Tudor stood as the heart of the Calypsan Empire - not for its size or strength, but for what it represented: unity. The city was built on an island that sat in the open vastness of Rivain and Monroe’s crescent land shape, where every street curved with elegance, and the flora was lush with paradisal warmth. The Accord was held once a year inside Calypsa Castle, where the Empire’s nobility gathered not to battle, but to speak. Its purpose was a peaceful ten-day summit where dukes, lords, generals, and scholars alike arrived under banners of truce to foster new alliances and trade agreements. Not to mention, the evening festivities held within the city itself was a perfect excuse to show off each region’s talents; swordsmanship, dancing; whatever the people could think of. All swords were sheathed, held under Neutrality Law enforced by the Imperial army.

  Naomi sat perched at the edge of a velvet chaise, her golden robes falling in smooth lines to the floor like liquid sunlight. She had only just turned thirteen less than a month ago, and was attending her first Accord.

  The Duchess of Monroe stood before the tall mirror as a maid adjusted the folds of her gown with sharp, efficient gestures. The Duke waved the servants out.

  “You may walk through the main halls,” her mother said, assessing herself in the mirror. “But do not grab anyone’s attention. Answer if anyone asks questions, but say nothing of worth.”

  “I understand,” Naomi answered automatically.

  “And stay away from the Northerners,” her father added sharply.

  The Duchess let out a breath of contempt, her voice harsh. “Northern men are brutes. Do not fall for their masculinity, lest they bare their fangs-”

  “- as you turn your back to them,” Naomi finished in a quiet voice.

  “Exactly,” The Duke said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “We may be in talks for quite some time. Don’t wait for us.”

  And just like that, they swept from the room, golden robes trailing behind them like falling stars.

  **

  On the opposite side of the castle, a handmaid fastened the last strap of the cape pauldron on Cassien’s shoulder before stepping back to allow the Duke and Duchess of Rivain to give him a once over. His mother swept back a stray of black hair from his pale face.

  “Mind your temper, Cassien,” her face darkened slightly with amused disapproval. “We don’t want a repeat of last year, do we?”

  Cassien nodded, his mind flitting back to last year when he struck an older southern lord for failing to address him properly. “Yes, mother.”

  “But don’t let anyone speak down to you. Try to get along with the younger lords of the western lands if you can.”

  “Yes, they may be under our rule but it’s never a bad idea to be on good terms with future lords,” his father agreed.

  “And the South?” Cassien asked, already knowing the answer.

  “The Southerners speak like songbirds,” his mother muttered. “Pretty notes before they drop something on your head.”

  “Keep your distance,” his father added flatly. “Don’t waste your breath on them.”

  With a final nod of approval from his parents, Cassien strode out of the room, his cape billowing behind him like a dark shadow. His boots clicked against the polished stone floor as he made his way through the winding corridors of Calypsa Castle. The castle was bustling with activity, nobles from all corners of the kingdom milling about, their voices echoing off the high ceilings. As Cassien entered the main hall, he was immediately struck by the opulence surrounding him. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the room, reflecting off the gilded walls and intricate tapestries. It was a stark difference from the cooler tones up in the North, not to mention his people did not care much for aesthetic quality over functionality. Cassien's eyes scanned the room as he spotted a group of young lords from the western lands clustered together, their animated gestures suggesting a lively conversation. Cassien approached them, a neutral look on his face.

  As Cassien drew closer to the group, he caught snippets of their conversation. They were discussing the recent advancements in agricultural techniques that had been implemented in their lands. While it was clear they were older than him, though less than adults, his tall and built stature easily shadowed the fact that Cassien had barely turned fourteen several months ago.

  "My father said the new irrigation system has increased crop yields by almost twenty-six percent," said a blond boy, his eyes bright with excitement. "It's revolutionized the way we farm."

  One of the boys with curly brown hair, noticed Cassien approaching and quickly shushed the others who turned with surprised eyes.

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  "Lord Cassien!" the curly-haired boy exclaimed, a hint of panic in his voice. "We didn't see you there."

  Cassien’s expression was unchanging. "I could not help but overhear your conversation. It sounds like the west is making great strides in agriculture."

  The group exchanged nervous glances before one of them spoke up, his voice slightly tremulous. "Y-yes, my lord. The new irrigation system has been a game-changer for us."

  "Impressive," Cassien replied, nodding slowly. "The North’s frigidity would have difficulty in sustaining such pipes before they burst.”

  The boys looked at each other, uncertainty written on their faces. Cassien could practically hear their thoughts racing, wondering if they had said too much or if he would report their conversation back to his father.

  “Um, Lord Cassien,” the boy with short blond hair that Cassien recognized as Thom Paldarin, reached out his hand in a greeting. “Perhaps this would be a good chance to mention my father, the Marquis… he’s been eager to meet the Duke of Rivain.”

  Cassien regarded Thom's outstretched hand for a moment before reaching out and grasping it firmly. "I will mention it to my father," he said, his voice giving nothing away.

  The boys seemed to relax slightly at Cassien's words, though they still watched him warily. Cassien knew he had a reputation among the younger nobles as someone who was not to be trifled with. His icy demeanor and the fact that he hailed from the North only added to the aura of intimidation that surrounded him.

  But the young boys’ attention to the topic changed quickly as they spoke with fast, clipped energy, voices barely restrained by the formality of the occasion.

  “-so if the northern frost cloth can be reinforced with the lacquer threads we produce, your…”

  “....More efficient for mountain patrols,” another added. “Good for creating some more jobs for…”

  Cassien nodded, arms crossed. He didn’t particularly care for setting up trades or political alliances at this point in time, but he listened just enough to relay any potential information to his father to prove he at least played nice with the others. His attention drifted as one of them began a long-winded tangent about coyotes razing the farms, and that was when he noticed her.

  A girl had entered the room through the side arch unannounced, walking with the kind of elegance one didn’t learn, but came naturally. Every movement was intentional, as if even the fabric of her gown had been commanded not to wrinkle. Wavy hair fell like warm silver snow to her lower-back, side bangs delicately framing her light golden face that was sprinkled with freckles akin to brown sugar. Every feature of hers was delicate, but not in a way that depicted fragility. Her chin was held high, but her blue eyes were downcast as if she were to be nothing more than a wallflower. He did not think it could be possible with such a brilliant aura.

  Cassien blinked, dumbfounded at his thoughts.

  “-don’t you think, Lord Cassien?” one of the western boys asked, interrupting him.

  Cassien didn’t look back right away. “...Depends,” he responded. “On how much heat frost cloth can take before it burns.”

  They agreed eagerly in an effort to impress him, but Cassien had already turned away again, watching the girl now as she passed a row of older courtiers. Not a single one dared block her path. His brow furrowed as he attempted to discern any semblance of a crest that would indicate where she hailed from. He scanned his memory and couldn’t recall anyone that resembled her from last years’ Accord; her dress was unmistakably expensive but not ostentatious. Even without a crest, he could tell she didn’t hail from the North.

  She must’ve only recently come of age to have been invited, Cassien thought.

  She disappeared behind a marble column, the chandelier light catching the pale blonde shimmer of her hair one last time before she was gone from view. He didn’t know who she was.

  But there was no mistaking it - she was someone who did not need to be introduced to be known.

  **

  Naomi stepped lightly over the threshold into the main chamber, filled with the chatter of young heirs trying too hard to sound important, their laughter echoing against marble and stained glass. She kept her expression composed - chin high, hands loosely clasped - though she could already feel the beginnings of a headache bloom behind her eyes.

  Her mother had told her to at least make her presence known, but Naomi wasn’t about to strike up a conversation with anyone. It was the first time she was not being escorted - perhaps a sign of trust - and she was afraid to abuse such a privilege. It was a daunting balance between doing enough to please her parents while staying out of their way. She glided between conversation circles like light slipping through cracks, careful not to linger too long before anyone paid her any attention beyond a glance. She paused by the edge of a colonnade, pretending to study the smooth architecture. Her ears did the work - names, titles, agendas. Already, half the room’s motivations unfolded like a fan, exactly as mother predicted before they left for Tudor.

  She let her gaze wander again in a careful sweep, feigned as absentmindedly, when her eyes landed on a particular black-haired boy. Tall, strong-jawed, and unbothered by the energy around him, the boy stood half-turned from his group, golden eyes set in indifference. He looked more like a wolf prowling through the tundra than a boy at court.

  She recognized the colors immediately - the navy cloak lined in white fur, the silver embroidery across the chest. She’d seen it in sketches, in political briefings, in her mother’s whispered warnings. Rivain.

  Naomi immediately averted her eyes as if she were seeing something not meant for her eyes, but curiosity got the better of her. How savage and brutal were these Northern men, as her mother had claimed? He didn’t match the description that had been painted all her life. The South spoke of them as wolves in tattered coats, blunt weapons with iron tempers and colder manners. But the words didn’t match what she saw from across the chambers, the soft light of day radiating a cool aura around him as it spilled through.

  He was well-groomed, meticulously so - his cloak heavy with embroidery, his hair carefully tousled in a middle-parted wave, his expression unreadable. He stood tall like a knight but dressed like a prince; an immaculate poker face, unmarred by the heat of youth.

  Why do you care so much? Look away. Do not stare. Do not show interest. Be the question, not the answer.

  With a final turn of her head, Naomi killed the cat of curiosity.