The morning light spilled across the marble floors of the royal dining hall — golden, deceptive, and far too bright for the truths it tried to veil.
Kael Virelith entered late — naturally — with that usual unbothered grace, a half-yawn on his lips and mischief stitched into every step. But the moment he crossed the threshold, the air shifted.
Every head turned.
The grand table stretched long and ornate, gilded with history and tension. Silverware that had fed kings, queens, traitors, and tyrants shimmered in the morning sun. Around it sat the nobility of the realm — the First Families — each face etched with power, pride, and secrets.
Some looked at Kael with admiration.
Some with jealousy.
And a few with that dangerous, smiling kind of hatred that only noble bloodlines could perfect.
Kael pulled out a chair. Not at the edge — where those forgotten sat — but directly across from his cousins, the same ones who once laughed when he was cast out. He leaned in slightly, his voice a whisper that carried across porcelain and silence.
"Don't worry. I'm not hungry for vengeance… yet."
A fork clattered. One of the younger nobles paled.
Queen Thalorien broke the tension first. Her voice, honeyed and smooth, slid across the room like silk.
"Kael, darling, where have you been these last two years?"
He looked up, eyes momentarily caught in something distant — a flicker of pain beneath the charm. But only for a second.
Kael leaned back, grabbed an apple from the table's center, and began to toss it between his hands.
"Oh, you know. Doing what every disappointed heir does after being abandoned by both families — brooding in thunderstorms, raising dragons, and figuring out how to disappoint you all with some flair."
The queen offered a subtle smile. Some nobles looked confused. Others — angry.
Then the King of the First Family leaned forward. Voice cold. Eyes sharp.
"We summoned you. Over and over again. You never answered. Why?"
Kael took a bite of the apple. The crunch echoed like a threat.
He wiped the juice from his thumb with a slow, deliberate motion.
"Because you weren't calling for me. You were calling for the version of me you could still command. He doesn't exist anymore."
Silence. Heavy. Complete.
A few nobles shifted uncomfortably. Others watched him as if seeing him for the first time.
And from across the table, Princess Aeliria said nothing — but her eyes never left him. Not since last night.
Not since she found him screaming in the dark, his hands shaking with something he couldn't explain.
---
The feast faded into a slow unraveling of protocol.
News spread quickly: the Grand Convocation was ending. By nightfall, each family would return to their respective continents. The table that once held alliances would soon hold only memories and motives.
Kael stood by himself near a column draped in crimson banners. But he wasn't alone long.
Aeliria stood by the grand window, bathed in cold morning light. Her silver cloak caught the breeze, and for a moment, she looked like something out of a story — too distant to touch.
Kael walked over, hands in his coat pockets.
"So, Princess," he said lightly, "does this mean you're finally escaping the kingdom's endless parade of boredom?"
She glanced at him, a small, tired smile tugging at her lips.
"I'm leaving too," she said. "Before this place poisons more than just power."
Kael tried to laugh, but it felt empty.
"Guess this is goodbye, then. Don't worry — I'll try not to burn the palace down while you're gone."
"You always say that," she replied.
Silence settled between them — a different kind. One that hummed with the weight of things unspoken.
Kael exhaled.
"Aeliria… if you ever want to know the truth about me — the part behind the jokes, the dragons, the storms — you know where to find me."
She nodded slowly, eyes searching his for something even he couldn't name.
"Goodbye, Kael."
"Goodbye… for now."
And then she turned, her footsteps light, her presence still lingering like the last note of a song.
Kael didn't move.
Not until she disappeared down the corridor — and even then, he stayed by the window, letting the light touch the face of a boy he no longer was.