Part I: The Tour

  "You must try these," Helena insisted, her voice a bright, melodic performance of a flawless host. She deftly plucked two steaming skewers from a passing servant's silver tray. "Squid from the Solaran Coast. An absolute delicacy."

  Arthur and Ingrid gratefully accepted.

  For Ingrid, whose entire life had been defined by the hearty, simple foods of a cold, mountainous region , seafood was a foreign kingdom. She took a hesitant bite. The flavor was a sudden, complex burst of salt, smoke, and sea that was richer than anything she had ever tasted. Almost anything, she corrected herself, her mind flashing to the transcendent, hard-won flavor of the Razor Gill Minnow from Pond Annoy.

  Arthur, a prince who had sampled such delicacies his entire life, barely registered the taste.

  He was watching Ingrid. He saw the almost imperceptible widening of her eyes and a tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth as she fought to maintain her impassive mask against the sudden assault of flavor.

  A small, private smile touched his own lips. He was learning to read the subtle tells of the girl who hid her entire world behind a wall of ice. That tiny, suppressed flicker of pleasure was, to him, more satisfying than any feast.

  "Now for the grand tour!" Helena said, looping her arms through both of theirs. The gesture of casual, maternal warmth made both teenagers stiffen slightly. She guided them away from the main throng, her laughter tinkling.

  They had seen the manor and stables before , so Helena led them into the Great Hall's gallery. For Arthur, it was a painful echo of home—vaulted ceilings, portraits of stern, long-dead ancestors, and glass cases holding artifacts won in forgotten wars. For Ingrid, it was a museum, a place of impossible, distant history that had no connection to her own small, shattered life.

  Their final stop was a tall, slender tower by the northern wall, built like a lighthouse to overlook the vast plains.

  "My favorite place," Helena said, her voice softening as they climbed the winding stair. At the top, an open-air platform met the cold night sky, the wind whipping at their fine clothes. The whole of Oakhaven was a sea of glittering lights below.

  "The winds are dreadful in winter, but in the summer..." A nostalgic, secret smile graced her lips. "Alistair and I bring blankets up here. We sleep under the stars."

  She sighed, her gaze lost in a happy, intimate memory, completely oblivious to the fact that the two men who defined her world were, at that very moment, being emotionally torn apart.

  "But that's quiet enough ," she said, the host's mask snapping back into place. "Let's get you two some of those sugared pastries I saw. And you simply must see the fire-jugglers..."

  She guided them back toward the noise and the light, a perfect vision of grace, unaware of the true shadows that were closing in on her home.

  Part II: The Noble Whores

  After the tour, Helena guided Arthur and Ingrid back toward the Great Hall. The cavernous room was now a sea of glittering jewels and competing perfumes, the air humming with the roar of hundreds of aristocratic conversations.

  "This," Helena said, gesturing to a cordoned-off alcove filled with other anxious-looking young adults, "is where you'll need to wait, Ingrid. The champions are gathered here before the introductions."

  As she spoke, a sharp, wailing cry cut through the din. Helena's face tightened as she saw her sister, Theresa, pacing near a marble pillar, jiggling her infant son, Finnian, with a frantic, impatient energy.

  "Theresa? What's wrong?" Helena asked, gliding over.

  "He won't stop!" Theresa snapped, her pretty face a mask of frustration. "I can't find Gareth or the nanny, and he always stops for them. It's giving me a headache!".

  "Here, let me," Helena said, her voice instantly softening as she held out her arms.

  She took the red-faced, screaming infant, and the change was almost immediate. She settled onto a nearby chair, rocking Finnian with a practiced, gentle rhythm, her low, soothing hum cutting through his cries. Within moments, the wail subsided into a hiccuping sniffle

  The display of effortless maternal grace was like a flower opening, and the noblewomen nearby, like bees to honey, began to drift over, "pooling" around the lady of the house.

  "You're a lifesaver, big sis," Theresa sighed, fanning herself.

  "Lady Greyoak is a natural at this!" one of the older women cooed, her eyes appraising. "I've had three and never managed to quiet them so easily".

  Another noblewoman, her smile thin and sharp, leaned in. "It’s a lovely sight, Helena. But when are you going to have one of your own?".

  Helena’s radiant smile, her public armor, remained perfectly fixed. "Well, we’ve been rather busy, Lady Marlow"

  "Busy?" an older duchess interjected, her tone laced with a dry, knowing amusement. "My dear, one always finds the time for what's... essential."

  A younger baroness giggled. "Speaking from experience, Your Grace?". The group laughed, though the old duchess looked thoroughly unamused.

  Helena’s smile became brittle, but she held her ground. "It's not just about the making of one," she said, her voice a gentle, practiced apology.

  "We want to be able to give our child the time and love they truly deserve.". She forced a brighter note. "I assure you, we'll have much more time after the tournament. You'll see".

  The old duchess's gaze was pitiless. "One would certainly hope so," she said, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper that all of them could hear. "Such a vigorous line as the Greyoaks... it would be a tragedy if it were to end simply because the current lord lacks... vitality."

  The veiled accusation—landed with the force of a physical blow. Helena’s smile wavered, a flicker of genuine, sharp pain in her eyes.

  The younger baroness, perhaps sensing she’d gone too far, quickly jumped in. "Oh, but surely that's not the problem, Your Grace! Not if the rumors are true..."

  Her eyes darted pointedly across the hall, to where the boy in the red robes, the Emperor's bastard grandson, stood alone in disdainful solitude . "...is it, Helena?".

  Helena felt the second blow land. The "defense" was just another, thornier insult—a public acknowledgment of her husband's supposed infidelity.

  "That is nonsense!" Theresa snapped, her loyalty to her sister overriding her earlier frustration.

  She took Finnian back from Helena's arms. "Lord Greyoak, for all his.... shortcomings, has only ever had eyes for my sister!".

  Helena’s smile returned, though it was a painful, broken thing. She felt trapped, socially vivisected.

  It was in that moment she saw her salvation. Across the hall, Lyra was descending the grand staircase.

  "Excuse me," Helena breathed, standing with a sudden, desperate grace. She fled the circle, leaving Theresa to follow in her wake.

  The moment she was out of earshot, the old duchess leaned in again. "Mark my words," she whispered to the remaining women. "They've been a couple for ages. Even her sister, years younger, has an heir. If it’s not him, it’s her. And if it’s not her..." She shrugged, a gesture of grim finality. "...it's him".

  Part III : The Shifting Tides

  Lyra descended the grand staircase, her mind a turbulent storm.

  The conversation she'd fled on the balcony—Alistair's desperate, impossible plea —felt like a physical weight, a vortex threatening to pull her under even as she navigated the glittering, shallow cacophony of the party. She forced a mask of serene composure, her eyes scanning for her brother.

  She spotted him near the champions' alcove, a solitary figure next to Ingrid. The sight of his quiet obedience, his acceptance of being a "burden" , sent a fresh pang of guilt through her.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  "Arthur," she said, her voice lower and more weary than she intended. He and Ingrid both turned, their expressions wary. "A quick word."

  She pulled him aside. "Change of plans. Lady Evelina... she's not an option tonight."

  Arthur’s jaw tightened, but his training held. He didn't question the command, he simply absorbed it. "Understood. What is our next objective?"

  His quiet, resolute acceptance—so far from the boy who had arrived in Oakhaven—was almost more painful than a protest would have been.

  A flicker of real, sisterly affection broke through her numbness. She placed a hand on his shoulder. "For tonight? Nothing. Just... try to have fun. We'll find another path. I promise."

  Before Arthur could reply, Helena materialized at their side, her own smile as bright and brittle as spun glass. She was fleeing the viper's nest of noblewomen.

  "Lyra, darling, did you try the oysters?!" she insisted, her voice a shade too high.

  She looped her arm through Lyra's, her grip almost desperate.

  She all but dragged Lyra away. "Care to join us?" Lyra called back over her shoulder, a last, weak attempt.

  "We've had our fill, thank you," Arthur replied, his voice polite.

  "Let them mingle," Helena murmured, pulling Lyra toward the gardens. "It's dreadful to be shackled to us old bores all night."

  Lyra glanced back, her gaze lingering on Arthur and Ingrid. "Take care," she said, the words feeling heavy and inadequate. Then she was gone, leaving the two of them alone.

  Part IV : A Two- Person Island

  The Great Hall was now a sea of their peers.

  Young nobles, draped in silks and heirloom jewels, moved in glittering constellations, their laughter light and effortless.

  In a separate, less-regarded clump near the alcove, the other champions stood, their formal clothes clean but lacking the casual, insulting opulence of the heirs.

  For Arthur and Ingrid, this was just a different kind of battlefield.

  Helena’s command to "mingle" was as terrifying to Arthur as navigating the Weeping Woods in his nightmares . Ingrid, though once social , now found the empty chatter of the nobility to be a grating, offensive noise.

  They gravitated toward each other, two shards of ice from the same storm, finding a cold, familiar comfort in their shared isolation. They formed a silent, two-person island in the middle of the roaring social ocean.

  Their stillness, however, made them conspicuous. Ingrid, in her simple, shimmering silvery dress , was a natural phenomenon in a room of careful artifice. She was a winter rose in a hothouse, and she drew eyes. She felt the envious glares from the noble daughters and the calculating, appraising looks from their sons.

  Arthur, too, was an anomaly. His dark, severe robes and quiet, princely bearing—a thing he couldn't just "turn off"—made him a puzzle. He was clearly with the Greyoak's champion, but he wasn't a champion himself. He was an unknown quantity.

  They watched the room. They saw Lady Evelina, the target Lyra had just called off, laughing brightly in the center of a fawning circle . They saw the solitary blonde boy in crimson robes, the Emperor's bastard, standing near a pillar and observing everyone with a cold, reptilian stillness .

  Their silent, two-person standoff was broken by a sudden, discordant movement.

  A figure was moving against the flow of the party, walking from the direction of the grand staircase toward the garden exit with a speed that was a quiet violence in this place of curated grace. It was Faelan .

  He simply moved through the crowd like a dark blade, his face a rigid mask. But as he passed, Ingrid caught his eyes.

  They were not angry. They were raw, agonized, and held a look of such profound, agonizing betrayal it made her breath catch. It was an abnormality she couldn't process, a warrior's pain that didn't belong with the polite music and laughter. The thought registered as wrong, but vanished just as quickly as he passed.

  A moment later, Helena and Lyra appeared entering back into the hall. Helena,was smiling genuinely, her duties as host resumed. Lyra, beside her, wore a smile that was more of a polite, forced mask, clearly still troubled by her earlier conversation with Alistair .

  "Fae?" Helena called out, her genuine smile faltering as she saw him nearing the exit, his back to them.

  He didn't stop, but he paused for a fraction of a second, looking back over his shoulder. He gave them a single, pained, accusing glance—a look of such deep, personal injury that it was louder than any shout.

  Then he was gone, vanishing into the cold, indifferent darkness of the Oakhaven night.

  Ingrid watched the two women. Helena's genuine smile vanished instantly, replaced by a look of stunned, disbelieving hurt. Lyra's forced smile wavered, and she looked utterly, hopelessly broken.

  Ingrid saw Lyra's hand find Helena's, their fingers lacing together in a moment of shared, silent crisis.

  Helena's gaze lifted, past the party, up to the high, dark solar where Alistair had taken Faelan and Lyra . Arthur and Ingrid followed her look. They could just make out a silhouette on the balcony.

  It was Alistair standing there, his head bowed against the railing, a perfect, unmoving statue of defeat.

  Without a word to each other, Lyra and Helena turned and ascended the stairs, disappearing back into the upper floors of the manor .

  The entire, devastating exchange had been silent, invisible to everyone in the hall except the two teenagers who had, by chance, been watching.

  A heavy, uncertain silence fell between Arthur and Ingrid, the distant music of the party suddenly sounding thin and false.

  Part V : The Performance

  A long, quiet hour later, the three of them descended the grand staircase.

  The duties of the host were a heavy mantle, and they wore it with the practiced grace of their station. Lyra, Faelan, and Alistair had re-emerged, their faces composed, their steps measured. They had become, once more, the gracious hosts and their honored guest.

  Their performance was flawless. The smiles were bright, the laughter polite. They moved through the crowd, and no one saw the cracks in the porcelain. Not even Arthur and Ingrid, who, having been given their own duties, simply assumed the adults had returned to their tedious political games.

  Lyra gave Alistair a subtle nod and peeled away from the group, her gaze already scanning the crowd for her own targets.

  Alistair, now the sole center of the estate's gravity, took a breath and clapped his hands. His voice, amplified by a subtle enchantment, resonated over the hall.

  "My lords, ladies, honored guests! If I may have your attention for a moment? Would you care to join us in the garden for the evening's main presentation?"

  A wave of polite applause followed as the great mass of nobility flowed out into the magically-lit gardens.

  Servants glided through the crowd, directing the champions and their sponsors to a backstage pavilion. Alistair and Helena took their places on a raised stone stage. When a hush fell, Alistair spoke.

  "It is a rare honor to host so many esteemed representatives of the great houses and guilds," he began, his voice warm and commanding. "The Solstice Tournament is more than a simple contest; it is a celebration of the strength and spirit that binds our Confederacy. For the privilege of hosting it, I must extend my deepest gratitude to the Emperor himself."

  He paused, glancing toward the Emperor's representative, a stern-faced old man who gave a curt, approving nod.

  "Furthermore," Alistair continued, "I wish to commend the Emperor's wisdom in sanctioning the participation of the Beastfolk. This bold decree may well be the first stone in a bridge of lasting friendship between all our peoples."

  The crowd murmured, a mix of appreciation and barely-veiled anxiety at the thought .

  "I thank all of you who have already chosen a champion, and I eagerly await the choices of those still searching. In that spirit of new beginnings, it is my profound pleasure to announce that, after twenty years, House Greyoak once again enters the fray."

  A genuine, collective gasp swept through the crowd. This was real news.

  "I present to you our champion: Ingrid of Frostpine's End!"

  As Ingrid walked onto the stage, a shockwave of whispers followed her.

  She was a vision of silver and white , her ethereal beauty a stark, natural contrast to the calculated opulence of the noblewomen. The Prowler's Eye at her throat pulsed with a soft blue light, a perfect match for the rings Alistair and Helena now wore, forming a glittering triangle of patronage.

  In the crowd, Arthur felt a swell of pride so fierce it almost choked him. He heard the murmurs—"Gods, what a beauty...," "Where did Alistair find that?"—and he smiled, savoring her moment.

  Alistair raised his voice again. "Ingrid is a disciple of the great Sybill"

  A few of the older adventurers and military men in the crowd boomed in recognition of the name , though most of the younger nobles looked confused.

  Helena leaned in, her smile warm. "Show them your fire, my dear," she whispered.

  Ingrid stepped forward and raised a single, pale hand.

  A flock of shimmering ice-birds burst from her palm. They wheeled overhead, dusting the stunned crowd in a glittering, harmless frost. Then, they converged, coalescing into the shape of a magnificent, roaring phoenix—the lost sigil of Magellan.

  A second later, the ice incinerated. The phoenix became a creature of pure, brilliant fire, letting out a silent, blazing cry before dissolving into a thousand embers that faded in the night air.

  The crowd was breathless. It was a display of power, of dual-affinity, and of shocking political audacity.

  Helena, her face a mask of pride, guided the stunned Ingrid off the stage. Arthur was at her side in an instant.

  One by one, Alistair introduced the other champions, each giving a small display of their prowess.

  But by the seventh introduction, the noise and the stares were becoming too much for Ingrid.

  "Can we go somewhere else?" she whispered to Arthur, her voice tight.

  "Sure," he replied immediately. The polite, claustrophobic atmosphere was suffocating him, too. They slipped away from the stage, their departure unnoticed, and instinctively made their way toward the quiet and solace of the stables.

  As they passed a shadowy storage depot, they overheard two figures in a hushed, angry argument.

  "Ethan, please," a young, concerned female voice pleaded. "You must at least try to look pleasant. This introduction is important."

  "Why?" a sharp, cold male voice retorted. "It's a pointless formality. They'll know who I am when I win."

  Ingrid glanced over. She saw Lady Evelina , her face etched with worry, and the recluse blonde boy in the red robes . The boy, Ethan, saw Ingrid's passing glance. His own icy, disdainful expression cracked for just an instant, a flicker of surprise, before he turned back to Evelina.

  Arthur and Ingrid didn't slow down. It was just more noble drama, and they wanted no part of it.

  "Ethan," Evelina said, placing a hand on his cheek. "You need to learn to be in people's good graces."

  "Let's go," she urged, taking his hand.

  He pulled it away. "I can walk by myself."

  He strode past her toward the stage. As Alistair announced his name, the roar from the crowd was a wave of pure, scandalous energy, so loud that even Arthur and Ingrid, now halfway to the stables, paused at the sheer volume of it.