They were barely past the first course, and Princess Everburn already wanted to crush Lord Harriot’s skull like a walnut. It would be so easy. Just give in to the magic that had run through her bloodline for generations—the same power that had allowed them to conquer every castle, every scrap of nd visible from the ramparts of her ancestral home.

  Let the same power that made the great kings and queens of old destroy their enemies in bloody glory flow through her hand, let it crush him. Stop that stupid, bthering mouth once and for all.

  She felt a silver fork crumple like paper in her grip as she struggled to suppress the thought.

  Lord Harriot didn’t seem to notice. Seeing that Princess Everburn wasn’t touching her pea soup with rare spices, he’d taken it for himself. Now, the bowl was upended as he drained the st of it.

  “Delicious!” he roared. “Your chefs can prepare a mighty meal indeed!”

  “I’ll be sure to let them know you approve,” she said, forcing a smile.

  She side-eyed her father, barely concealing her disbelief at the fun he was having. The great and terrible King Everburn—conqueror, tactician, the man whose presence alone sent lesser lords to their knees—was sitting there, sipping wine, being entertained by Lord Harriot’s jester.

  The elf was bancing a goblet on the tip of a dagger, the bde’s edge resting lightly against his finger as the cup swayed precariously.

  “A fool’s life is a perilous one,” he mused, his voice steady despite the delicate bance. “One slip, and—” He flicked his wrist. The dagger spun, sending the goblet flipping into the air before nding perfectly upright in his free hand. He took a sip, then fshed a grin. “Well, let’s just say there’s no second act.”

  The gathered nobles chuckled, and even King Everburn let out a soft exhale of amusement.

  “You perform well under pressure,” the King noted.

  Qyngmi gave a dramatic bow. “I must. The audience can be so…unforgiving.” His gaze flicked momentarily to the King’s rings, glinting in the firelight, before he righted himself. “And yet, I find that ughter is the great equalizer. Wouldn’t you agree, your grace?”

  Everburn studied him, swirling his wine. “A sword is the great equalizer, fool. Laughter is just what’s left after the dust settles.”

  Qyngmi twirled the dagger between his fingers, nodding as if considering the words deeply. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he sent the bde spinning into the air again, catching it effortlessly.

  “And yet,” he said, slipping the dagger back into its sheath, “we’re all here at the table together, ughing instead of swinging swords. Perhaps the world isn’t so hopeless after all.”

  King Everburn swirled his wine, his gaze steady. “My grandfather hated your people. Drove them out of this nd by the sword. My father continued his work. Me a bit as well, though you lot were mostly gone by then.” He took a slow sip, then exhaled. “All the same… you might be one of the good ones. I’m gd the genocide missed you.”

  The table quieted just a little. Not enough to kill the mood, but enough to let the weight of his words settle like dust after a distant colpse.

  Qyngmi let out a soft chuckle, tapping a finger against his temple as if weighing the thought. Then, with a shrug—like brushing away a speck of dust—he grinned. “Quite a day to get a compliment like that from one’s king. Luck and wit are a fool’s greatest weapons. Can’t say the same for swords, can I?”

  The second course—pastry stuffed with carrot purée and minced venison—prompted Lord Harriot to unch into a string of hunting tales.

  “I once stumbled upon a prize buck while he was rutting with a doe. Shot him clean between the eyes. Ha! At least he died happy.”

  The third course, a vegetable sad drizzled with aged dark vinegar and olive oil, steered the conversation toward his mother.

  “She's always in our keep’s garden. Gods help me, I never understand why she doesn't just have the staff do it. But it makes her happy, I suppose.”

  The fourth course—a rare fnk of mb, freshly killed and served with sugary mint jelly—blessed the table with silence. Lord Harriot was too busy stuffing meat down his gullet.

  “Mmmmf! Superb!”

  By then, Princess Everburn had reached her limit. If she had to endure one more word, she might have strangled herself with the tablecloth just to escape.

  She turned to him, her voice honeyed. “Lord Harriot, I feel like I’ve taken up so much of your time this evening. Wouldn’t you like to spend some time talking with my father?”

  Lord Harriot practically beamed. “Speak with the King?” He puffed out his chest. “What an honor! Though I’d hate to leave a dy without company.”

  Princess Everburn gave a delicate ugh, waving a hand dismissively. “Nonsense! Your fool can entertain me while my father imparts some wisdom on you.”

  Harriot hesitated only a moment before grinning and rising to his feet. He smoothed out his tunic, casting a brief gnce at Qyngmi before turning away. “Very well. Try not to let him fill your head with nonsense.”

  As he strode off to join the King, Qyngmi let out an exaggerated sigh and stretched his arms as if bracing himself for some great ordeal. He made his way over, fingers zily drumming along the edge of the tablecloth, tugging it just slightly askew as he passed.

  Princess Everburn studied him in full for the first time. He had the posture of a creature who never wanted to take anything too seriously. His movements were loose and unhurried, yet there was an alertness beneath it all. His eyes—quick, flickering, always moving—took in more than they let on.

  A performer, yes. His presence depended on keeping others entertained. But there was something else there, something harder to pce.

  And what did he see when he looked at her? Merely the next audience member he had to entertain? Or a princess wrapped in silk and gold, a creature of privilege he could mock in whispers the moment her back was turned?

  Qyngmi broke the silence first. “Well,” he mused, twirling a fork between his fingers, “I suppose I should be fttered. Not often I get to hold a royal’s attention. Let alone two of them.”

  Princess Everburn arched a brow. “I doubt you’ve gone a day in your life without demanding someone’s attention.”

  “Guilty as charged.” Qyngmi smirked, flipping the fork into the air and catching it with ease. “So, what do you enjoy?”

  Princess Everburn blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

  He tilted his head. “What entertains you? His Lordship enjoys knife tricks and bawdy jokes that would make a priest faint. But I can py to a different audience.”

  She considered that for a moment, tapping a single finger against the rim of her goblet. What did she enjoy? She was accustomed to conversation about duty and expectations—but entertainment? That was a question she hadn’t been asked in a long time.

  At st, she met his gaze. “Fire and spectacle.”

  Qyngmi’s grin widened. “Ah. A woman after my own heart.” He gave a theatrical bow, then straightened. “Fire and spectacle it is.”

  The elf snatched a brandy bottle from the hands of a passing noble, spinning it between his fingers before pouring a generous mouthful past his lips.

  Then, with a flick of his wrist, a match appeared between his fingers as if conjured from thin air. He struck it against the table’s edge, the tiny fme flickering hungrily.

  With a practiced motion, he tilted his head back and spit out the brandy in a thin, controlled stream. The moment it met the fire, it erupted into a brief but brilliant fireball, sending warm light dancing across the great hall.

  Princess Everburn caught herself leaning forward ever so slightly, the flicker of something almost like amusement threatening to surface.

  Qyngmi wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and fshed a smug grin. “Tah-dah.”

  “Fire is a hungry thing,” she said, voice measured. “You should be careful, fool. It doesn’t care who feeds it.”

  Qyngmi held her gaze, then let out a small chuckle. He spread his hands as if to show he was unarmed, his grin unwavering.

  “My royal highness,” he said lightly, “it’s a party trick.”

  The banquet continued with the steady rhythm of indulgence and conversation. Wine flowed freely, goblets never empty for long. Harriot, now well-fed and deep into his drink, grew louder, his boasts turning more exaggerated with each refill. His men cheered him on, while Everburn’s knights remained more reserved, though a few indulged in ughter when decorum allowed.

  Qyngmi kept himself busy entertaining where he could—simple sleight-of-hand tricks for the nobles near him, a whispered joke here and there that left a few stifling their ughter. He pyed the room like an instrument, careful not to overpy his hand. He was watching, listening. Taking note.

  Princess Everburn, for her part, endured. She picked at her food, nodded when politeness required, and responded to Lord Harriot with just enough engagement to keep him satisfied. Her father, on the other hand, remained wholly at ease, sipping his wine, speaking little, observing much.

  Then, as the final ptters were cleared and the hall settled into a satisfied lull, King Everburn rose to his feet. The room quieted instantly.

  A speech was coming.

  And when King Everburn spoke, people listened.

  Goblet in hand, he let the moment stretch, surveying the assembled nobles, knights, and honored guests with the measured gaze of a man accustomed to commanding a room. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of decades, smooth yet edged with something deeper.

  “My friends, my allies, my most esteemed guests,” he began, inclining his head. “It warms my heart to see such fine company gathered in my halls this evening. We all know what has brought us here—” a pause, a knowing smile ”—though I suspect some of us are too polite to say it outright.”

  Scattered chuckles rippled through the hall. Lord Harriot grinned, tipping his goblet.

  “But before we speak of the future, let us remember the past. When I was but a young man, my father pced a sword in my hand and bid me take what was ours. It was a time of fire, of conquest. A time when kings did not merely rule—they earned their thrones, one battlefield at a time. And so I did.”

  A murmur of approval. A few lords sat straighter at the memory, their expressions alight with pride. One of the King’s old war companions, Lord Darven, smiled fondly.

  “We crushed our enemies, forged our borders in blood and iron, and for a time, I thought those days would never end. That I would live and die as a king of war, as my forefathers had before me.”

  His fingers tightened slightly on his goblet. Then he exhaled, tilting his head as if in amusement.

  “But as… the gods had other pns.”

  A chuckle rippled through the room.

  “Peace,” he said, drawing the word out as if tasting it. “A reign not of swords and sieges, but of treaties and trade. The fires of war cooled to embers, leaving behind only the occasional peasant rebellion or a few elves to contend with.”

  “You’re welcome,” Qyngmi muttered under his breath.

  Princess Everburn turned her head sharply. The jester was still lounging, expression unreadable, but she caught the glint of something sharp in his eyes.

  Her father hadn’t heard—or if he had, he gave no indication.

  “And now, we stand on the precipice of something new.” The king lifted his goblet slightly. “For we all know what it means when a king must choose his heir in times of peace…”

  Laughter followed, the kind that carried both amusement and understanding. Lord Harriot’s chest swelled slightly, his eyes flicking toward the princess.

  She did not return the look.

  The undercurrent was clear. King Everburn wasn’t just reflecting on the past—he was setting the stage for what was to come.

  King Everburn lifted his goblet, the gold catching the light of the chandeliers as he swept his gaze over the assembled lords, knights, and dignitaries. His voice, steady and commanding, carried through the hall with practiced ease.

  “To those who have served this nd, who have bled for it, who have built their homes and families beneath its banners—tonight, we raise our cups to you. To any emissaries visiting from foreign nations, may you drink deeply and know that here, we honor strength, loyalty, and history.”

  A rumble of approval spread through the hall as goblets were lifted in return. Lord Harriot, already flushed from drink, was the first to let out a hearty cheer. Others followed, voices rising in a wave of agreement, swept up in the King’s words.

  Princess Everburn kept her face neutral, lifting her goblet in unison with the rest, though her fingers remained tight around the stem. Across from her, Qyngmi mimicked the motion, grinning. But she caught the slightest tilt of his head, the way his gaze flickered over the room, as if he were counting who among them cheered the loudest—and who merely followed along.

  The King let the noise settle before raising his cup a fraction higher. The firelight gleamed in his eyes, a flicker of something deeper behind his regal composure.

  “So, to the future. To the bloodline of Everburn. To the castle Everburn. To the nation of Everburn. May the fme always light a path for those who follow it… and incinerate those who cannot see the light.”

  A roar of approval erupted through the great hall, boots stomping against the stone floor, fists pounding the long tables. Even those who had hesitated before now joined in, unwilling to stand apart from the tide.

  Princess Everburn took a slow sip of her wine, masking her thoughts behind the rim of her cup.

  Beside her, Qyngmi drank as well, his eyes glinting with something sharp before he drained his goblet with a smirk.

  Lord Harriot shot to his feet, goblet in hand, the st of his wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim. His cheeks were flushed, his grin wide and unburdened by thought.

  “A toast!” he bellowed, swaying just slightly. “To King Everburn, the mightiest ruler this nd has ever known! To the princess—” he turned to her, winking, “—a vision of beauty and grace! And to the future! Bright as a roaring fire!”

  He downed what was left of his drink in one triumphant gulp, smming the goblet back onto the table with an audible cng. The room erupted into cheers, tankards raised, voices booming in agreement.

  Princess Everburn smiled through gritted teeth.

  The elf just smiled.