The laughter and hum of conversation from the dining hall of Miller’s Rest had settled into a quieter murmur, voices muffled behind thick wooden doors. The weight of the celebration still lingered in the air, the warmth of shared moments refusing to fade completely.

  Outside, the night stretched vast and quiet, the air cool against my skin as I stepped onto the balcony.

  She stood there, bathed in dim moonlight.

  Mira.

  Her teal hair caught the soft glow, strands drifting like silk in the gentle breeze. It cascaded down her back in effortless waves, shifting with each breath of wind, glistening like the surface of a tranquil sea. The midnight air suited her—serene, untouchable, yet undeniably present. There was always something unearthly about her, something that made her seem removed from the world, yet never fully apart from it.

  She didn’t turn when I approached, though I knew she was aware of me.

  I leaned against the parapet beside her, the stone cool beneath my palms. The river below moved in slow currents, its surface dark and rippling beneath the silver crescent of the moon.

  "He looks happy," I said, breaking the quiet.

  Mira hummed softly, still gazing at the sky. "He does." There was something thoughtful in her voice, something distant but not detached. "It suits him, doesn't it? The thought of being a father."

  "A terrifying one, really," I mused, and that earned me a small chuckle.

  "Oh, absolutely," she said, her lips curling into the faintest smile. "That poor child will grow up learning every single insult in existence before they can even read."

  "And probably be a better archer than most of people—elven or otherwise, by the age of five."

  She laughed at that, a quiet, airy sound, and the night seemed to ease around us. For a while, we just stood there, not speaking, letting the silence exist without feeling the need to fill it. The wind stirred her hair, and she lifted a hand to tuck a stray strand behind her pointed ear.

  I watched her for a moment longer before finally asking, "Are you… leaving?"

  She stilled.

  It wasn’t surprise that crossed her face, nor hesitation. No denial, no pretense. Just quiet acceptance.

  Then, slowly, she exhaled, her gaze drifting down toward the river. A bittersweet look.

  "Yes," she admitted, her voice softer now.

  She didn’t sound unhappy. Not in the way one might expect.

  "Not that I don't want to be here," she clarified, as if sensing my thoughts. "But... it's time."

  I nodded. I had expected this.

  "Your family?" I asked.

  A small smile, this one warm but laced with something deeper. "They need me. And… I want to be there."

  She didn’t need to explain further.

  There was a quiet certainty in her voice, a gentle resolve that left no room for doubt.

  She wasn’t running away, nor regretting the decision. This was simply the way of things.

  "Like the end of a long vacation," I murmured.

  Mira tilted her head slightly, considering.

  "Yes," she said at last. "Exactly like that."

  The silence between us lingered, comfortable, unspoken words settling between the sound of the river’s steady flow. But then, movement caught my eye.

  Two figures approached from the main road, their armor catching the moonlight in gleaming ripples of emerald and gold.

  Elven soldiers.

  Their presence was unmistakable—the effortless grace in their stride, the way their long cloaks barely disturbed the air as they moved. Their armor, forged with elven craftsmanship, was ornate yet functional, plates shaped like layered leaves, catching the light like morning dew on forest foliage. The gold filigree traced elegant patterns across their breastplates, curling like vines along the pauldrons, the insignia of House Syltharion gleaming at the center—a stylized silver crescent entwined with ivy.

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  I nudged Mira lightly and tilted my chin toward them.

  She sighed, her lips pressing into a thin line. "So impatient..."

  I adjusted my coat as I straightened, smoothing the fabric into place. "Get the others. I’ll greet our guests."

  With that, I turned, stepping onto the balcony’s edge before dropping down in one smooth motion, my boots landing on the soft, uneven sand of the riverbank.

  "Back to politics," I muttered to myself, brushing off the dust as I strode forward.

  The soft sand shifted beneath my boots as I stepped forward, closing the distance between myself and the approaching elves. Their strides were measured, their posture impeccable, but there was an edge to their movements—a subtle tension in their shoulders, the kind carried by messengers who expected resistance.

  They came to a stop just a few paces away. Close enough to exert authority, but far enough to maintain formality.

  The taller of the two, who bore the markings of an officer, inclined his head slightly. It was not a bow, nor a show of deference. It was one that suggested we were equals—or rather, that he considered me a necessary inconvenience, a force to be reckoned with but not quite respected.

  "Prince Kaelan von Verid Aeloria," he began, his voice composed, practiced. A tone honed in courts and councils where words were used as weapons. "We bring word from High House Syltharion. You and your company are to proceed to the Royal Stag at once."

  His delivery was poised, but the wording was clear. This was not a request. It was a summons.

  I took my time in answering.

  I let the silence between us settle—not hurried, not rushed, just long enough for it to become a presence in itself. The kind of silence that makes men second-guess their approach.

  "Summoned?" I echoed at last, tilting my head slightly. "An interesting choice of words."

  The second elf stepped forward; impatience evident despite his attempts to conceal it. "This is not a matter to delay, my lord. Your presence is required immediately."

  His stance was sharper, more assertive. Less measured, less patient.

  I did not move. I did not adjust my footing or shift my posture. I simply remained, letting their urgency brush against the wall of my indifference like waves breaking against stone.

  "Is it?" I asked lightly. "And here I thought the high elves were known for their patience."

  The first elf exhaled softly through his nose. It wasn’t a sigh, not exactly, but it was close enough to one to amuse me.

  "Prince Kaelan," he said, more pointedly this time, "this is a matter of urgency. House Syltharion will not be kept waiting."

  Ah. There it was.

  The carefully measured warning. A subtle reminder that this was no ordinary summons, that I was expected to move at their pace, not my own. An attempt at exerting control.

  I let out a slow, deliberate breath, my gaze settling on them with the kind of patience that unsettles men accustomed to obedience. Then, moving with an easy, unhurried grace, I clasped my hands behind my back.

  "I am certain that House Syltharion—esteemed as it is—has endured greater inconveniences than waiting a short while longer," I said smoothly.

  A flicker of irritation crossed the second elf’s face. He masked it well, but not well enough. "This is not a matter of courtesies, my lord."

  "Then perhaps it ought to be."

  The tension between us solidified.

  This was the quiet game of courtly warfare, where battles were fought with words and the weight of presence rather than steel. They could not force me to move. Not without insult. Not without making this an even greater matter than it already was. And I had no intention of being led anywhere like a leashed hound.

  "Inform your lord that I will arrive when it suits me," I said, my tone light, almost absentminded. As though the matter was of little consequence to me. "For now, I have other matters to attend."

  The first elf’s lips pressed into a thin line. He was the more controlled of the two, but even he could not entirely conceal his dissatisfaction.

  "Prince Kaelan," he began again, "I strongly advise that you do not—"

  I cut him off with a slow, bemused smile.

  "I do not recall asking for advice," I said lightly. "And yet, here you stand, offering it freely."

  The second elf took a sharp breath, but his companion—the officer, the one who understood diplomacy—lifted a hand in a subtle gesture for restraint.

  Finally, after a measured silence, the first elf inclined his head again. "Then I shall deliver your message, my lord." There was something else in his tone now—something clipped, something resentful, but forced into civility. "Though I do hope your arrival will not be… unreasonably delayed."

  I let the silence stretch again, just long enough to remind them that I dictated the flow of this conversation, not them. Then, finally, I allowed my smile to widen slightly—just enough to be unnerving.

  "How unreasonable I may or may not be shall depend entirely on my mood," I mused. "And as of now—" I turned my gaze to the night sky, unhurried, deliberate "—I am quite enjoying the night air."

  The second elf’s fists clenched at his sides, but before he could speak, the first one turned sharply.

  "We will inform our lord of your… schedule," he said.

  They moved with practiced precision, pivoting in sync as they strode away, their cloaks barely stirring despite their controlled urgency.

  Their departure was disciplined, but their stiffness betrayed them.

  I watched them disappear into the streets, exhaling softly as their presence faded.

  The night stretched long, the city quieting as the last remnants of revelry faded into the distant hum of tavern songs and murmuring streets. I remained where I stood, my gaze lingering on the darkened road where the elves had disappeared, the scent of river mist and lantern smoke hanging in the air.

  Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw.

  The doors of The Miller’s Rest swung open, spilling warm light onto the cobbled street, and my company stumbled into the night.

  Ewin and Lyrik were drunk—thoroughly, unrepentantly so. Ewin swayed on unsteady feet, a lazy smirk pulling at his lips as he muttered something to Lyrik, who, in turn, let out a loud chuckle that echoed down the quiet street. Rylas, ever the unfortunate soul, had taken it upon himself to keep them upright. He supported Lyrik with one hand, while the other hovered near Ewin, ready to intervene should the elf’s balance betray him further.

  Behind them, Vyk moved like a shadow, silent and detached, yet present. Even drunkards at his side did not dull his awareness. Alric trailed at his own pace, his expression unreadable, though I did not miss the subtle amusement in his eyes as he observed the sorry state of our companions.

  I exhaled through my nose, half in amusement, half in expectation.

  Then, Selene.

  She approached, her footsteps measured, deliberate. The others passed by, engaged in their own staggered departures, but she came to me, stopping just close enough that I could see the play of torchlight in her amber eyes.

  "What did you and Mira talk about?" Her voice was steady, but I knew her too well.

  I turned my head slightly, meeting her gaze with a knowing smirk. "Jealous?"

  Her eyes narrowed, the corner of her lips twitching—not in amusement, but in a silent warning.

  "Hardly," she replied.

  "Mmm." I let the sound drag, studying her. She had asked the question as though the answer did not matter, but I could see the weight of expectation in her posture, the subtle stiffness in her shoulders.

  Still, I let the silence stretch, holding it just long enough to be insufferable. Then, finally, I exhaled and said, "Mira will be leaving."

  Selene stilled.

  A flicker of something crossed her face—a shift too fleeting to name, too controlled to unravel. But I caught it.

  "Understandable," she said at last, nodding, as though piecing her thoughts into place. "With everything happening within her family, they’ll need every hand they can get. Managing new lands will be... troublesome."

  She spoke lightly, but I could hear the undercurrent beneath the words. An acceptance.

  Another one of us, gone.

  Her gaze flickered away, toward the others, toward the streets stretching beyond the river’s edge.

  For a moment, neither of us spoke. The wind curled through the night, rustling the distant banners that hung from the city’s watchtowers, carrying with it the faint scent of damp stone and wildflowers.

  Then, her eyes returned to mine, steady once more.

  "Well," she said, her tone smoothing back into familiar ease, "you best get used to it. One day, you might even have to survive without me."

  I smirked, stepping past her, just close enough that my sleeve brushed hers. "Let’s not say such dreadful things."