With all of Edmund’s guests seated, the guards closed the doors once more. The nobles and ambassadors arranged themselves along the two long parallel tables, while their companions settled at the smaller round table. Attendants stood poised a few steps behind, ready to take coats, clean spills, or refill goblets before a stain had time to dry. Edmund took his place at the high table, with Aristide on his right and King Renault on his left. As custom demanded, everyone in the hall rose. Hundreds of eyes fixed on him. The hall seemed to stretch endlessly. He swallowed.

  “I—I, um…” the prince began, voice wavering.

  Aristide leaned in behind the table, nudging his brother’s knuckle with his own. “Imagine them in their pajamas,” he breathed.

  Edmund nearly choked on a laugh he struggled to contain. The tension in his shoulders loosened just enough for him to breathe. He lifted his chin. His voice steadied.

  “Esteemed nobles, ambassadors, dignitaries,” he began again, the words falling into place at last, “allow me to thank you all once again for taking the time to attend this celebration. On this occasion—”

  Behind the curtains of the door leading to the serving pantry, two small faces peeked out. Serena and Leif watched quietly, pressed shoulder to shoulder, listening to Edmund’s speech with more anticipation than anyone else in the hall.

  “He looks confident,” Leif murmured.

  “Doesn’t he… always?” Serena whispered.

  “Yeah, when fighting or training,” Leif whispered back. “Not when he’s the center of attention.”

  Serena’s gaze never wavered from Edmund as he continued his speech.

  “…and I would like to thank my surviving retainers,” Edmund said, voice firming, “and those who gave their lives to see me safely returned. Please include them in your prayers.”

  Serena’s lips curved into a small, warm smile. Even surrounded by a hundred nobles draped in silk and jewels, the prince hadn’t forgotten to mention his retainers.

  “That includes you,” Leif muttered.

  “Not now,” Serena urged softly, shaking her head. “Let’s… just keep listening.”

  “Let us now have a moment of silence,” Edmund announced, “to thank Hemera for this day… and for the bounty before us.”

  Heads bowed across the hall. When the nobles lifted their gazes once more, Edmund continued:

  “Thank you all again for coming. Please, enjoy the night.”

  He sat. The entire hall followed his lead.

  “Well done, son,” Renault murmured.

  “That was incredible, brother,” Aristide whispered.

  Edmund nudged his brother’s knuckle back. “I had help.”

  Behind the pantry curtains, Serena still watched him. Even now, even as the hall erupted into applause and soft conversation, her gaze did not leave the prince.

  “Let’s go back to our hall,” Leif murmured. “The staff will be bringing out the food soon. We have to make way.”

  Serena nodded, and together they slipped back toward the servants’ wing, joining the bustle of trays, plates, and hurried footsteps preparing for the feast.

  On the way, they spotted Margot along with a few more of the staff pushing a serving cart.

  “You took the first turn?” Leif asked.

  Margot nodded. “I’d rather serve the appetizer and spend the rest of the night eating and dancing.”

  She winked.

  Leif chuckled. “We’ll see you later inside, then,”

  “See you two later.” Margot walked ahead, following the rest of the staff.

  She had only taken a few steps when Serena’s voice stopped her. “Do you think… I can take… the next turn?”

  Margot turned, blinking, before offering an apologetic smile. “But Serena, you’re not a servant.”

  Serena looked up at her. “But I want… to help too.”

  “No way you’ll go out there,” Leif cut in, sharp as a snapped twig, brows furrowing. “King Renault said leave it to the others. And we don’t know how the nobles will react if they see us.”

  “Sorry, Serena,” Margot said gently, before pushing her cart toward the banquet hall.

  Leif let out a slow exhale. “Come on. Let’s join the others.”

  Serena lowered her gaze but followed him obediently. Even before they pushed open the door to the servants’ wing, Madame Grance’s voice rang through the corridor. Crisp, commanding, and unmistakably her. “Everyone, no cheating on your turn! Take the one you’re assigned to, no skipping ahead. And return promptly so the rest can enjoy the celebration properly.”

  The moment the door opened, her voice grew louder, rattling through the room. “And we all stay until cleaning is completed, is that clear?”

  A chorus of agreement answered her. Those waiting for their turn proceeded to eat at a long wooden table, laughing quietly or trading gossip, while others hurried past carrying trays or pitchers.

  Leif guided Serena through the room and approached Madame Grance.

  “We’re back, Madame Grance,” Leif said, dipping his head politely.

  “Oh, good. You two grab your food,” Grance said, adjusting her glasses with a brisk motion. “You may stay if you want or return home afterward. And be sure to bring some to Miss Idun. She’s been working all day.”

  She was about to turn away when Serena spoke. “Madame Grance… may I stay… and help with the cleaning?”

  Grance froze. Then she shook her head, firm. “Absolutely not, Miss Serena.”

  Serena flinched. Her eyes dropped to the floor, shoulders curling in disappointment.

  Grance’s sternness faltered at once. She immediately knelt to bring herself to Serena’s level, gently placing both hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Miss Idun is a respected healer,” she said, voice warm and earnest. “I won’t upset her by keeping her apprentice here late at night to scrub pots or wash dishes. That’s not your place.”

  Serena swallowed, not out of disobedience, but out of a quiet desire to help. Seeing that, Grance’s expression softened even more. “There will be other ways you can help us, more than you realize.”

  Serena blinked up at her, the disappointment lifting just slightly. “I understand… Madame Grance,” Serena murmured.

  Grance smiled, gave her shoulder one last squeeze, then stood and resumed her inspection of the hall.

  “Come on,” Leif whispered, “let’s go have those stewed vegetables.”

  Around half an hour after the two finished grabbing their food, Margot returned from her turn in the banquet hall. She slid onto the bench beside Leif, setting down a full plate.

  “How was it?” Leif asked between bites. “The banquet hall, I mean.”

  “Nothing unusual,” Margot said with a shrug. “Just nobles exchanging gossip.” She scooped up a spoonful of mashed potato, then leaned a little closer, lowering her voice. “There was a boy who asked for my name, though.”

  “That’s nice,” Leif said absently, eyes still on his plate.

  Margot stared at him. “…Is that all you’re going to say?”

  Leif blinked, glancing up with a confused look. “I guess so?”

  “Hmph.” Margot turned back to her food, scooping aggressively.

  Leif slowly leaned toward Serena and whispered, “Did I say something wrong?”

  Serena tilted her head, thinking. “I think… she wants you… to compliment her.”

  “Oh—then, um…” Leif leaned closer to Margot, lowering his voice. “You look good tonight.”

  “Hmph. Tonight,” she muttered into her mashed potatoes, scooping her food aggressively, cheeks puffing out. “Just tonight, huh?”

  Leif, thinking he had said enough, simply resumed eating. The main-course crew stood soon after, heading out with loaded serving carts. Those who remained behind set to washing dishes, polishing glasses, and preparing the wine, tea, and other refreshments. The room filled with soft chatter, mostly gossip about young nobles and the dresses they wore. About an hour into the meal, a ripple of loud laughter echoed from the main banquet hall.

  “Must be the jesters,” Margot said, nibbling on a carrot. “Or someone doing a magic trick.”

  Serena’s gaze drifted again toward the door leading to the pantry. The banquet hall was just past that. Maybe I could help. Or maybe… just see how he’s doing.

  Before she could dwell on it, the dessert crew rose for their turn. Leif and Serena stayed with the others, sharing food, dancing briefly when a lute player began strumming in the corner, letting the excitement of the night soak in. After the servants returned with empty dessert trays, Grance spoke. “Wonderful work, everyone,” she announced proudly. “His Highness’s guests seem quite pleased. That means we did our part well.”

  A soft cheer followed. Soon after, the staff resumed washing pots and pans, while others prepared to take out the drinks.

  “I think it’s time for us to go,” Leif said.

  Serena agreed, and the two approached the exit.

  Just as they neared the door, Leif stopped abruptly. “Mother’s food!” he hissed, turning back toward the meal counter. “Just wait for me here, okay? I’ll go get something for her.”

  Serena nodded and remained by the door. A moment later, she noticed a servant rushing past, pushing a serving cart toward the banquet hall so quickly she forgot a bottle of wine on the side table. Serena hesitated, stepping toward the table, hand hovering over the forgotten bottle.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  I don’t want to disobey… or upset anyone, she thought.

  But it was just a wine bottle. Nothing important. Nothing dangerous. She glanced around. Leif was still busy packing food for Idun. Madame Grance was elbows-deep in steaming dishwater. Every servant was occupied with their own duties. No one noticed her.

  Serena drew in a slow breath.

  I’ll take this to the hall… then come back quickly.

  She lifted the bottle, holding it carefully with both hands, and made her way across the pantry. Her steps were light and cautious as she approached the door.

  Back in the banquet hall, the atmosphere had fully shifted from ceremony to celebration. Guests mingled in lively clusters, wine in hand; laughter and music filled the grand space. Servants wove effortlessly between the nobles with trays of drinks and small desserts. Edmund walked among them with Aristide and King Renault just behind him.

  An unusual formation.

  “This is awkward,” Edmund muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “I’m usually the one walking behind Father.”

  “Well, you’re the host tonight,” Aristide whispered. “Just stay in character. Confident. Regal. Preferably not shaking.”

  Edmund exhaled quietly and straightened his posture again. They stepped into the center of the hall, where nobles spoke over glasses of red and gold wine, discussing trade routes, hunts, politics, and gossip in equal measure.

  “Ambassador Gustavo,” Edmund greeted as he approached the tall, red-draped envoy.

  “Your Highness.” Gustavo raised his glass with a broad smile. “What a magnificent evening. The feast was exquisite. Very Ambrian in seasoning, if I may say.”

  “I’m glad you’re having a delightful time, Ambassador,” Edmund replied.

  “Yes, yes!” Gustavo continued enthusiastically. “Speaking of which, Baldoraim has just signed new trade agreements with several Westrald states. Exclusive rights to certain spices, rare crops, even some luxury textiles. Perhaps,” he added with a knowing grin, “you’d like to examine Baldoraim’s new trade proposals with Aurelith?”

  Edmund nodded with composed politeness. “I’d be happy to.”

  “Excellent.” Gustavo beamed. “And I’ll guarantee you receive our spices at a discount. A very generous one.”

  Edmund bowed politely and moved on to the next cluster of guests, exchanging words about trade routes, harvests, weather patterns, and the latest political currents. Somewhere within the lively crowd, he spotted Nadja standing beside her father. She brightened instantly and waved at him with both hands.

  He wanted to go to her, even just for a moment, but court etiquette demanded he remain with the main guests. He simply returned her smile and offered a small wave before turning carefully toward the next pair.

  Count Nicolas stood with a wine glass in hand, speaking calmly with another man. At Edmund’s approach, the count glanced over, and a subtle shift rippled through the room. Edmund inhaled deeply. So did Aristide. Even Renault straightened at his side.

  “Count Nicolas. Ambassador Vincent,” Edmund greeted with composed courtesy. “I hope the two of you are enjoying the night.”

  The pair bowed.

  “Indeed, we are, Your Highness,” Nicolas replied smoothly. “You have hosted a truly fascinating event.”

  “I am happy to hear it, Count Nicolas,” Edmund said, posture flawless.

  “Yes, in fact,” Nicolas continued lightly, “Ambassador Vincent and I were just discussing a new trade agreement between Mezentius and Cervolna. Perhaps you might consider our joint proposal for Aurelith as well?”

  “I would be glad to look into it,” Edmund answered.

  “Excellent.” Nicolas’s smile sharpened. Polite, but unreadably thin.

  His gaze drifted upward, studying the hall’s architecture. The carved beams, the sprawling mural across the ceiling, the glittering chandelier. His eyes narrowed. “King Baldwin will be pleased to hear,” Nicolas said suddenly, voice carrying just enough to be heard by those close, “that you have managed to preserve your Cervolnan roots.”

  At once, Renault, Aristide, and several nearby nobles turned toward him.

  “And despite nearly three centuries of Rucaldian occupation,” Nicolas added mildly, “that is quite an achievement.”

  “Count Nicolas,” Ambassador Vincent hissed under his breath.

  Edmund’s brows tightened in confusion. Aristide stiffened beside him. Renault stepped forward before Edmund could speak. The music seemed to have quieted.

  “Count Nicolas,” the king said, tone firm but controlled, “if we may refrain from discussing the late empire… especially tonight.”

  Nicolas turned toward him. His expression did not change. “I see no harm in speaking of the past. Unless there were aspects of that time you would prefer not to… revisit.”

  A subtle tremor passed through Renault’s breathing. Barely visible, yet unmistakable.

  “Count Nicolas,” Renault said again, voice lower now, “I am respectfully asking we put this matter down.”

  “If I may politely interject,” another dignitary suddenly said, stepping forward with deliberate calm, “I too see no harm in discussing the past.”

  Edmund turned at once. “Ambassador Oswald.”

  “Your Highness. Your Majesty. My apologies for cutting in.” Oswald bowed respectfully before fixing his gaze on Nicolas, sharp as a blade beneath velvet. “In that spirit,” he continued, voice smooth but dangerous, “why not begin with who left the gates wide open for Rucaldia to march through?”

  A ripple of tension passed through the nearest nobles. Count Nicolas turned fully toward him. His smile remained, poised and unfaltering, but a faint light sharpened in his amber eyes. “Perchance, you refer to those who were charged with barring that gate, yet failed so spectacularly to keep it shut?”

  Air flared from Oswald’s nostrils. Controlled, but unmistakably heated. His glare intensified. “You and I know full well why they failed, Count Sabran-Archambault.”

  Nicolas’s smile faltered, only a fraction, a hairline crack, but enough for the surrounding nobles to feel the temperature drop. The two men narrowed their eyes at each other, the air between them taut as a bowstring.

  Edmund remained silent, unsure how to intervene without embarrassing the Crown. Renault held himself carefully still, weighing each breath. Any word from him could tilt this into an international incident.

  Aristide stepped forward. “Esteemed lords,” Aristide began, voice steady though his breath trembled at the edges, “I believe it is not appropriate to discuss such matters at an event meant for celebration.”

  Both dignitaries turned toward him. Their attention was heavy. Practiced men of courts and conflicts examining a boy who dared to interrupt them.

  Aristide swallowed, lifted his chin, and continued. “Let us reserve this hour for wine and pleasantries, if I may suggest. The night is meant to honor my brother, not reopen old wounds.”

  Edmund’s eyes widened slightly. He glanced at Aristide, impressed, proud, and a little surprised.

  Renault’s posture eased by a measure.

  Oswald was the first to break. He exhaled, tension slipping from his shoulders. “Prince Aristide is correct.” He turned to Nicolas with a courteous dip of the head. “Count Nicolas, I apologize for my sharpness. Let us end this discussion here.”

  Nicolas lowered his gaze briefly, then raised it again, first to Aristide, then to Edmund. The faintest curve tugged at his lips, but it no longer resembled a smile. “I agree. It is pointless to remind people of their faults…”

  His eyes lingered on Edmund too long.

  “…despite the scope of their consequences.”

  A few nearby dignitaries stirred uncomfortably, Ambassador Vincent included.

  Aristide forced a polite smile.

  Edmund felt something cold ripple down his spine.

  Renault’s eyes hardened a shade, a warning, one Nicolas noticed but did not acknowledge.

  And then, as though nothing had happened, Nicolas lifted his goblet and took a slow sip, the silver filigree of the cup briefly catching the chandelier’s glow like a sliver of ice.

  “Count Nicolas,” Ambassador Vincent muttered with a strained smile, “perhaps we should return to the trade matter we were discussing?”

  “Ah, yes, the agreement,” Nicolas replied, his tone light but his eyes glinting with intent. “It would benefit Aurelith greatly, should you choose to join it. Even Trinovantes may prosper, as it would certainly lower grain prices throughout Ambria.”

  Oswald’s right hand curled into a tight fist behind his back. “Honorable lord…” he said through a controlled breath.

  Nicolas answered smoothly. “I’m speaking of the present now, not the past.”

  He paused, letting the silence sharpen. “Unless, of course… that bothers you as well.”

  He opened his mouth to continue when a girl’s voice spoke nearby. “P-pardon me… I just need… to pass through…”

  She had stepped between two nobles, bowing apologetically as she slid past with careful steps. Her soft apology cut across the tension just enough to shift the room’s attention. But Nicolas’s eyes didn’t merely shift, they snapped toward her. The smile he wore only moments ago vanished. His posture stiffened, gaze locked on the pointed tips of her ears, and something darker flickered across his expression.

  “King Renault,” he said, slowly turning toward the monarch, “I was aware that you kept Alvarynn within your household…”

  His eyes slid back to Serena. “…but I did not expect to see one serving your guests tonight.”

  Edmund turned toward the voice, his eyes widening. “Serena? What is she—”

  “No.” Renault’s voice was low, tense. “She should not be serving tonight. She must be looking for someone.”

  Nicolas’s gaze followed theirs. His brows lifted slightly, as if he’d discovered a blemish on an otherwise pristine tapestry. “Who might an Alvarynn carrying wine be looking for in this hall?”

  Serena stepped between the nobles with careful, quiet steps, scanning the crowd until her eyes met Edmund’s. Her expression brightened with relief, unaware of the stares tightening around her like a net. She approached and stopped at a respectful distance. “Greetings… Your Highness.”

  Edmund instinctively shifted to go to her, but Aristide’s small nudge reminded him of the custom: the host does not step toward a servant in the middle of a diplomatic gathering. Serena wasn’t a servant though, but the nobles were not aware of that, so he remained where he was, tense. “Wh-why are you here, Serena?”

  “Someone forgot this bottle… from the pantry,” she explained softly. “I came… to hand it over.”

  A subtle flicker crossed Nicolas’s face, his smile thinning, his amber eyes sharpening with cold fury. “You… came from the pantry?”

  Serena nodded.

  Nicolas lifted his nearly empty glass without looking away from her. “Attendant,” he called, his voice slicing through the air. A servant hurried forward and took his glass while Nicolas addressed the prince. “Your Highness, Prince Edmund,” he said, each word measured. “Am I correct to assume this young Alvarynn has been within the pantry, or its vicinity, since the banquet began?”

  Edmund’s heartbeat hammered.

  Should I lie? If I do, how will she explain the bottle? If I don’t…

  Renault stepped forward, voice firm. “Honorable Count, this Alvarynn was—”

  “She was,” Edmund cut in quietly.

  Nicolas tilted his head. “I’m sorry… I did not hear you.”

  Edmund’s jaw tightened. “She was there. In the opposite wing. Celebrating with the servants.”

  A murmur rippled through the nearby nobles.

  “Preposterous,” Ambassador Vincent muttered. “You mean to say—”

  “You had us share our meal,” Nicolas interrupted, his voice rising, “with this… this thing?”

  Serena flinched. She instinctively stepped back, her eyes darting between Edmund and Nicolas, confusion and fear swirling in them. “Did… did I do something wrong? I know… I wasn’t meant… to be here, but—”

  “So,” Nicolas said, turning on her fully, furious, “you do know where you belong, yet still, you assumed you could enter this hall and—”

  “She belongs here,” Edmund said, cutting Nicolas off.

  “Edmund,” Aristide whispered urgently, grabbing his brother’s arm.

  Edmund pulled free. “This palace is her home as much as it is ours,” he declared.

  Nicolas turned toward him with cold civility. “Highness, we are speaking of an Alvarynn, mingling freely among us.”

  “I don’t see the problem, Lord Nicolas,” Edmund replied.

  Nicolas lowered his gaze, shaking his head slowly. “Prince Edmund, they do not belong here. And I believe it is not in your best interest to—”

  “I don’t care anymore,” Edmund said, louder than before. The hall went still. He stepped in front of Serena, placing himself squarely between her and Nicolas. His throat tightened. His legs trembled beneath polished boots, but he didn’t move away. His voice was trembling, but his conviction was firm “She is my friend, and she saved my life! If your customs demand I forget those… then keep your customs to yourself!”

  A ripple of shock passed through the nobles. Nicolas lifted his chin, eyes narrowing with venomous restraint. “Majesty, it appears your son—”

  “Is correct,” Renault interjected, his tone calm but iron-hard. “Customs exist to show respect. But if that respect is demanded at the cost of another’s, then perhaps said custom is unworthy of being upheld.”

  Nicolas’s eyes flickered, a crack in his composure. “I see. Then allow me to say… I was mistaken to believe you had preserved your roots.”

  He turned his glare upon Edmund. “She may have saved your life, Your Highness,” he whispered, his voice like a serpent in tall grass. “But that does not change what she is.”

  Edmund’s spine straightened. “She doesn’t have to. Not for me, nor for anyone.”

  A long, suffocating second passed. Nicolas finally inclined his head. His smile vanished. “Very well. My lords, it seems the prince has made his choice. “Let us take our leave.”

  He bowed stiffly to Renault, and as he turned, several nobles followed, Ambassador Vincent among them, forming a small exodus toward the doors.

  Serena’s gaze trembled. “Highness… are they leaving… because of me?”

  Edmund drew a slow breath, forcing his fury down, and shook his head. “No,” he said gently. “They’re not leaving because of you.”

  “They’re full,” Oswald interjected with an easy smile, stepping forward. “And could not remain standing any longer.”

  Edmund turned at once.

  “Well said, Highness. Majesty,” Oswald continued, inclining his head respectfully to father and son. “To abandon one’s principles is to betray oneself. I suppose the Count simply could not bear the weight of yours.”

  “Ambassador Oswald,” Edmund murmured, “thank you.”

  Oswald waved it off lightly before turning to the nobles who remained. “Well then! The Count and his companions have taken their leave. What say we honor Prince Edmund properly?”

  He lifted his glass high. “A toast, my friends!”

  A ripple of agreement swept through the hall.

  “A toast to His Highness’s coming of age!” Oswald declared. “A toast to remember!”

  “A toast to remember!” the nobles echoed together, glasses raised, crystal chiming beneath the light.

  Aristide’s shoulders loosened at last, a hand pressed to his chest in relief. Renault stepped forward, resting a steady hand on Edmund’s shoulder. A quiet, wordless affirmation. The music seemed to have resumed.

  Serena approached as well, bowing gently. “Happy birthday… Prince Edmund,” she said, her voice small but clear in the midst of the celebration.

  Edmund’s expression softened, And on that night, with the echoes of crystal and conviction rising beneath the chandeliers, Edmund won his first victory as heir, not by blade or boldness, but by the strength of his virtue.