then that Dynor noticed Lyara sitting beside the bed. She was unusually quiet, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on Veyrith as though she were still watching the attack unfold in her mind. Dynor remembered seeing her at the tournament, accepting the rubies he had offered her, but the girl before him seemed entirely different from the composed princess who had stood among the spectators.
He had not known she was here. He had come to check on Veyrith, and he had not expected to find her looking so distressed.
“Lyara,” he said gently.
She looked up.
“I'm glad you're all right.”
She offered a small nod, but her expression barely changed.
Dynor hesitated, uncertain whether she wanted to speak. He had never had a proper conversation with her, and he knew little about her beyond what the court whispered. Yet there was something about the way she sat beside her injured brother, her shoulders held stiffly as though she were determined not to let herself fall apart, that made him set aside any attempt at ordinary royal politeness.
He stepped closer.
“Hey,” he said softly. “It's okay. You're both back. Veyrith is being treated, and you're safe now.”
Lyara's eyes flickered towards her brother.
Dynor followed her gaze. “He's going to recover. And knowing him, he'll be complaining about his injuries before tomorrow morning.”
“I'm already complaining,” Veyrith pointed out.
“See? He's practically himself again.”
A faint smile appeared on Lyara's face, but it vanished almost as quickly as it had come.
Dynor didn't ask her to explain what she was feeling. He didn't tell her she was overreacting or insist that she should be grateful the danger had passed. He simply stood beside her for a moment, giving her the space to decide what she wanted to do.
Then, with a naturalness that surprised even him, he opened his arms slightly and offered her a small, reassuring hug.
“You're okay,” he murmured. “It's over.”
For a heartbeat, Lyara remained still. She was not accustomed to such gestures from people outside the small circle she trusted. But Dynor wasn't demanding anything from her. He wasn't asking her to smile, speak, or reassure him that his kindness had been appreciated.He was simply offering comfort. Slowly, she leaned into the embrace and didn't let go for a minute. Her face was buried in his chest, even Veyrith was shocked, as this Lyara girl had never hugged him before nor returned his hugs.
Dynor held her gently for a moment, then stepped back without making the gesture into something significant or embarrassing. He didn't tease her about it or wait for her to thank him. He returned his attention to Veyrith and asked whether the physician had said anything about how long his recovery might take.
The room settled into an easier atmosphere. Dynor drew a chair closer to the bed and asked Veyrith about his injuries, listening seriously as he described what the physician had said. Lyara joined their conversation, answering a few questions about the journey back to the palace and explaining what she remembered of the attack. She spoke clearly and comfortably with Dynor, though she still avoided lingering on the moments when Veyrith had been wounded.
Dynor did not press her. Instead, he let Veyrith complain about the robbers' poor manners, their lack of honour, and the unfortunate fact that none of them had been courteous enough to lose in a proper duel. Lyara corrected the more exaggerated parts of his account, and Dynor occasionally sided with her simply to irritate Veyrith. Before long, the three of them were laughing softly enough that the physician, passing in the corridor, called through the door to remind them that recovery required rest.
“Tell him I am resting,” Veyrith called back.
“You are arguing,” Lyara replied.
“I can do both.”
Dynor stayed longer than he had intended. He had expected to offer a few words of concern, hear that Veyrith was recovering, and return to his own family. Instead, he found himself enjoying the company of the siblings, especially the way Lyara's quiet reserve gave way to dry humour whenever Veyrith became unbearable. She was not distant with Dynor, nor was she suddenly eager to impress him. She simply spoke to him as she would to someone she was beginning to trust.
Eventually, the hour grew late. Lyara rose and smoothed the folds of her dress. “I should return to my chambers. If I remain here, Veyrith will accuse me of preventing him from sleeping.”
“I would never,” Veyrith said.
She gave him a look.
“I would merely mention that you have been staring at me for the better part of the evening.”
“Because you keep moving when the physician told you not to.”
“An outrageous accusation.”
Dynor laughed as Lyara shook her head. She wished Veyrith goodnight, reminding him to call for the physician if his pain worsened, and he promised to do so with such solemnity that neither she nor Dynor believed him. Then she turned towards the door.
The corridor beyond was quiet, lit by the warm glow of wall sconces. Lyara stepped through the doorway and collided with someone coming from the opposite direction. She stumbled back half a step, her shoulder brushing against a firm chest.
A hand moved instinctively towards her arm, steadying her before she could lose her balance.
“Careful.”
The voice was unfamiliar to her, but the man standing before her was not. Tristan, prince of Nytheris, looked down at her with an expression that shifted from surprise to something he could not quite conceal.
For a heartbeat, neither spoke.
He had spent much of the day trying to understand why the mere mention of her name had unsettled him. He had watched Dynor offer her the rubies, had felt a jealousy he had no right to feel, and had thrown away the dignity expected of a prince because of it. Now she stood close enough for him to notice the faint weariness in her eyes, the composure with which she carried herself, and the fact that she appeared entirely unaware of the storm she had stirred in him.
Lyara drew her arm back gently.
“My apologies,” she said, perfectly polite.
Before Tristan could find a reply, she stepped around him and continued down the corridor. She did not look back. There was no deliberate cruelty in the gesture; she simply had somewhere to go, and a stranger stood between her and her destination. To Lyara, it was an ordinary encounter lasting no more than a few seconds.
To Tristan, it was the first time she had ever been within reach.
He remained where he was, watching her retreat until the turn in the corridor hid her from view. He had imagined meeting her countless times since the tournament, though he would never have admitted it. In those imagined encounters, he had always found something clever to say, some effortless remark that would make her look at him twice. In reality, he had managed only one word.
Careful.
He closed his eyes briefly, appalled at himself.
From inside the room came Veyrith's voice. “If you intend to stand in the doorway all night, Tristan, at least have the courtesy to close it.”
Tristan looked towards the open door. Dynor was still seated beside the bed, and Veyrith watched him with unmistakable amusement. The prince of Nytheris entered slowly, attempting to arrange his expression into something indifferent.
“I was passing by.”
“Of course,” Veyrith replied. “And the corridor happened to become fascinating?”
Tristan ignored him and looked at the bandages visible beneath Veyrith's collar. “I heard about the attack. I came to see how you were.”
“Then your timing is excellent. I am alive, recovering, and suffering terribly from the company of princes.”
Dynor leaned back in his chair. “He has been like this for hours.”
“Then perhaps the injury has affected his judgement,” Tristan said.
“Perhaps,” Veyrith agreed. His gaze shifted briefly towards the door through which Lyara had disappeared. “You just missed my sister.”
Tristan kept his face still. “I noticed.”
“Did you?”
Dynor looked between them, beginning to sense that something interesting had passed through the corridor. Tristan moved to the bedside and asked Veyrith a sensible question about the physician's assessment, refusing to acknowledge the knowing amusement in his friend's eyes. He stayed only a short while, offering his concern and wishing Veyrith a quick recovery. Yet when he finally left, his thoughts were no longer on the attack, the tournament, or the four days of celebration that remained.
They were on a girl who had bumped into him, apologised, and walked away without sparing him another glance.
And that, Tristan suspected, was going to be a problem.
Elsewhere in the palace, Iseldra had discovered that a person's thoughts could become remarkably inconvenient when they began revolving around someone who had done very little to encourage them.
She sat before the mirror in her chambers, pretending to inspect a silver hairpin while her mind returned, for what felt like the hundredth time, to Dravaryn. She remembered the way he had entered the forest without hesitation, the controlled precision of his movements, and the terrible calm with which he had faced the men who threatened his siblings. She had heard the accounts from those who saw him return, and each retelling had made him seem more formidable. Yet it was not simply his skill that occupied her thoughts. It was the brief glimpse she had caught of him afterwards, when his attention had been entirely on Veyrith and Lyara, his expression severe with concern until he knew they were safe.
There had been no performance in it. Dravaryn had not looked around to see who was watching, nor had he waited for praise. He had done what needed to be done because the people he loved were in danger.
Iseldra found that far more difficult to forget than any display of strength.
She set the hairpin down and leaned towards the mirror, studying her own reflection as though it might provide an explanation. “This is ridiculous,” she murmured.
Her reflection offered no assistance.
She knew Dravaryn was dangerous in the way powerful men often were, but not merely because he was undefeated. There was something guarded about him, a quality that made it difficult to know what he thought or felt. He could be present in a room without offering anyone a piece of himself. Iseldra had always been confident enough to speak her mind, yet the thought of speaking to him without some convenient excuse made her unexpectedly nervous.
She imagined approaching him tomorrow and asking whether Veyrith had improved. It was a reasonable question. She could then ask about the attack, perhaps remark upon his bravery, and if he happened to smile at her, she would respond with the same effortless confidence she displayed with everyone else.
In her imagination, the conversation unfolded beautifully. Dravaryn listened to her with unusual attention, his guarded expression softening as she spoke. He asked her questions, and she answered with a wit that seemed to surprise him. They walked through the palace gardens beneath the silver light of the moon, speaking of things that neither would ordinarily share with another person. She imagined him lowering his voice when he addressed her, as though the rest of the world had become irrelevant.
Iseldra pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.
Then she imagined him asking why she had been staring at him during the tournament, and the entire scene collapsed.
“No,” she declared to the empty room. “Absolutely not.”
A maid passing outside paused at the sound but, wisely, continued on her way.
Iseldra returned to the mirror, attempting to look stern. It did not last. The moment she thought of Dravaryn again, her expression betrayed her. She was not accustomed to feeling so uncertain over a man she had barely spoken to, and she found the experience both humiliating and strangely delightful. She had no intention of telling anyone—not even Lyara, who might have understood the peculiar discomfort of keeping one's feelings tucked away where no one could examine them.
For now, Iseldra would allow herself the indulgence of imagining. Tomorrow, she would decide whether to do anything about it.
By the time Tristan returned to his own chambers, Edric had already heard enough to be insufferable.
“You visited Veyrith,” his younger brother observed, lounging near the window with a book he had not been reading.
“He was attacked today.”
“Yes, I gathered that from the fact that half the palace has been discussing it. I merely find it interesting that you chose to visit him after the others had already done so.”
Tristan removed his gloves and placed them on the table. “Must every ordinary act of concern be subjected to your investigation?”
“Not every act.” Edric closed the book. “Only the ones involving a certain Eryndor princess.”
Tristan turned towards him. “You are becoming tiresome.”
“I have been told that before. Usually by people who are trying to avoid answering a question.”
“There is no question to answer.”
Edric considered him with theatrical seriousness. “Then I shall ask a simpler one. Did you speak to her?”
Tristan's silence was brief, but Edric caught it.
“You did!”
“She walked into me.”
Edric stared at him. Then he began to laugh.
Tristan's expression darkened. “She was leaving Veyrith's room. I was entering it. We collided. She apologised, and she left. There is nothing amusing about it.”
“Nothing at all,” Edric agreed, struggling to regain his composure. “You have finally met the woman you spent yesterday searching for, and your grand introduction was to stand in a doorway.”
“I did not spend yesterday searching for her.”
“Of course not. You merely inspected every entrance, gallery, and corner of the great hall in the hope that she might materialise.”
Tristan picked up a folded cloth from the table and threw it at him. Edric caught it, laughing harder.
“You should be grateful,” Edric continued. “At least now you know she exists outside your imagination.”
Tristan's smile disappeared at the last word. He had been trying not to imagine her, which was precisely why he resented the accusation. He knew almost nothing about Lyara. He did not know what amused her when she was alone, what frightened her, what she hoped for, or what sort of person could make her forget the careful composure she wore before the court. He knew only that she had watched Dynor's victory, accepted his rubies with a smile, stayed beside her injured brother, and walked away from Tristan without looking back.
It was a ridiculous amount of information from which to construct an obsession. He recognised that. Recognition, however, had done very little to stop it.
“Perhaps,” Tristan said at last, “I simply dislike being ignored.”
Edric's amusement softened into a knowing look. “Perhaps. But she did not know you were waiting to be noticed.”
Tristan had no answer to that.
For once, Edric did not press him further. He rose, clapped his brother on the shoulder, and left him alone with the uncomfortable truth that his jealousy had begun before Lyara had even learned his name. He had no claim over her, no reason to resent Dynor, and no right to expect her attention. Yet the knowledge did not make his feelings disappear. It merely made them harder to justify.
That night, Tristan imagined a different meeting. In it, Lyara did not walk away. She paused when he spoke, looked at him with curiosity rather than indifference, and asked him a question that gave him a reason to remain beside her. He imagined making her laugh, discovering that her composure hid a sharper wit than he had expected, and finding himself drawn into a conversation neither of them wished to end. In his imagination, she looked at him as though he were more than the prince of Nytheris, more than a reputation or a title.
He knew it was foolish. He knew that the girl in his mind had been built from fragments, and that the real Lyara might bear little resemblance to the person he had invented. Still, when he finally lay down to sleep, it was not the tournament he remembered, nor the humiliation of losing to Dynor, nor even the sight of the rubies resting in Lyara's hands.
It was the brief moment in the corridor when she had been close enough for him to speak and had given him no reason to say anything more.
In another wing of the palace, Ismeria had abandoned all pretence of behaving like a princess preparing for a formal evening.
She was curled beside Caedmon on a cushioned settee, her head resting against his shoulder while he idly traced patterns over the back of her hand. Their chambers were quiet, the doors closed against the noise of the celebration below. For them, the palace had always contained a world apart from the court: a place where they could laugh without measuring every word, touch without considering who might interpret the gesture, and speak of a future they had imagined together since childhood.
“Your mother spoke to mine again,” Caedmon said.
Ismeria tilted her head to look at him. “About what?”
He gave her a look of exaggerated innocence. “The weather, naturally.”
“Caedmon.”
“An unusually interesting discussion about the weather. It involved suitable seasons, family visits, and the appropriate number of guests for a celebration.”
She burst into laughter, hiding her face against his shoulder. “They are discussing our marriage.”
“They are discussing the possibility of discussing our marriage.”
“Oh, how reassuring. I shall inform my heart that it must wait patiently for the committee to reach a decision.”
Caedmon laughed and drew her closer. “I believe the committee has been considering the matter for years. It is simply taken them this long to realise that we have already made up our minds.”
“We made up our minds when we were children.”
“You made up your mind when I let you win at chess.”
“You did not let me win. You were terrible at chess.”
“I was gracious enough to lose.”
“You knocked over the pieces when you realised you were losing.”
“I was a child.”
“You were twelve.”
“A very young twelve.”
Ismeria laughed again, and Caedmon pressed a kiss to her forehead. Their affection had never depended upon dramatic declarations. It lived in these familiar exchanges, in the ease with which they leaned against one another, and in the quiet certainty that neither had to pretend to be someone else. They had grown up together, survived childhood rivalries and royal expectations together, and slowly become the one person each could trust without reservation.
Yet the thought of marriage made even their comfortable world feel newly significant.
“Do you think they will arrange a formal announcement during the celebration?” Ismeria asked.
“Perhaps. Our parents have been exchanging more meaningful glances than usual, which is generally a sign that they are plotting something.”
“Then perhaps you should ask me before they do.”
Caedmon went still for a moment, and she lifted her head to study him. The teasing in her expression softened when she saw that he had taken her words seriously.
“I will,” he said. “Not because they have decided the time is right, and not because our families have agreed on anything. I will ask you because I want to. And I want you to know that if you say yes, it will be because you chose me—not because the kingdoms expect it.”
Ismeria's smile was smaller now, but far more tender. “You know what my answer will be.”
“I do. I would still like to hear you say it.”
She touched his cheek. “Then you will have to ask properly.”
Caedmon smiled and drew her back into his arms. “You are remarkably demanding for someone who has been planning this marriage since she was twelve.”
“And you are remarkably slow for someone who claims to be in love with me.”
“I have been waiting for the right moment.”
“You have had fourteen years.”
“Then I suppose I should stop wasting time.”
She laughed and kissed him, silencing whatever clever reply he had prepared. For a little while, the expectations of their families and the political weight of a royal marriage faded into the background. They were simply Ismeria and Caedmon, two people who had loved each other for so long that the future felt less like a leap into the unknown and more like the next page of a story they had been writing together.
Outside their chambers, the palace continued to hum with the remnants of the day's excitement. Servants carried away the last dishes, guards changed their watch, and the royal guests settled into the quiet hours before midnight. The forest attack had left its mark on the celebration, but Veyrith was alive, Lyara was safe, and the physicians expected him to recover. Dynor had gained the beginning of a friendship he had not gone looking for, while Tristan had acquired a feeling he could neither explain nor control.
And somewhere behind a closed chamber door, Iseldra was still imagining a conversation with a prince who had not yet realised that he occupied her thoughts.
None of them knew what the following days would bring. For now, there were only small beginnings: a kindness offered without expectation, a glance that lingered too long, a love preparing to become a promise, and two young royals discovering that the heart could become troublesome long before it had any right to be.