The bells tolled far too cheerfully for such an ungodly hour.
Aerion's eyes cracked open only halfway before he groaned and buried his face beneath the brocade pillow. He had barely slept—dreams blurred with static thoughts of Coriel and ink-stained pages and the stiff Spade family's blank stares. But apparently, nobility waited for no one, not even princes who were allergic to mornings.
Knock-knock-knock.
"Your Highness," came a sharp voice from behind the door. It was the same steward who had led him to his room last evening, with all the warmth of a polished blade. "Preparations for breakfast will begin shortly. You are expected in the Grand Dining Hall by the hour of first sun."
Aerion hissed into the pillow, muffled. "Is the sun even awake yet?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nothing. Just dying. Carry on."
The footsteps retreated. The silence returned—briefly.
Moments later, there was another knock. A softer one. Then a click. A young servant peeked inside, holding a tray stacked with folded garments, steaming water, and what looked like—praise be—a pot of tea.
"Good morning, Your Highness," she said quietly, giving him a slight bow. "Shall I draw the curtains?"
Aerion squinted toward the windows and answered with a groan that could be interpreted as do as you wish.
The heavy drapes were pulled aside, letting in the grayish-blue of early dawn. Outside, the spires of the Spade castle stood like shadowed teeth against the pale sky. The snow on the rooftops was undisturbed, the air frostbitten and silent.
Everything was just so... Spade.
Aerion sat up with the grace of a reanimated corpse. His hair stuck out in two directions. His tunic was wrinkled, his eyes rimmed in sleepy red, and he stared at the tea like it might save his life.
The servant poured without needing to be asked. She even added honey. He made a mental note to remember her face—and possibly build a small shrine in her honor.
"Your formalwear has been pressed, and your accessories have been arranged by the valets. You will be expected to wear your House crest today."
Aerion blinked slowly. "...Is nudity not an option?"
She didn't react. Impressive. She merely bowed again and gestured toward the ensemble set out for him: a high-collared maroon doublet with gold embroidery, a matching waist sash, silk gloves, and those gods-awful pointy shoes that made his toes scream for mercy.
He sipped his tea and stared at it like it had insulted him.
Thirty minutes later, after a harrowing session of tugging, lacing, brushing, and suffering, Aerion stood in front of the mirror looking like a prince carved out of ceremony. His eyes, however, screamed "held hostage."
He muttered, "Coriel would be laughing his whole damn soul out if he saw this."
And truthfully, he wasn't wrong.
Once ready, he was guided down two sweeping staircases, past a procession of armored guards who didn't blink once, and finally into the dining hall, where breakfast was already underway.
Aerion arrived to find the royals already seated.
At the table's head sat King Vernar Spade—broad-shouldered and statuesque, with a jaw carved like an ancient monument. His robes were black with silver-threaded edges, and his crown was understated but sharp, as if forged more for combat than coronation.
To his right, Queen Isylle—elegant and composed, hair arranged in a spiraling updo adorned with black pearls. Her expression was warm but observant, the kind that felt like she could read your intentions through your napkin placement.
Across from them sat their children.
Crown Prince Edrian, dressed in a high-collared navy coat with silver cuffs and a black pendant pinned to his cravat, looked thoroughly unimpressed. He was midway through a rant when Aerion arrived, gesturing with a silver spoon like it were a rapier.
"…And someone had the audacity to remove my ceremonial brooch from the east tower's display cabinet," he complained. "It's not just an heirloom, it's a symbol of Spade legacy. Do I look like the kind of man who leaves his royal history unattended?"
"You leave your socks in the antechamber every week," said Princess Liraine flatly, without looking up from the slice of pear she was meticulously skinning with a dagger. She wore muted violet robes with sleeves that draped like lazy clouds. Her crown rested loosely on her head, slightly askew, as if even it couldn't be bothered to sit properly.
Edrian scoffed. "That's a deliberate system of air-drying."
"Of course it is," she muttered, and resumed ignoring the world.
Queen Isylle offered a practiced smile as Aerion took his seat. "Prince Aerion. I trust you slept soundly?"
Aerion, ever the diplomat despite the crook in his neck and the protest in his ribs, returned a polite nod. "Like a stone, Your Majesty. A very polished, posture-disciplined stone."
King Vernar gave a single nod, which could've meant approval or acknowledgment or a signal to decapitate someone—it was hard to tell with him.
"Preparations are underway for the Noctis Concordia," he said, in a voice that could cause snow to hesitate mid-fall. "The city will be shifting to accommodate the festivities. Forgive the disarray, if any."
Aerion lifted his cup of tea. "Nothing like a little chaos to make one feel at home."
Edrian arched an eyebrow at that. "Hah. Spoken like a Heart prince. No offense."
"None taken," Aerion said, sipping. "Though I'm sure the brooch thief would agree with me."
Liraine let out the faintest huff that might have been a laugh.
King Vernar, unbothered by the banter, turned his attention to a parchment presented by a footman.
He set down his cup—porcelain thin as a whisper but balanced in his hand like a sword—and shifted his gaze toward Aerion. That stare had the gravity of ancient stones and frostbitten cliffs. Not hostile. Just dense, like he could press the truth out of you with a blink.
"So, Prince Aerion," he began, voice smooth but thunder-rooted, "what are your intentions for the day?"
It wasn't phrased as an interrogation. Not quite. But there was weight behind the words—Spade steel sheathed in protocol.
The dining table fell quiet for a half beat. Even the clink of silver against porcelain faded into nothing, as if the servants themselves were holding their breath just off-frame.
Aerion straightened slightly in his seat. "Well," he said, letting his spoon settle back into its bowl, "I hadn't crafted an ironclad itinerary just yet. I thought I might begin by wandering the palace grounds, familiarizing myself with your architecture and garden design. I've heard the west wing houses some rather unique sculpture pieces?"
Queen Isylle inclined her head, gently approving. "They do. Most were commissioned during the reign of my grandfather. A curious mix of tradition and interpretation."
Aerion smiled at her, more relaxed. "Then I'd like to see those. Possibly sketch some details, if the guards don't mistake me for an idle vagrant with suspicious artistic tendencies."
Edrian snorted into his cup. "You'd be the most overdressed vagrant in Spade history."
King Vernar remained focused. "And beyond our estate?"
Aerion hesitated. "Depending on how the city paths are cleared—given the upcoming festival, of course—I may request to visit the central district. I understand the market square features several artisans preparing for the Noctis Concordia? I'm curious how each kingdom interprets the aesthetic of light in their crafts."
That got a hum of interest from Queen Isylle, and even a raised brow from Liraine, though it was impossible to tell if she was intrigued or merely stretching her face muscles for the first time that morning.
The king nodded once, slow and deliberate.
"A respectful curiosity," he said. "But do not mistake Spade openness for Heart freedom. Some corners of our capital are less forgiving to soft edges."
Aerion bowed his head, lips tugging at the corners. "Understood, Your Majesty. I've been stabbed by etiquette before—I assure you, I learn quickly."
There was a faint twitch at the edge of the king's mouth. Perhaps a smile. Or perhaps a breath warming a mask.
"You will be escorted, of course," Vernar added. "A Spade blade must accompany a Heart guest."
Aerion's fork paused mid-air. "Let me guess… Kaelen?"
"Sir Kaelen, yes," said Edrian, all too satisfied. "Our finest knight. Surly, silent, and morally opposed to joy. A perfect match for you."
"He'll adore me," Aerion said with a grin. "I plan to ask him questions until he considers exile."
Liraine slowly, silently raised her goblet in what could only be interpreted as a toast to that.
♠♠♠
The breakfast had concluded with the clatter of utensils and the kind of pleasantries that sounded polite but felt like armor—worn, practiced, and perhaps just a little too polished.
Aerion found himself alone soon after, or at least unaccompanied by his hosts. A steward offered a light bow and a hesitant, "Shall I summon Sir Kaelen now, Your Highness?"
He waved the offer off like one would swat a lazy gnat. "Later," he said, already drifting toward one of the east-facing corridors. "I'd rather walk off the royal frostbite first."
The castle of Spade was a solemn monolith, its halls tall and narrow like the inside of a cathedral too proud to pray. Each step echoed faintly, tapping against floors so clean they might've been lacquered in discipline. Light filtered in sparsely through high arched windows, the sun cut into stark angles by thick panes of leaded glass.
Aerion ran a hand along the stone wall as he walked. Cold. Of course it was. This place wasn't built to comfort. It was built to endure.
Tapestries lined the walls—some ancient, their colors dimmed by time; others newer, with vibrant depictions of battles, ceremonies, and stoic-looking royals holding swords the way Heart Kingdom held fans. There were no laughing cherubs or playful flourishes here. Only legacy, nailed to the wall.
He passed a vaulted archway where a pair of guards stood as if carved from iron. One twitched—perhaps acknowledging him—but said nothing. Aerion offered a smile that went unreturned. Typical.
It was then, rounding a dim corner near a windowless corridor, that he heard it—
A soft, sharp rhythm, distant but clear.
Swish. Swish.
Pause.
Swish-swish.
Pause.
It wasn't music. It was motion. Steel kissing air. A blade's breath.
Aerion tilted his head, curiosity curling behind his eyes like smoke. No voices. No grunts. No clashing steel. Just the clean slicing of a sword through nothing.
He followed it—quietly at first, though his boots still murmured against the floor. The noise grew clearer with every turn, leading him to a heavy door left just slightly ajar, sunlight cutting through the crack like a watchful eye.
The castle's training grounds.
It opened into a stone courtyard framed by pale walls and trimmed hedges that had been shaped into symmetrical patterns—no wildness, no softness, only control. The ground was paved with flat grey tiles, many scored with faint scratches. There were weapon racks along the far side, training dummies near the center.
And near them… a lone figure.
Kaelen.
He stood with the precision of a statue in mid-motion—one foot forward, one arm extended, blade glinting faintly under the late-morning light. His hair, longer than most knights wore theirs, was tied back at the nape. A simple black shirt clung to his frame, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms that looked like they'd never once skipped sword drills.
Aerion might've called it beautiful if the man didn't seem like the very concept of joy owed him a debt.
Kaelen moved.
With no opponent before him, he sliced at air—clean, crisp motions. Not flashy, not theatrical. Just raw efficiency. Blade forward, pivot, step, slash. A dance stripped of music and replaced with breath and intent. His eyes didn't blink. His muscles didn't waste a flicker of energy.
Aerion leaned slightly against the edge of the door, captivated.
He didn't speak. Not yet.
Because in this moment, Kaelen was unaware of him.
And it was something… intimate. No armor. No formal stance. Just a man in his own rhythm, carving lines into the silence.
Then, suddenly—
Kaelen stopped.
His blade froze mid-swing, tip extended, body coiled in mid-strike. And slowly, ever so slightly, his head turned.
Their eyes met.
"Enjoying the show, Your Highness?" Kaelen said, voice flat but not surprised. Not angry either. Just… calm. Like he'd sensed the prince a full minute ago but hadn't felt the need to acknowledge him until now.
Aerion pushed the door a bit farther open and sauntered in like he hadn't just been caught peeking. "You know," he said, hands folded behind his back, "for someone who looks like he bites through granite for breakfast, you're remarkably light on your feet."
Kaelen lowered his blade, exhaling. "I didn't realize I was performing."
"Oh, you weren't," Aerion said cheerfully. "That's what made it worth watching."
He glanced at the training dummies—none of which had been touched—and then back at the knight. "No sparring partner today?"
Kaelen sheathed the sword in a smooth, fluid motion. "I don't need one."
Aerion took a few more steps in, deliberately casual. "Must be nice. I always found training alone a little dull. No tension. No unpredictability. No dramatic gasps when you trip over your own arrogance."
"You seem to supply enough unpredictability for ten men," Kaelen said, wiping the sweat from his brow with a cloth slung over the pommel of a wooden sword rack.
"Flatterer," Aerion quipped. Then, with a more honest look: "You're good, though. I mean it."
Kaelen didn't thank him. He simply picked up a water flask, drank deeply, and said, "Is there something you needed?"
Aerion took a breath. "No, not really. I was wandering. Got curious."
Kaelen turned to face him fully now, arms crossed over his chest. "Curiosity's dangerous here. Especially when it wanders into places it doesn't belong."
Aerion stepped closer, smile unfazed. "Then I suppose I'm lucky to have a grumpy knight to chase me out if needed."
For a second, Kaelen said nothing. Then, barely, barely, the corner of his mouth twitched.
"You should get ready. If you plan to visit the city, you'll need proper escort. Protocol and all."
"And that would be you, wouldn't it?"
"I draw the short straw more often than I like."
Aerion clapped his hands lightly together. "Marvelous. Then I suppose I'll go sketch a few statues while you finish attacking the atmosphere."
Kaelen raised an eyebrow. "Try not to wander too far, Your Highness."
"I make no promises."
And with that, Aerion turned on his heel and strolled back toward the archway, his mind already spinning with questions to torment Kaelen with once they ventured into the city.
Behind him, Kaelen watched.
Not with suspicion.
But with something far more dangerous.
Interest.
♠♠♠
The encounter with Kaelen left a quiet tremor under Aerion's skin—not quite annoyance, not quite intrigue. Something sharper. Undefined. Like the lingering scent of metal after a forge.
But he didn't head back to his quarters.
Not yet.
He followed the southern corridor instead, past an arch flanked by obsidian columns etched with runes that felt more ceremonial than readable. His boots clicked gently on the cold tile as he moved deeper into a wing.
This was the Hall of Still Virtues—or so a polished brass plaque near the entrance read.
The air inside felt different. Heavier, not with dust but with intent. Each breath felt filtered through years of memory.
Statues lined the hall, set into alcoves along either side, each one haloed by narrow slits of high windows that let the light spill down in angled ribbons. They weren't randomly placed—they were symmetrical, deliberate. Balanced in the way Spade Kingdom seemed to demand of all things.
Aerion slowed.
The first statue was of a knight—no nameplate, just a simple plaque: Valour in Silence.
The figure stood straight, sword sheathed, helm under one arm. His face bore no smile, no scowl—just a gaze fixed somewhere beyond time.
The next bore a woman in a scholar's robe, one hand cradling a closed book, the other raised as if mid-speech. Wisdom Without Ambition.
A curious motto, Aerion mused. In the Heart Kingdom, wisdom with ambition was considered the backbone of statesmanship. But here, perhaps ambition was a danger best left chained.
He kept walking.
More statues. Some young, some aged. All carved with startling realism—like they might breathe if you blinked too long. The sculptor hadn't flattered these figures; they were raw, severe, grounded. Wrinkles etched with purpose. Scars not hidden, but honored.
Aerion paused before one of the more recent statues—less weathered by time.
This one was of a young man—barely older than Aerion himself, if at all. He knelt, sword planted before him like a gravestone, his brow lowered—not in shame, but in a kind of permanent vow. His armor was less ceremonial, more practical, detailed with scratches and wear.
Loyalty in Loss.
There was no name.
Aerion's brows furrowed slightly. "Not much for storytelling, are you?" he murmured under his breath.
The silence responded with its usual indifference.
He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a stub of graphite and the sketchbook Coriel had given him. Turning to a blank page toward the middle, he began to draw—just the lines first. The curve of the statue's pauldron. The downward tilt of the jaw. The tension in the knuckles wrapped around the sword's hilt.
His strokes were practiced, patient. A kind of meditation.
He lost track of time.
A wind stirred faintly through the high corridor, brushing the hem of his coat. He paused, blinked, looked around.
Still alone.
Except for the stone eyes watching him.
Further down, there was a platform—raised slightly with two wide steps leading to it. Unlike the others, this niche had a full wall mural behind it, flanked with banners bearing the Spade sigil: a dark shield split with silver and black.
The statue here stood taller than the rest.
A woman in elaborate armor, one gauntlet resting on the head of a lion carved into the base of the pedestal. Her hair was bound in a long braid, falling over one shoulder, and her eyes stared ahead with the gravity of someone who commanded rather than asked.
Queen Althera Spade, First Blade of the Concord.
At last, a name.
Aerion tilted his head. She didn't look regal in the usual way. No crown. No scepter. Just power rendered in pose and poise. The sword on her back was nearly as long as she was tall.
"You would've hated my family's banquets," he whispered.
He flipped to a new page and began sketching again, this time slower. There was something magnetic about her. A stillness that spoke louder than most people he'd met.
By the time he finished shading the eyes, a servant was clearing their throat behind him.
"Your Highness," the boy said nervously. "Sir Kaelen wishes to know if you are ready for departure soon. His words, not mine."
Aerion closed the sketchbook with a gentle tap. "Tell him I'll be out shortly."
The servant gave a hasty nod and scurried off.
He took one last look at the statues around him.
So much silence.
So much stone.
But beneath it… stories. Losses. Vows. Things that had weight without needing names.
He turned and walked out of the hall with lighter steps than before, the sketchbook tucked firmly beneath one arm.