Raiden Alaric

  Ella hadn’t said a word. She stood perfectly still, posture composed, hands loosely clasped in front of her like she was carved out of calm itself. But I’d been around her long enough to see the signs.

  The slight tension in her jaw. The way her gaze tracked her mother without fully locking on.

  The stillness, not the relaxed kind, but the managed kind. The kind of stillness you maintain when moving might make something crack.

  My eyes drifted to Yrathea.

  She didn’t glance at Ella. Didn’t acknowledge her daughters at all, really. Just glided forward with that same distant grace, like the crowd around her wasn’t worth noticing, like she wasn’t here for anyone in the room, only for the moment itself.

  And suddenly I had a theory. Maybe it wasn’t just politics. Maybe the arranged marriage wasn’t some sect-orchestrated power play. Maybe it came from her. From Yrathea.

  I didn’t know the whole story, and I wasn’t about to guess at pieces I didn’t have… but I knew enough to make a decision.

  So I stayed. Where Ella moved, I moved. If she stepped left, I followed casually. If she took a slow breath and shifted to the side, I mirrored her pace. Not looming. Not leading. Just present.

  She noticed. Of course she did. She didn’t say anything, but her shoulders eased, just a little. I didn’t do it to make a point. Not for appearances. Not for romance. I just didn’t want her to stand there alone.

  Not with that woman walking the room like a ghost people were pretending not to fear. Whatever was going on behind Ella’s mask, it wasn’t nothing. And if she needed a buffer between that and whatever came next, I’d be that wall. Quietly. Unapologetically.

  Ruvyn and Yrathea began to move through the crowd.

  Not aimlessly, intentionally. Every step was deliberate. Every nod, every handshake, every politely worded “We’ve heard so much about you” was rehearsed down to muscle memory. A soft smile here, a curt nod there.

  Lord Ruvyn was methodical, precise. His words were short, efficient, and carefully measured to convey just enough politeness without promising a single thing.

  Lady Yrathea was… a different kind of masterclass.

  She didn’t just greet people, she assessed them. Her words were few, but every glance was sharp, every touch of her hand a calculated gesture. She offered no warmth, but no offense either. Just that cold, impossible-to-read elegance that made even the most self-important noble straighten their spine and second-guess their own worth.

  They worked the room like a political machine. And through all of it, they skipped over the obvious.

  Their daughters.

  Ruvyn and Yrathea continued their circuit of strategic small talk, making their way through the sea of names, titles, and ambitions. Handshakes were exchanged like contracts, smiles delivered with the same weight as negotiations. The two daughters of the house? Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

  Of course.

  From the side, Illya rejoined us with a wine glass in hand and that signature air of amused detachment. She took a sip, sighed like she’d just come back from surviving a war waged entirely with passive aggression, and settled in next to us like we were just watching a play unfold in real time.

  “They’re still pretending we’re not here,” Ella muttered.

  “Obviously,” Illya said, swirling her glass. “You can’t give the good stuff away early. The performance has to build. Save the family for the final act so it feels like a payoff.”

  “I guess child neglect is common amongst the noble class,” I muttered.

  Illya smirked. Ella didn’t. She was still holding her posture a little too well. Calm, but the kind of calm that had effort behind it.

  I leaned in slightly, keeping my voice low.

  “Rich people stereotypes just keep proving themselves, huh? At this point I expect them to spit at the ground if I don’t hold this glass right.” I lifted the empty stem I’d been nursing. “Illya, some assistance please, how’s my form?”

  Illya nearly choked on her wine.

  “Wrist is decent,” she said, eyeing it critically. “But your pinky’s a disgrace however.”

  “I knew it,” I said, shaking my head in defeat. “I’m gonna be blacklisted from brunch.”

  Ella didn’t laugh, but her lips twitched. Just slightly. Like she was trying not to. That was enough. I stayed close. Not hovering. Not announcing anything. Just moving when she moved. Because if she was going to stand through this performance, I’d make sure she didn’t have to do it alone.

  The murmurs of the room had begun to pick up again, but I could feel it, the shift. They were coming.

  Ruvyn and Yrathea made their way through the final stretch of guests, each interaction just long enough to maintain appearances, but short enough to suggest something, or someone, more important was waiting. That someone is now us.

  Ruvyn reached us first, his posture pristine, expression unreadable. He carried the weight of a man used to being listened to, and somehow managed to make his stillness feel heavier than most people’s movements.

  Yrathea followed beside him, silent and perfectly poised.

  "Illyari. Elenari,” Ruvyn greeted, with the faintest nod. “You both look well."

  Nicknames? Truenames? I don't understand high elf culture…

  Illya lifted her glass in lazy salute. “Feeling well too. It’s almost suspicious.”

  Ella mirrored the nod. “Father.”

  Yrathea didn’t speak. She simply stood there, her presence sharp and elegant, her expression impossible to read. Almost as if acknowledging her daughters now would somehow lessen the impact of whatever conversation she planned to have later.

  Then Ruvyn turned to me. “Raiden Alaric.”

  His voice was polite, measured. Not cold. Not warm. Just... diplomatic.

  Are hugs illegal?

  “We’re glad you accepted the invitation.”

  I inclined my head just enough to be respectful without seeming stiff. “Would’ve been rude to turn it down.”

  I'm here for the show~

  Ruvyn studied me for a breath longer than was necessary. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you. Enough to pique my interest.”

  I resisted the urge to make a joke. Barely.

  “Hopefully only the flattering parts,” I said, tone easy. “But I won’t hold my breath.”

  His lips twitched. Not a smile. Just the ghost of one.

  “Let’s say the reports were... mixed. I prefer to make my own evaluations.”

  Fair enough.

  Yrathea’s gaze moved to me then. Her eyes, pale, precise, and utterly still, swept across me like I was a painting someone wasn’t sure matched the walls. She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t offer a greeting. Just observed.

  I didn’t flinch.

  She looked me over the same way she’d looked at the room when she entered, as though determining whether I was a detail to be acknowledged… or ignored.

  After a long, assessing pause, she simply said, “You seem... comfortable.”

  I nodded, keeping my tone light. “First time in a noble skybox. I figured I should at least pretend I belong.”

  A faint hum in the back of her throat. Not agreement. Not amusement. Just… a reaction.

  Ruvyn cleared his throat lightly, reclaiming the moment.

  “We’ll speak more later,” he said. His eyes shifted briefly to Ella, measuring, watchful. Again, nothing accusatory. Just the way a man stares at a chessboard before making his next move.

  Then, without another word, they turned and walked into a private room. From what I could tell it was soundproof so they were probably going to talk about what to do with me depending on how the day goes. The space they left behind felt heavier for a moment, like gravity took a breath and hadn’t quite exhaled.

  Illya tossed back the rest of her wine and sighed. “Gods. I need another drink.”

  Ella said nothing. Her grip on the glass in her hand was just a little too tight. I casually reached to the side table and swapped it out with a fresh one. No words. Just the gesture.

  She took it without looking at me. But she didn’t let go of it too quickly this time, either.

  The quiet between us held for a beat longer, stretched thin by the murmurs and movement of the nobles settling back into their seats.

  Then, as if on cue, the arena lights dimmed, followed by a brilliant pulse of blue that rippled across the overhead sky-canvas.

  A voice boomed out across the chamber. Dramatic. Echoing.

  “ROUND ONE: BATTLE OVER THE DEEP!”

  The energy shifted. Not the political tension kind. The good kind. The fight kind.

  I looked up just as the arena floor began to shift and open, revealing a massive obstacle course suspended over dark water, rotating platforms and chain bridges beginning to move as mechanical groans echoed through the space.

  I eased back into my seat, letting my mind switch gears. The weight of the earlier conversation didn’t vanish, but it tucked itself into the back corner of my head where things waited until I was ready to deal with them.

  And right now?

  Right now there was carnage to watch. A few seats down, someone dropped into the chair beside me without a word. High elf. Didn’t stand out. Pale flaxen hair. Modest green jacket. No crest. No aura of self-importance like the others. He just sat in the chair, hugging his legs and watched with interest.

  He didn’t look at me.

  Just stared at the arena like the fight was already happening in his head. And somehow, without even meaning to, we both leaned forward at the same time.

  The match had begun. The arena exploded with motion the second the signal flared.

  Fifteen students dropped into chaos, no teams, no rules beyond “stay above water and don’t die trying.” The platforms were scattered in uneven clusters above the shimmering pool, shifting in real time like a puzzle built to sabotage confidence.

  I leaned forward as the first few fighters moved.

  One bolted ahead immediately, grey gi, light bandolier, straightforward posture.

  “Rookie mistake,” I muttered.

  The guy beside me glanced over. “You see it too?”

  “His weight’s too far forward. He’s overcommitting to speed—no lateral balance.”

  Sure enough, as the student reached the central platform, another fighter came from the left, launched off a spinning bar, legs tucked into a tight roll, and dropkicked the guy clean into the water.

  “Textbook overextension,” I said. “Didn’t even check his flanks.”

  “Should’ve taken the high route,” the guy next to me murmured. “Safer repositioning.”

  I nodded but kept my eyes locked on the flow. I wasn’t just watching now, I was mapping.

  A twin-spear user leapt across three unstable tiles with minimal movement. Each landing absorbed just enough impact to keep them from tilting. Her footwork was surgical, perfect center of gravity.

  “She’s baiting,” I said. “Drawing someone in.”

  From above, another student with wrist-mounted gauntlets fired a burst of blunt projectiles.

  She pivoted, blocked the first two, and then—

  “She’s going to cut the line.”

  I saw it. In the slight step she took to her right. The pause. The angle of her blade hand.

  She slashed. The wire holding the spinning platform snapped, sending two nearby fighters off-balance, one fell instantly, the other managed to cling to the edge.

  “She used the pressure to isolate the middle zone,” I muttered.

  “Your reads are good,” the guy beside me said. He wasn’t smiling, but his tone was impressed.

  I didn’t respond. I was in it now.

  There, at the far corner, a smaller student was using the support chains. Not flashy. Not drawing attention. Quiet steps. Clean rhythm.

  “They’re not overwhelmed,” I said. “They’re scouting. See the line they’re tracing? It leads under the main hub.”

  The high elf beside me narrowed his eyes. “They’re going to flank whoever survives the mid-clash.”

  A second later, that’s exactly what happened. The central skirmish turned brutal, three fighters dogpiling on each other. The sneaky student burst from beneath the platform and bodied a spear-wielder straight into the drink.

  “I CALLED IT,” I said, grinning.

  My seat-neighbor gave a low, approving exhale. “You’ve got an eye for rhythm.”

  “Something like that,” I said. “People repeat themselves more than they think.”

  And it was true. The longer I watched, the clearer it all became. Movements. Mistakes. Patterns. One student led with her left leg every time she attacked. Another took half a second longer to recover after a block. Someone had a habit of glancing twice before committing to a jump, an unconscious tell.

  They were telegraphing themselves, and my brain was already cataloging it all.

  Not to copy. Just to understand. To copy I'd need to watch it over and over again or actually experience it.

  I didn’t even notice I’d leaned halfway out of my chair until the guy next to me said, “You aren’t watching like everyone else are you? You’re trying to read the match.”

  I smirked. “Bad habit.”

  His eyes stayed on the fight, but there was something calculating behind them now too. Then the room shifted.

  The kind of subtle pull you only notice when a storm walks in wearing a suit.

  “Apologies for the delay,” came a voice from the entrance, smooth and infuriatingly confident.

  Finally, the guest of honor has arrived~

  The air changed immediately. Tension coated the laughter. Posture shifted. People smiled harder, like they were trying to show teeth without showing fear.

  I leaned back, pulling my focus away from the arena just long enough to mutter, “Every party’s got one guy who walks in late and acts like gravity’s his invention.”

  The high elf beside me didn’t laugh, but his lips curved the tiniest bit.

  “You know him?” I asked, glancing sideways.

  “I know of him,” he said.

  Just like that, the vibe was gone. But the match wasn’t over.

  Neither was whatever this was between me and this quiet, sharp-eyed elf who seemed to enjoy reading fights just as much as I did.

  Ella quietly approached a few minutes later, slipping into the seat beside me like she couldn’t risk being anywhere else. Illya followed behind her, posture relaxed but eyes still scanning the room like she was waiting for someone to breathe wrong. As well as keeping an eye on our dear Herbert.

  Ella said nothing. She just sat, glass still in hand, breathing just a little too evenly. The arena roared beneath us, cheers, crashes, the occasional splash, but none of it touched her. She kept thinking about something, and it was enough to basically whiteout her eyes.

  I glanced down. Her fingers were trembling ever so slightly, barely visible against the rim of her glass.

  Without thinking, I slid my hand over hers. Not tight. Not forceful. Just there. She flinched at first. Then exhaled. Slow. Measured. The tremble stopped. She didn’t look at me, but she didn’t pull away either.

  I listened to Herbert’s footsteps as he made his way to that private room where Ella’s parents were.

  Seems like he isn’t going to start anything yet…

  I didn’t say anything, but I figured a distraction wouldn’t hurt. I turned to the elf beside me, still seated with the same casual stillness, hands folded, eyes on the fight like he’d been studying it his entire life.

  “I never got your name,” I said.

  He looked over at me, expression calm. “Ivander.”

  “Ivander,” I repeated. “Alright, help me out—what kind of food are they serving here? Because I’m one sip away from chewing this napkin.”

  He gave the faintest shrug. “Standard noble fare. Decorative portions. Unnecessary foam. But the baked goods are… surprisingly respectable.”

  “Oh?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Do they take requests? For actual food I mean.”

  “They do,” he said. “We’re considered VIPs. You can submit orders or some instances you can cater.”

  A spark lit in my brain. “Well now I have to.”

  I scanned the room and spotted an attendant gliding past with a tray of jewel-toned drinks balanced like she was born doing it. I flagged her down with a slight gesture and, when she stepped closer, leaned in and whispered a very specific set of instructions. She nodded silently and vanished into the back halls.

  Ella blinked. “What… did you just do?”

  Ivander tilted his head slightly, the barest sign of curiosity. “Should I be concerned?”

  “You’ll see,” I said, leaning back like I hadn’t just activated a side quest. “Just consider it my humble contribution to the noble viewing experience.”

  Illya gave me a look. “If a flaming pastry cannon goes off mid-round, I’m blaming you.”

  “I’d take the credit,” I said. “But that’s actually plan B.”

  They all gave me a questioning stare.

  They'll all see.

  The match was still going strong, someone had just face-planted into a spinning pole, but my attention was stolen by the sudden, unmistakable sound of wheels on tile.

  Two attendants appeared, one behind the other, each pushing a cart loaded to the brim with… well, not drinks.

  The first cart carried a portable griddle, already preheated and gleaming like it had been scrubbed by a team of chefs in record time. Next to it was a tray of raw ground beef, rice, shredded cheese, several unopened blocks of cheese, I noted cheddar, gouda, and something pale and suspiciously fancy, along with iceberg lettuce, tomatoes, onions, cilantro, limes, and a mountain of tortilla chips.

  Is there avacad— ah yes there is.

  There were some other various things as well but I only pointed out the main things I’d need. Mostly just in case I needed to improvise. I have noble’s all around me that would take any opportunity to throw me a curve ball.

  Stacked neatly beside it were bowls, a griddle spatula, a sharp chef’s knife, cutting boards, and a roll of towels like this was a live demo about to be judged by nobles with clipboards.

  The second cart came rolling in with a full set of seasonings, more utensils, stacks of silverware, and, because why not, a Crock-Pot filled with steaming milk and already beginning to melt cheese cubes inside.

  I rubbed my hands together like a cartoon villain about to monologue.

  “Oh, yes,” I whispered.

  That caught some attention.

  A few nobles sitting nearby glanced over. Then a few more. Voices dropped to murmurs. People started tapping the shoulders of the ones next to them. One guy two rows down visibly squinted at the array like he’d misread reality.

  Ella’s brow furrowed hard. “Raiden…?”

  Even Illya leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “What in the realms is this?”

  I didn’t look at either of them. Just smiled, stepped up to the cart, and said the only words necessary.

  “Leave this to me.”

  Ella stared. “Just what are you planning here?”

  “Nothing I’m doing is illegal,” I said, while washing my hands near the bar. “It’s just morally chaotic.”

  Ivander, ever calm, just said, “You’re going to cook?”

  “Obviously.”

  “For us?”

  “For everyone who can handle greatness,” I said.

  He gave a thoughtful nod, watching with the same analytical focus he gave the match. “This… will be interesting.”

  And from the subtle rise in the room’s volume, it was clear the rest of the noble box agreed. They just didn’t know if they were about to witness a disaster… or the beginning of a legend.

  Ella Vel’areis

  Raiden rolled up his sleeves. That was the first red flag.

  Not because it was particularly ominous on its own, he wasn’t flexing or grandstanding. It was the way he did it. Calm. Routine. Like he was about to take a test he’d already passed a hundred times.

  Then he turned to one of the attendants and, with complete sincerity, asked, “Mind if I borrow your apron?”

  She blinked, looked down at herself, then back at him. “...My apron?”

  “Yes your apron, I promise to make you something as well.”

  Somehow, she handed it over without a word. And just like that, Raiden tied it around his waist like he’d been waiting for the cue all day.

  Oh no.

  He wasn’t joking. He was actually going to cook.

  The carts he’d summoned were now fully on display: a griddle, trays of raw ground beef, an entire lineup of vegetables, shredded cheese, blocks of other cheeses, and steaming rice. Gouda, cheddar, I even saw something with herbs pressed into the rind. Tortilla chips. Seasonings. Bowls. A Crock-Pot of melted cheese bubbling like it had been summoned by prophecy.

  Raiden stood at the center of it all like some kind of king.

  “What... are you doing?” I finally managed to ask.

  He didn’t even look at me. He was too busy dicing tomatoes then seamlessly transitioning to dicing onions like some long-forgotten kitchen deity had just possessed him.

  “I said you can leave this to me,” he said, flashing a grin that somehow made the apron look like battle armor.

  “You’re cooking,” I said flatly.

  “Yes.”

  “In a Skyhaven Sect private viewing box.”

  “Yes.”

  “For nobles.”

  “Still yes.”

  Illya leaned over me, resting her chin on my shoulder, to get a better look. “Okay, now I have to see where this goes.”

  And so we watched as Raiden, with the casual ease of someone who absolutely should not be this comfortable under scrutiny, sautéed onions and beef on a portable griddle while cheese melted nearby and cilantro was being minced.

  The smell hit first, rich, spiced, unfairly appetizing. A few nobles nearby turned. Then a few more.

  By the time the beef was sizzling and he started layering nachos onto silver serving trays like they were sacred offerings, the entire room had subtly shifted toward him. Conversations slowed. Attention dragged. People were watching him, not out of mockery, but because no one knew what the hell was going on and they couldn’t look away.

  Ivander, seated on Raiden’s other side, watched it all with that same unreadable calm. But even he looked mildly impressed.

  “You’re really going to feed all of them,” I said, not even trying to keep the disbelief out of my voice.

  “That’s the plan,” Raiden said, flipping a spatula in one hand and sprinkling lime zest over a rice bowl with the other. “Hope they brought appetites… and humility.”

  Illya nudged me, smirking. “I don’t know what game he’s playing, but he’s absolutely winning.”

  I didn’t respond. Because deep down, I knew she was right. Somehow, again, Raiden was doing the impossible: making chaos look like control, making rebellion look like hospitality, and turning nobles with centuries of ego into an audience.

  And all it took was an apron, a griddle, and a mountain of nachos.

  I was starting to realize that Raiden wasn’t planning on being a diplomat. He was planning on getting to everyone’s hearts, through their stomachs.

  Raiden, meanwhile, had already grabbed two bowls.

  He filled the first with a bed of rice, then layered in freshly cooked beef, diced tomato, grilled peppers, a pinch of sharp cheddar, and a squeeze of lime. Not too much. Just enough.

  The second was a perfectly balanced nacho stack, golden, crisp, drizzled with queso, seasoned beef, and a bit of cilantro for garnish.

  Then he walked over and held them out.

  One for me. One for Illya.

  “Ladies first,” he said smoothly. “Gotta make sure my girlfriend eats well... and that her sister doesn’t murder me in front of a crowd.”

  Illya took hers with both hands, beaming like he’d just passed her a crown. “You really know how to treat a lady. You’re wasting yourself on Ella.”

  I shot Illya a glare before I took mine in stunned silence. It was warm. Aromatic. Balanced. And probably illegal, considering how good it smelled.

  He turned back toward the griddle without missing a beat, already scooping another spoonful of cheese into a fresh bowl.

  Illya leaned into me again and whispered, “Okay. He just earned a lot of brownie points for this.”

  I didn’t say anything. Because I was too busy trying to figure out when he’d learned to read me so well. And why it felt so easy to let him.

  Is it because of how close we had gotten over the past few years?

  The smell of seared beef and smoked spices clung to the air like a charm spell gone rogue. Nobles were starting to hover now, casual-like, of course. Wouldn’t want to look desperate while chasing the scent of garlic-laced glory.

  Raiden, meanwhile, looked like he was in his element. Focused. Confident. A little smug. And for reasons I didn’t have the strength to unpack, the rolled-up sleeves and apron combo was… unfair.

  Absolutely unfair.

  He was flipping patties like a certain sponge under the sea, brow slightly furrowed in concentration, lips quirking at the corners like he knew exactly how ridiculous this all looked and had decided to double down anyway.

  And I hated, hated, that it looked good on him.

  Illya, seated beside me with a plate of fully loaded nachos in her lap, didn’t even bother being subtle.

  “You know,” she said, spooning a perfectly balanced bite into her mouth, “he really does wear that apron well.”

  I didn’t respond. That was my first mistake.

  She glanced sideways, grin slowly blooming. “Oh no. You thought so too.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Exactly.” Her eyes sparkled with delight. “That’s the problem.”

  I stared at the arena like the match was still the most important thing happening in the room.

  “You should ask him to cook for you sometime,” Illya said casually, stretching her legs out in front of her. “Privately. Shirtless. Maybe some music.”

  “I will drown you in that arena,” I muttered under my breath.

  “I’d be honored, if I get to see him like that first.” she replied with a wink.

  I dared a glance back at Raiden. He’d just handed a plate to another noble, cool as ever, then immediately turned to check on the cheese dip without missing a beat.

  Illya leaned in just slightly and whispered, “It’s okay. You’re allowed to thirst respectfully. Also it’s his 18th birthday, he deserves an ego boost.”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  I didn’t answer, because she wasn’t wrong, mostly… okay maybe a little more… Okay fine she isn’t wrong.

  The scent was starting to take prisoners.

  I saw at least four nobles standing a little closer than they had any right to, trying not to look too interested while absolutely tracking every flick of Raiden’s spatula. A few attendants were exchanging glances too, probably wondering if they were even allowed to want any.

  Then, finally, someone broke the unspoken standoff.

  A tall elf with silk-lined cuffs and a voice that definitely charged by the syllable cleared his throat.

  “I must say, this is… novel. Though I’m afraid I can’t partake.” He said it like he was rejecting swamp water. “Vegetables upset my aura rhythm. I prefer something more—how shall I say—traditional. A proper meat dish.”

  That was Grade A bullshit. High Elves have a very well balanced diet. I’ve never heard of vegetables affecting anyone negatively.

  Raiden didn’t blink.

  “Say less,” he replied, already forming something in his hands.

  Before the noble could even scoff properly, Raiden reached into a bowl, grabbed a chunk of raw beef, and started forming it into a patty with calm, practiced efficiency. He sprinkled a mix of dark spices into the middle, folded it into the meat, and rolled it once between his palms.

  Then came the sizzle. The moment the patty hit the hot griddle, the air got heavier. Smokier. Better.

  Illya made a noise that was probably involuntary.

  I just stared as Raiden casually flicked oil across the surface, pressing the edges of the patty with the spatula and humming to himself like this was some kind of meditative ritual.

  The noble blinked. “You’re making me a burger.”

  “Incorrect,” Raiden said, not looking up. “I’m making you the burger.”

  He dropped a slice of cheddar across the top, then another, this one Gouda. He then dipped his fingers in a bowl of water, cupped his fingers and tossed a splash of water around the burger, steam rising. Next he covered it with a small cloche dome the staff had probably never expected to see used like this.

  “Give that ninety seconds,” he added, straightening the lettuce and tomato like a surgeon. “Then I’ll introduce you to your new personality.”

  Illya nudged me again. “Am I seeing this right?”

  “He’s wearing an apron,” I muttered, “and somehow winning a political power play with nachos.”

  Ivander chuckled. Actually chuckled.

  “I’ve seen people duel for influence,” he said. “But this is a first.”

  The dome lifted with a puff of aromatic steam.

  The cheese had melted just enough to cascade down the sides. Raiden slid the burger onto a toasted bun, added a crunch of lettuce, a whisper of tomato, and topped it with the kind of precision that felt… disrespectful to every five-star chef in existence.

  Then he held it out. The noble took it, hesitantly. As if it might bite him back.

  One bite later, and his eyes widened just enough to betray every insult he’d been planning to make. He walked away without saying another word.

  Illya let out a slow, amazed breath. “Ella, you are planning on keeping him around yes?”

  I didn’t answer right away.

  Illya was still grinning like a cat who’d just discovered the cream vault. I refused to look at her, or him. Especially him. But I made the mistake of glancing back anyway.

  Raiden caught it. Of course he did.

  He turned just slightly from the griddle, spatula in hand, apron perfectly fitted, and flashed us the kind of smile that should’ve been illegal in at least three realms.

  “I know I look good in an apron, ladies,” he said, loud enough for nearby nobles to hear. “But I gave you your dishes already. I’m not on the menu today. Wait until happy hour.”

  My soul left my body.

  Illya let out a choked laugh mid-bite. “I’m sorry—what?”

  He winked. Actually winked.

  Illya clapped slowly like she was witnessing high art. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind knowing when happy hour is.”

  Raiden flipped a patty with unnecessary flair. “What can I say? Presentation is half the meal.”

  I sank slightly into my seat, silently questioning every life decision that led to this moment.

  A few more nobles gathered near the back, drawn in by the smell and, now, the spectacle. One of them tried to offer a few compliments. Raiden thanked them with a smile and handed over another perfectly constructed beef bowl like it was part of a sacred ritual.

  He didn’t break eye contact with me when he said, “You know, there’s a popular saying... ‘Kiss the cook,’ was it?”

  Illya damn near dropped her plate. I went very, very still.

  “That’s... not happening,” I managed to say, voice tight.

  Raiden turned back to the grill, shoulders shaking slightly. “Didn’t say it had to. Just quoting the classics.”

  Illya leaned in, absolutely beaming. “Ella, you’re turning pink.”

  “I will flip this table.”

  “You won’t. You’re too stunned. He apron-flirted you into silence.”

  I covered my face with one hand and muttered, “I should’ve left when I had the chance.”

  But deep down, somewhere under the embarrassment and smoke and cheese, I felt the tension in my chest had loosened just a bit.

  He knew exactly what he was doing.

  “I mean, if you won’t kiss the chef I will.” She winked.

  I turned to Illya, “That window can be broken if I throw a Violet Ranked harlot at it hard enough.”

  I looked down at the bowl in my lap. He hadn’t even asked what I wanted. But somehow, it was exactly right.

  A bed of soft, steaming rice, fluffy but firm, layered with that sizzling, freshly cooked beef he’d seasoned like he had a vendetta. Diced tomatoes, grilled peppers, a pinch of sharp cheddar, and just a whisper of lime. Not too much. Just enough to brighten it without turning the whole thing sour.

  I picked up the fork and hesitated. Just for a second.

  Then I took the first bite. Warm. Rich. Balanced.

  The beef was perfect, savory, a little spicy, and soaked in the flavor of the grilled onions and seasoning he’d thrown in without measuring. The rice caught it all, grounding the bite. The tomatoes added a burst of freshness, the peppers that soft, smoky char. The cheddar didn’t overpower, just cut through everything with the exact sharpness it needed. And the lime lifted it.

  I chewed slowly. Raiden hadn’t just made food. He’d made comfort. On a plate. In a war zone of egos and expectations. And the craziest part is that I felt better. I hated that it did. Not because it wasn’t good, but because it made me realize just how tense I was.

  Raiden… he did this for me, didn’t he?

  I swallowed and blinked down at the bowl, lips pressed together in an expression that definitely wasn’t an almost-smile.

  “You like it?” Illya asked, her voice as innocent as a fox in a henhouse.

  I didn’t look up. “It’s fine.”

  “Uh-huh.” She took another bite of her nachos, clearly enjoying every second of this. “You’re totally not in love. Very convincing.”

  I stabbed another bite. “Keep talking and I’ll put cilantro in your wine.”

  Illya snorted. Across from us, Raiden glanced back just long enough to catch my eye. He didn’t say anything. But he smiled. Just a little. And I, unfortunately, didn’t hate it.

  However I can’t deny, it was so good it nearly made me forget the absurdity of where I was eating it.

  Nearly.

  Then the energy in the room shifted. Not the same as earlier, when Raiden stole attention with a spatula and a smirk. This was the other kind of shift. The political kind.

  Conversations didn’t stop, they just sharpened. Postures straightened. People adjusted their expressions mid-bite. I didn’t need to look up to know who had just arrived. But I did anyway and there they were.

  Vaelik Thorne Brightmoor, dressed like he owned the sky, walking three steps ahead of my father and my mother. Ruvyn’s face was as unreadable as ever. Yrathea's was stone, but her eyes swept the room like she was already evaluating who had disappointed her today.

  And Vaelik, walked with the kind of poise that made it clear he thought he belonged here more than the furniture.

  They entered mid-display leaving the private room they were just in.

  Nobles holding plates. Raiden by the griddle, apron on, calmly spooning cheese over a tower of tortilla chips while talking with Ivander like they were planning a takeover.

  It was a scene and all three of them saw it.

  Vaelik’s stride faltered. Only slightly. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed just a fraction. My mother said nothing. My father’s gaze moved across the box, noting everything. The smell of beef and toasted spices still hung thick in the air.

  Illya leaned closer to me and whispered under her breath, “And now the show starts.”

  Raiden looked up. Saw them, and didn’t flinch.

  He just raised an eyebrow, then turned back to the griddle like they were just three more guests who’d arrived late to dinner.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or panic. Possibly both.

  They hadn’t even fully stepped into the room before Vaelik opened his mouth.

  “Raiden Alaric,” he said smoothly, voice dipped in the usual artificial charm. “It’s surprising to see you’ve taken on the role of—”

  “Lady Vel’aeris,” Raiden said suddenly, voice rising just enough to overtake him, “what would you like?”

  Yrathea paused.

  It was the kind of pause that could split a room in half. Her eyes, sharp and unreadable, flicked toward Raiden without a word.

  Vaelik blinked, visibly taken aback by the interruption.

  “I wasn’t finished,” he said, tone tight, controlled.

  Raiden didn’t even look at him. “Ladies first,” he said simply, calmly. “Be patient.”

  There was no bite in it. No mockery. Just that maddening calm he always had when he was ahead of the curve and knew it.

  The silence that followed was immediate. Even the nobles closest to the food froze mid-chew.

  Illya’s eyes widened slightly. Then she bit her lip like she’d just seen someone light a match next to a powder keg.

  Even Father turned his head slightly, just enough to take in the tension between Raiden and Vaelik with that cold, analytical interest he reserved for formal duels and closed council debates.

  My mother didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. But she did speak.

  “…Cheese,” she said coolly. “Sharp. With tomato and beef. No garnish.”

  Raiden nodded. “Coming right up.”

  And that was it.

  He turned back to the griddle, flipped a half-formed patty onto the hotplate, and sliced tomato with practiced, effortless precision. Like this wasn’t a political standoff. Like he wasn’t cooking for Yrathea Vel’aeris while snubbing a Brightmoor in front of half the noble sector.

  Vaelik, for once, had no words.

  Illya leaned over, whispering with a grin, “I don’t know whether to kiss him or knight him.”

  I said nothing. Mostly because I was too busy trying not to smile.

  Yrathea didn’t speak again, not as Raiden finished her dish, not as he plated it with care that felt almost surgical.

  He layed some tortilla chips down at the bottom of the bowl, then layered the sharp cheddar over the beef while it was still sizzling. A single tomato slice, placed precisely. No garnish. No frills.

  Exactly what she asked for.

  He lifted the plate, turned, and handed it to her like it was no more significant than passing a napkin. But he met her eyes and held them. Just for a moment. No smirk. No smile. Just that infuriating calm.

  My mother took the plate without flinching. No nod. No thanks. But she didn’t look away either.

  She held his gaze, a silent exchange I couldn’t read, but felt. Something in the air tightened for a breath. Like a string pulled taut between two people who had no reason to acknowledge each other, but did anyway. Then she broke the contact. Gracefully, she turned and walked to her seat.

  Vaelik, still standing stiff beside my father, looked like someone had just pulled the rug out from under his entire plan and done it with condiments.

  Illya leaned over and whispered, “She didn’t reject it.”

  “She didn’t do anything,” I whispered back.

  “Exactly,” she said, eyes still locked on Yrathea. “Which means it got to her. He has her attention now.”

  I turned to watch.

  My mother didn’t rush. She didn’t look flustered. But she did lift the first chip with deliberate care, placed it into her mouth, and bit down.

  The crunch was deafening in my ears. She chewed. Swallowed. And said absolutely nothing.

  But she kept eating. Slow and controlled as if something else needs her full focus. But she kept going. Which, from her, might as well have been a standing ovation.

  I glanced back at Raiden. He was already plating someone else’s order, moving on like none of it mattered. But I saw the flicker in his eyes as he looked over, just long enough to check. He knew. And he was satisfied.

  Raiden Alaric

  Was it petty? Yes.

  Was it calculated? Also yes.

  But I couldn’t help the bit of pride that curled in my chest as I watched Yrathea Vel’aeris, the ice queen herself, sit down with a plate I made and actually eat it.

  She hadn’t complimented it. Hadn’t acknowledged me. I expected as much, but she hadn’t rejected it either. She’d taken it and she’d stayed. Now she was sitting there, composed as ever, eating something I cooked like it didn’t mean anything.

  But I knew better. People like her didn’t allow scenes unless they wanted something. And right now she wanted to see what I’d do next. So I gave her nothing. No smirk. No gloating.

  Just a perfectly timed pivot back to the griddle and a fresh scoop of sizzling beef that told the entire room I hadn’t broken a sweat. Still, a small grin pulled at the edge of my mouth. Just a crack, that’s all I needed. One moment where she didn’t control the air in the room.

  I’ll take it. Next came the real boss fight. I looked up and met Ruvyn Vel’aeris’s gaze.

  He’d been watching the entire time. Not like Yrathea, no veiled judgment, no quiet threat. Just… observation. Precise. Heavy. The kind of stare that didn’t miss details, didn’t make assumptions, didn’t react until there was enough information to justify it. And he hadn’t moved an inch.

  I set the spatula down with a clean click against the metal tray.

  “Lord Vel’aeris,” I said, voice smooth but not too sharp. “Anything in particular I can make for you?”

  A pause. Not long. Just long enough to let the room wonder if he’d answer at all. Then out of nowhere—

  “Whatever you think I’d enjoy,” he said evenly.

  That was it. No challenge. No test. Just the most deceptively simple request imaginable. I smiled, tighter this time.

  Ah, so one of those.

  This wasn’t a refusal. It was a puzzle. He wanted to see if I’d dare make a choice for him. And he wanted to see what I thought he was worth.

  Alright, old man.

  Let’s see if I can feed you and pass your invisible exam in the same bite.

  He said, “Whatever you think I’d enjoy.”

  Which was a loaded phrase if I’d ever heard one.

  Ruvyn Vel’aeris didn't seem the type to bluff, and he definitely wasn’t the type to flatter. So if he gave me control of the plate, it wasn’t mercy. It was strategy. He wanted to see how I saw him. And he wanted everyone else to see it too.

  So I gave him the truth.

  I started with a layered base, seasoned rice, but not the same light, fluffy kind I gave Ella. No, I seared it first in oil and garlic, let it toast until it had bite. Texture. Crunch.

  Then I ladled on slow-cooked beef that had been simmering in a reduction I’d been working with in the background, thicker, richer, darker. I mixed in drippings from the other patties, added sliced peppers for heat and depth, and topped it with a thick cheddar crisp I’d melted into a hardened curl. Decorative. Sharp.

  Then came the overkill.

  More cheese, this time a creamy blend of Gouda and sharp cheddar from the Crock-Pot, poured in a tight spiral, not covering the whole thing, just coiled in the center like a waiting predator.

  For garnish I used red onion and lime zest. Just a dusting. Enough to say I remembered presentation, but not enough to distract.

  And at the top, placed dead center: a perfectly seared beef medallion, pan-pressed and resting on the curve of the crisp, almost like it was looking down on everything else in the bowl.

  Ambition on top of ambition. Greed layered over greed. But dressed up to look like elegance. A dish that didn’t care if it was too much. It wanted to be too much.

  I slid the bowl across the table, clean and precise, and met Ruvyn’s gaze.

  He said nothing.

  Just studied the dish for a moment, then picked up a fork with unnecessary elegance.

  We get it…

  Took one bite. Chewed once. Twice. Then placed the fork down slowly and looked at me.

  “You don’t hesitate,” he said.

  It wasn’t a compliment. Or maybe it was. With people like him, you couldn’t always tell.

  “If I hesitated then I'd never move forward,” I replied.

  He gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. Then went back to eating.

  No praise. But no rejection.

  Which, from Ruvyn, might as well have been a handshake.

  Ruvyn said nothing else. Just kept eating.

  Methodically. Cleanly. Like the dish was passing some silent checklist in his mind.

  Which is why it was no surprise when Vaelik, not two heartbeats later, stepped forward and said, “I’ll have the same.”

  He said it with that usual “I swear I'm important” charm, measured, performative, about as genuine as a silk snake.

  “No,” he added, correcting himself. “Better yet… surprise me.”

  And there it was. The copycat move.

  Whatever you think I’d enjoy.

  I had to stop myself from laughing.

  Seriously, I almost choked on air. Not because he’d said it, but because for half a second, my brain tried to whisper a line I absolutely couldn’t say out loud.

  “Well I’d offer you Ella on a silver platter, but you’d probably choke on the rejection.”

  Instead, I smiled politely and nodded.

  “Of course,” I said. “One moment.”

  This one wouldn’t be elegant. Not like Ruvyn’s. This would be blunt. Messy. Exactly what he pretended not to be.

  I started with a mountain of rice. Way too much. Enough to look indulgent, but not luxurious. Dense. Heavy. The kind of foundation people use to make themselves feel bigger than they are.

  Then I added the meat.

  Over-seasoned. Cooked hot and fast, no depth, just heat and aggression. Sizzling loud enough to draw attention, but not long enough to develop flavor.

  I drizzled it with cheese, thick, overwhelming, suffocating the dish instead of complimenting it. No balance. Just excess.

  Then came the toppings: diced tomatoes and onions, sharp enough to bite, arranged in an almost symmetrical pattern, close, but not quite. Like someone trying to maintain control and failing, just slightly, around the edges.

  And finally?

  I topped it with a single garnish: a small, roasted pepper. Curled. Wrinkled. Burnt just enough on one side.

  Overcompensating, bitter, and full of heat no one asked for. I placed the plate in front of him with a quiet smile. He looked down at it, clearly trying to decide if it was praise or insult.

  It was neither. It was truth.

  He picked up a fork, stabbed a chunk of meat, and tasted it. His jaw moved once. Twice. Then he set the fork down, calmly.

  “It’s... a strong flavor,” he said, voice tight.

  I nodded. “It’s a strong dish.”

  He smiled. The kind people use right before they throw a glass at a wall. He turned and walked away before he would say anything more.

  Ivander, sitting beside me, leaned slightly and murmured just loud enough for me to hear, “You’re not just cooking are you?”

  “I have no clue what you mean,” I lied. “There’s no need to make it sound so ambitious.”

  It was getting hotter by the minute behind the griddle. Between the heat from the food, the tension in the room, and the emotional whiplash I was serving three nobles back-to-back, my neck was starting to feel like a pressure cooker.

  So I did the natural thing. I reached up and undid the top two buttons of my shirt. The relief was almost immediate. I let out a slow breath as I tugged at my shirt to air it out. Then I heard a quiet choke from my right. I didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.

  Because I knew that Ella and Illya were sitting at the table to my right. That inhale-through-the-nose-panic kind of cough. It was obviously Ella.

  And if I wasn’t mistaken, that little sputter from Illya right after? Laughter.

  I resisted the urge to smirk. I don't know what I did but it made Ella choke on her food. All I did was undo a couple of buttons on my shirt. I mean it's hot, what do you want me to do?

  I kept cooking. But my posture might’ve shifted just a little. Just enough to catch a bit more breeze. Just enough to pretend I didn’t hear anything at all.

  I was halfway through making my own bowl when I noticed it.

  There was another shift. Not in the food. Not in the conversation around me. In the room. Whispers.

  Nobles, here and there, speaking just a little too quietly but not quietly enough. Eyes flicking toward me. Nods exchanged. A few faint smiles. Approval.

  I’d felt the cold kind of attention before, the kind you get when people are trying to calculate your threat level. This wasn’t that.

  This was the kind that said: He’s useful. Keep an eye on him.

  One voice, older and nasal, floated near the drink table. “That was Miss Vel’aeris’ new fiance, wasn’t it? The human one?”

  A woman with an accent like silk responded, “He made Lady Yrathea a plate. And she’s eating it.”

  A short chuckle. “More than I can say for her last private chef.”

  Laughter hushed, measured. And just to my left, barely above the background hum of conversation, I caught it.

  Vaelik’s voice. “…all for show. He’s charming, sure, but charm doesn’t hold in an office, or the battlefield.”

  Someone murmured a polite response, low and neutral. Not agreement. Not disagreement.

  He kept talking. Tone still smooth, still curated. But the bitterness was creeping in now, curling around his consonants like smoke. He was losing them.

  A young noble near the edge of the crowd whispered behind a hand, “If charm’s useless, why does he look so worried?” A small burst of laughter, not mocking, but cutting.

  I didn't even glance their way.

  Presence detection training has been paying off so well.

  Chronos always said: Every room is a battlefield. You just have to learn what kind of war is being fought.

  Turns out this one was fought with words, weight, and a damn good griddle.

  Once the last noble was served and the griddle had calmed to a low sizzle, I stepped back and wiped my hands.

  “Seconds are up for grabs,” I said over my shoulder. “Knock yourselves out.”

  I made sure to plate a few extra bowls and cover them with foil, some for the staff, some for whoever was bold enough to come back for more. A few attendants were already hovering like kids waiting for recess. I was sure to give the one attendant her apron and a plate.

  Then came my turn.

  I grabbed a fresh bowl and took my time with it.

  Rice, perfectly toasted. Beef, seared, and seasoned with a blend I’d been saving just for me. I added grilled onions, peppers, a double scoop of the sharper cheddar, and then went for the good stuff, the secret side I hadn’t used on anyone else. A roasted garlic crema I whipped together during the match lull.

  I topped it with a squeeze of lime and a handful of crushed chips for crunch.

  Perfection.

  I turned, bowl in hand, and made my way over to the couch beside Ella and Illya. They both looked up. Then, almost in sync, their gazes dropped to my bowl.

  I sat. They kept staring. I took a slow, casual bite.

  Ella shifted slightly, trying and failing to look like she wasn’t curious.

  Illya didn’t even pretend. “That yours?”

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  Another bite. They were still staring.

  Illya leaned in. “You put crema in that, didn’t you?”

  I didn’t answer. Just chewed with deliberate satisfaction.

  Ella gave me a sideways glance. “That’s not what you served everyone else.”

  “No,” I said. “It isn’t.”

  Another beat. Then I sighed like it physically pained me to do it.

  “You wanna try it?” I asked, raising the bowl slightly.

  Illya was already reaching. Ella hesitated. Then, because she’s Ella, she gave me a look like you better not make a thing out of this, then took the fork I offered her and scooped a bite.

  They both tried it. Both froze.

  Illya closed her eyes dramatically. “I take back everything bad I’ve ever said about you.”

  “You’ve never said anything bad about me.”

  “Not to your face.”

  "You say that but your calls and texts say otherwise."

  I just took another bite and leaned a little closer to Ella, lowering my voice so only she could hear me.

  “You feeling better?”

  She blinked, like the question pulled her out of a haze.

  Then nodded.

  Not all the way. Not a dramatic show of recovery. But enough.

  Her hand brushed her glass again, steady this time. Her shoulders a little more relaxed. Her breath easier.

  “Yeah,” she murmured.

  And when she looked at me, there was something warmer behind her eyes.

  Not gratitude. Not admiration. Just presence.

  Like she was finally here again, not locked behind whatever storm her mother’s arrival had stirred. I gave her a small smile. Then went back to eating. Because the match wasn’t over. And neither was the night.

  I’d just taken another bite when I felt the shift again. Not from the room this time.

  From behind me. I looked up, and there he was. Ruvyn Vel’aeris, standing with the kind of stillness that made movement feel unnecessary. He wasn’t looming. Wasn’t posturing. Just... present. Entirely.

  “Raiden,” he said, voice low but not unkind. “If you have a moment.”

  He didn’t say follow me. Didn’t demand.

  But his gaze flicked toward the private meeting room at the back of the Skyhaven box. The one he and Yrathea had just exited not long ago. The message was clear.

  I nodded, setting my bowl aside for the seagulls to pick apart. “Of course.”

  Ella looked at me, not worried, but definitely curious. Illya didn’t say anything, but her eyebrows rose just enough to say this should be good.

  I guess the mother really is the one to look out for.

  I stood and followed him. No crowd. No escort.

  Just me and Ruvyn Vel’aeris walking into a sound-dampened chamber with soft-glow lanterns and a view of the arena through tinted glass. It was quieter in here. Still.

  He didn’t sit. He turned to face me, arms clasped behind his back, posture straight as ever.

  I waited. Let him speak first. Because whatever this was? It wasn’t casual, and it wasn’t small talk. This was the real conversation.

  The door clicked softly shut behind me. Ruvyn didn’t move for a moment. He just stood there, arms still behind his back, gaze fixed on the arena through the glass wall.

  “You’re very good at judging people,” he said at last.

  His voice was quiet. Smooth. Like polished stone. I didn’t answer immediately. Mostly because that wasn’t a question.

  “But,” he continued, finally turning to face me, “I wonder… are you as good at knowing when you’ve stepped into something bigger than you?”

  There was the shift. It wasn’t anger, nor was it a threat. Just the gravity of his words.

  I met his gaze without flinching. “You brought me here. I figured I was meant to step into something.”

  He nodded once. Almost approving. “You handled yourself well tonight. You understand pressure. You know how to command a room without demanding it. That’s rare. Especially at your age.”

  “Appreciate that,” I said carefully. “But I don’t think this is about nachos.”

  That got the smallest twitch of a smile. Then it faded.

  “What do you know about Vaelik?” he asked.

  The tone didn’t change. But the question landed like a weight sliding across the table.

  I tilted my head. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

  Ruvyn’s expression didn’t change. Not even a blink.

  “Do you understand why he’s here?” he asked. “Why you were invited to this event?”

  I said nothing. Because I had guesses. But I wanted to hear his version.

  “You’ve known my daughter for four years as far as I’m aware,” Ruvyn said slowly, “So that should mean you would know of Ella’s engagement to Vaelik. So I would like to ask you to stop this farce. I allowed this to happen for so long because it didn’t interfere with any plans we have. However things have changed, it seems you two have gotten close enough to actually threaten the engagement. I will only ask you once, end it.”

  There was no judgment in his voice. Just the clean dissection of a man cutting away everything that didn’t serve the plan.

  “She’s important. Not just to her family. To our future. And you—” his eyes narrowed, but not unkindly, “—you have a way of pulling things off course.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying I’m a distraction.”

  “I’m saying you’re not the only one with goals,” he replied. “Vaelik is many things. But he is essential to the family's success. He is inevitable.”

  That word, family. He uses it like he actually knows what it means. Like marrying Ella off was already a closed-door decision, and I was just a fun detour on the way to the altar.

  I didn’t answer right away. Because what I wanted to say wouldn’t help right now. So I kept my voice calm. Level.

  “And what exactly are you asking me to do?”

  Ruvyn studied me. Then said, “I’m asking to break up with Ella and not pursue her any longer. Pursue another one of my daughters. I don't care. Take Illya, she needs a man in her life anyways.”

  That silence? That wasn’t pressure. That was a guillotine waiting for motion. I let the silence stretch for a moment.

  Ruvyn didn’t move. He didn’t pressure. But I could feel it, the weight of the question. The expectation.

  Back off. Don’t get in the way. I met his gaze evenly.

  “Vaelik’s inevitable,” I repeated, tasting the word. “Interesting choice.”

  He said nothing. Just watched. So I let my tone stay polite. Calm. Almost… thoughtful.

  “If that’s the case, then I’m not sure why he’d need your help.”

  There. Just enough bite to taste. Not a threat. Not disrespect. But undeniable.

  Just enough bite to taste. It wasn’t a threat, not disrespect, but it was undeniable.

  Ruvyn’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger. In calculation. I stepped a little closer, still relaxed. Still composed.

  “I don’t mean to disrespect your plans,” I said. “But if Vaelik is really who he claims to be, then I’m not in his way.”

  I tilted my head. “But if I am… maybe that says more about him than it does about me.”

  Still no shift in his expression. But the silence this time was heavier.

  I took a slow breath. “I didn’t come here to cause problems. I came because you invited me. Because you wanted to see what I’d do.”

  I looked him straight in the eyes. “And I haven’t disappointed yet it seems.”

  That sat in the air between us like a statement carved into stone. Let him decide what to do with it.

  Ruvyn held my gaze for a long, silent moment. Then his expression cooled even further.

  “When a man starts drawing attention,” he said, “he needs to be very sure he understands what he’s drawing it away from.”

  His tone didn’t rise. His posture didn’t shift. But every word landed like a blade pressed flat against skin. Not cutting… yet.

  He took one slow step toward the door, pausing beside it. “Charm can earn you a seat at the table, Raiden. But it doesn’t keep it.”

  The door opened with a whisper and standing just outside was Vaelik. Waiting. I wasn’t surprised.

  Ruvyn didn’t look back at me as he said, “I believe the two of you should speak. Privately.”

  Then he stepped out. Left the door open behind him. Vaelik walked in, smooth as ever, his hands folded behind his back, expression polite, too polite.

  I fought back a large grin with everything I had while he let the door close behind him, sealing the room.

  Then he smiled. The kind of smile people wear before slipping a dagger into the conversation.

  “Well,” he said, voice low and pleasant. “I hope you’ve enjoyed playing host.”

  I didn’t respond right away. Just watched him take one slow step forward, still smiling.

  “But let’s talk about what happens next.”

  Vaelik didn’t waste time. He stepped closer, posture still easy, voice still smooth.

  “How much?” he asked.

  I blinked. “How much what?”

  His smile didn’t change. But his eyes? They were colder now. Focused.

  “To leave her.”

  A pause stretched between us. I let my expression go blank, half-bemused, half confused.

  “Sorry, you’ll have to be more specific,” I said. “Are we talking about nachos again?”

  His smile twitched. Not in amusement. Frustration.

  “You’re clever,” he said tightly. “But let’s not pretend. Every man has his price. I’m asking for yours.”

  Ah, so that’s what this was.

  I looked at him for a long moment. Then said, with mock realization, “Wait, you’re offering to pay me? That’s generous. And bold. A little weird, but bold.”

  “Don’t play stupid.”

  “I’m not,” I said lightly. “I’m just not used to guys offering me bribes to stay single. It’s flattering, really.”

  The smile dropped from his face. Just for a moment.

  “You know exactly what I mean.”

  And that was when I dropped mine too. Not completely, but just enough for the edge to show underneath.

  “You haven’t asked once what she thinks.”

  His jaw tensed. I didn’t stop.

  “You haven’t asked if she’s happy. If she’s interested. If she’s choosing you.” I leaned in just a hair. “So until she says otherwise? I think I’m good where I’m at.”

  Take the bait~

  The silence in the room stretched, tight and hot like pulled wire. His fists curled just slightly at his sides.

  Good.

  Then I stepped back, turned halfway toward the door, and tossed the last bit in like it was nothing. “Oh—and Vaelik?”

  He looked up, eyes sharp.

  “Her lips are soft. As are her hands.” I let that hang. Just long enough. Then smiled. “Something you are unworthy of.”

  Then I walked out.

  As I stepped back into the main box, I caught it again, Yrathea’s bowl, still resting neatly on the table. Completely empty.

  Wiped clean like the moment never happened. She hadn’t said a word. But she hadn’t stopped me, either. That was enough.

  I took two steps. And then I felt the hand on my shoulder. Not aggressive. Just firm and calculated.

  “Alaric,” Vaelik said, voice smooth again, but thinner now. Hollow around the edges.

  I turned just enough to glance back. His smile was back too. The fake one. The one that sat wrong on his face now.

  “I understand you enjoy... making impressions,” he said, tone perfectly even. “But sometimes, in certain circles, knowing when not to perform is what earns respect.”

  He was now being passive-aggressive and measured, like he still thought he had the upper hand.

  I blinked, then nodded once.

  “Good to know,” I said casually. “Let me know when I see one of those circles.”

  And with that, I stepped away. Didn’t give him a second look. Just made my way to the couch Ella and Illya sat at.

  Illya looked up first, legs tucked under her as she finished the last few chips from her plate. Ella glanced over a beat later, quiet, but more relaxed than earlier. Her expression softened when she saw me, though she tried to hide it behind her glass.

  I dropped back into the seat next to them like nothing had happened, resting my bowl on my lap and letting the warmth from the food settle me.

  Now I just had to wait. An opening. A reason to walk off alone. Something Vaelik couldn’t resist. He thought I’d flinch if pushed. He thought I wasn’t expecting it. But that was the thing about snakes. If you want one to bite… You have to give it your back.

  I was halfway through a bite when I felt her eyes on me.

  Ella leaned in a little, voice low enough to be just ours. “You should get some air.”

  It was a soft suggestion, but I could tell by the way she glanced away before finishing the sentence that she’d noticed it too.

  Herbert, he was standing just a little too close to the curtain. Just a little too still. Pretending to be focused on the arena while definitely tracking every word we said.

  My lips quirked. I didn’t even look his way. Instead, I turned to Ella, gave her the warmest, most relaxed smile I could manage.

  “That’s a good idea,” I said, rising to my feet and stretching like I wasn’t already ten steps ahead.

  She looked up at me, surprised by how quickly I agreed. Then more surprised when I leaned in.

  Her breath caught just a little, as I tilted my head toward her cheek, like I was about to leave her with a light kiss.

  She didn’t pull away. Didn’t tense.

  But right before I got close enough to land it, I paused and whispered: “Thank you.”

  Then pulled away before she could ask what I meant. Her eyes narrowed, confused.

  Illya, just to my left, blinked and sat forward slightly, probably wondering if she’d just missed something spicy. I gave neither of them a chance to ask. Just turned and made my way toward the box door, rolling my shoulders like I needed to walk off the food. Casual. Easy.

  But my brain was already turning.

  How oblivious should I act?

  Trip once? Maybe glance over my shoulder too soon? Or should I take the scenic route, let him think I’m too relaxed to notice the tension in my wake?

  I smirked as the door shut behind me. Let’s see what kind of coward he is when the lights aren’t watching.

  Discord!