By the time they returned from the market, the sun had dipped past the mountains, and the court was steeped in soft indigo shadows.
Fae lanterns flickered overhead like captured stars, floating through the columns.
The older human women, Mirien and Edra, walked ahead, chatting quietly between themselves.
Their arms were full with provisions, herbs tied in golden string, pale fruit that glowed slightly from within, and folded linen dyed with twilight hues.
Keira lagged slightly behind, still reeling from the quiet walk with Lord Aeren. His laughter, real and startling, had not left her mind.
When they reached the inner halls, Mirien turned to Edra, jerking her chin toward the right wing. "Come. Let us see to the cellars."
Keira instinctively moved to follow them, but Aeren's voice stopped her.
"Stay."
It was not a command. Not quite. But she froze.
He stood near the tall arched window, his posture relaxed.
Keira's fingers tightened on the basket she was holding. "Yes, my lord."
The others vanished down the corridor, and the silence grew.
Aeren turned to her slowly. His gaze was not unkind, but it was unreadable. Studying.
She lowered her head, heart suddenly thudding.
He was beautiful in that strange, ageless way the Fae possessed. But there was something else. An ache behind his gaze. A hunger for something long lost.
He stepped forward.
"You remind me of someone," he said, his voice quieter now, as if he were not sure if he meant to speak it aloud.
Keira dared not ask who.
His hand moved, slowly, almost reverently. As though he intended to touch her face. But just before his fingers met skin, he stopped himself. A flicker of tension crossed his brow.
Then, in the smallest shift of the air, Aeren's eyes darted to the shadows at the far end of the corridor.
"You may go," he said.
She bowed again, murmuring, "Thank you, my lord," and turned away.
Her footsteps echoed softly against stone as she fled, pulse roaring. She did not look back.
When she had gone, Aeren sighed. "Come out."
The shadows writhed, folding like wings. From their heart, Prince Riven emerged, silent as a blade drawn in the dark.
He said nothing for a long while.
Then he spoke. "You touched her."
"I did not," Aeren said.
"You wanted to."
Aeren didn't deny it.
Riven stepped closer. "You're being reckless."
"I am being cautious."
"Cautious? You call defiance caution?"
"I apologize, your Highness."
Riven's violet eyes narrowed. "You think this is a game, Aeren? That you can mock me in my court and dangle her in front of me like a challenge?"
Aeren met his gaze. "I do not know what you are talking about. I think you should say what you truly mean."
The words hit their mark. For a moment, something cracked behind Riven's expression. A flash of something not quite anger. Not quite sorrow.
Aeren studied him, then smiled. Not warm. Not kind. Just a thin curve of his mouth, like the edge of a blade.
"So," he said softly, "you truly are furious with me."
The crown tightened again. Riven's hands clenched at his sides, the tendons in his neck taut.
"I said nothing of that sort."
"But you didn't need to." Aeren's voice was calm, measured. "That thing on your head speaks well enough for you."
Riven's lips thinned. "Do not mock the crown."
"Then do not insult me with silence. Say what you came to say."
Riven glared at Aeren, contemplating whether to deal with him or not. Instead he went nearer to his friend, his eyes never leaving his.
"She is not Elya," Riven said, voice like a blade drawn through frost. "So take her. Have her, if you wish."
Aeren's head tilted slightly. A slow, knowing smile curled his lips before a soft, amused laugh slipped free.
"Ah," he murmured. "So this is jealousy, then?"
Riven did not answer. His gaze shifted to the side, his jaw tense. When he finally spoke again, his voice was lower, rougher.
But before either of them could speak again, laughter rang through the corridor, low, rich, and mocking.
Cael stepped from the shadows, draped in velvet and arrogance, his smile razor-sharp.
"My dear brother," he drawled, "and Lord Aeren. Reduced to two fools bickering over a mortal girl. History does have a funny way of repeating itself. Perhaps this time, she would choose Aeren."
He did not see Aeren move.
In the space of a breath, Aeren was upon him, fingers locked around his throat, slamming him into the wall with a force that cracked stone. Cael gasped, the smugness draining from his eyes as Aeren's aura darkened, thick and choking.
His pupils thinned. Something monstrous stirred behind his gaze, something not wholly Fae.
"Watch yourself," Aeren said, voice like a growl.
Cael's smile faltered into panic. He choked out a rushed apology.
"My lord—Aeren—I spoke in jest—"
Aeren released him with a shove that sent Cael sprawling into the stained-glass window. He collided with a dull thud, the glass groaning but holding.
In that single moment, he remembered.
The quiet, distant Lord of Ashthorne was not always calm. Beneath the centuries of silence and stillness was something older. Something forged from destruction.
Cael had long forgotten what truly slept behind those golden eyes.
And now, it looked back at him.
Riven turned slightly, his eyes narrow. "You forget yourself, Aeren. You dare strike a prince?"
Aeren looked away from Cael, his gaze settling on Riven, expression unreadable.
"The prince should be more careful with his tongue."
For a moment, Riven's crown pulsed. His fingers twitched at his sides, and something flared in his violet gaze, but it passed, smothered by reason.
By memory. By the knowledge that Aeren, for all his restraint, had not been born a blade to be sheathed.
Then Riven turned on his heel. "I shall come speak with you later."
Aeren said nothing as Riven walked out, his eyes darting to the younger prince.
Cael leaned against the wall, one hand on his throat, breathing steady, but not calm.
He had survived Aeren's gaze.
But the thing behind it?
He wasn't sure they all would.