The great hall was alive with the ctter of goblets and the low hum of conversation, but ughter dominated the air.

  Qyngmi stood at the head of the table, silver glinting between his fingers as he sent the royal table knives spinning, catching them effortlessly before tossing them again. The gathered nobles and soldiers—Harriot’s men and some of Everburn’s—roared with approval, pounding the table in delight.

  “Don’t try this at home, folks,” Qyngmi warned, fshing a grin as he snatched a bde inches from his face. “In fact—don’t try anything I do anywhere. At all. I never cimed to be a role model.”

  One of the king’s knights let out a wheezing ugh. “By the gods, man, where did he find you?”

  Qyngmi gave a theatrical bow, knives still twirling in his hands. “I was rendered an orphan in the Elf War, I learned to perform for my supper, and my benevolent lord’s house took me in. Or was it the other way around? I forget.”

  Another burst of ughter. A noblewoman dabbed tears from her eyes. Lord Harriot, lounging with a goblet in hand, looked pleased. He gestured to the long table. “Come now, don’t let us have all the fun. Who among you thinks they can match wits or hands with my jester?”

  A few of his men jeered and nudged each other, but none stepped forward.

  Qyngmi smirked, letting the knives settle into his palms one by one. “Ah, a wise bunch. The st man to challenge me is still counting his fingers. Can’t have any bloodshed before the first course.”

  The knives settled back onto the table one by one, each nding with a soft clink as Qyngmi flipped them into pce. His hands moved with a practiced ease, a casual elegance that made the entire act seem effortless—almost unthinking. As he pced the bdes down, a keen observer might have noticed that one was missing. But no one was looking closely. They never did. And Qyngmi never minded.

  Not that anyone was watching too closely. The great hall was still filled with the sound of ughter and cttering goblets, the revelry too thick for any to question a single absent piece of silver. With the deftness of a man who had done this a hundred times before, Qyngmi slipped the bde into his sleeve, his grin never faltering.

  *******

  Beyond the hall, past the heavy oak doors and down the dimly lit corridor, Princess Everburn stood waiting. The flickering torchlight cast shifting patterns across the stone walls, her shadow stretching long beside her. She was poised but still, the weight of the evening settling upon her shoulders as she waited for her father.

  He had stepped aside, lingering near an alcove, speaking in hushed tones to a man she did not recognize. The stranger’s cloak was dark, unmarked save for a small silver pin at the colr—an insignia she could not pce, though something about it gnawed at the edges of her memory.

  She could not hear all of their conversation, only the occasional murmur, the clipped sylbles of a message not meant for her ears. But then, as the stranger dipped his head in a short nod and turned to leave, she caught her father’s final words.

  “Before the week is out,” he said. Then added, almost cheerfully, “You understand why it must be quick, don’t you?”

  The man disappeared into the shadows.

  King Everburn straightened, his expression unreadable as he turned toward his daughter at st.

  “You’ve been acting… different,” Princess Everburn said, watching him carefully. “Are you okay?”

  King Everburn turned his gaze to her, unreadable as ever. Then, after a beat—“Are you?”

  The question caught her off guard. She opened her mouth, then hesitated. He wasn’t just asking about her state of mind. He was asking if she could do what was necessary—if she could keep Lord Harriot in the dark, smile at him over dinner, act as if nothing had changed.

  Princess Everburn straightened. “I’m fine,” she said, too quickly. “Just thinking.”

  King Everburn studied her for a moment longer, then nodded. “Come now. Let’s not keep our guests waiting.”

  The doors to the great hall swung open with a resounding creak, and the murmuring of the gathered nobles hushed to a near silence.

  Two heralds stepped forward, their silver trumpets raised. The sharp, triumphant notes of the royal fanfare cut through the air, commanding attention. Every goblet was lowered, every gaze turned toward the grand entrance.

  "Announcing His Majesty, King Everburn, Sovereign of the Ember Throne, Lord of the Ashen Crown!" The first herald’s voice rang through the hall.

  "And Her Royal Highness, Princess Everburn, Heiress of the Fme, Keeper of the Bloodline!" The second followed.

  A ripple of movement spread through the room as nobles and knights alike rose from their seats in reverence. Even Lord Harriot, who had been lounging with a goblet in hand, stood with the practiced grace of a man accustomed to courtly spectacle.

  King Everburn entered first, his stride unhurried yet purposeful, his gaze sweeping the room with an air of measured authority. His presence alone seemed to command the very fmes flickering in the chandeliers above.

  Princess Everburn followed a step behind. Draped in crimson and gold, she looked every bit the daughter of fire and royalty. Yet, beneath her poised exterior, something coiled within her, restrained but restless. She could still feel the faint echoes of her earlier anger, the strength in her bloodline simmering just beneath the surface.

  She spotted the elven jester at the table’s edge, his face calm but his eyes restless, flicking between her, her father… and their jewels. His kind were rarely seen as people. He seemed to return the favor.

  King Everburn reached the head of the table and lifted a hand. "Be seated."

  As the guests obeyed, Princess Everburn’s gaze flickered to Lord Harriot. He smiled at her, confident. Certain.

  He still thought he was going to marry her.

  She lowered herself into her seat, smoothing out the fabric of her gown, and forced a polite smile.

  The feast had begun.