The Court of Chains had convened again.
Not by decree, but by instinct.
Whispers echoed through the high colonnades of the royal sanctum, slipping like knives between nobles and magistrates. Black-robed oathkeepers passed urgent messages by hand, ink still drying.
"She is not here for her Victory Ceremony."
"Not even a bow. Not even the flame-marked salute."
"She returned from the border and went straight to the east wing."
"To him."
The word passed through clenched teeth, as if Cael was a curse.
High Minister Vaerel—eyes sunken and robe pressed sharp—stood at the chamber's head. His voice was slick with restrained fury. "We gave her command of the famine provinces. We entrusted her with the title Flamebearer. And now… she rejects court in favor of a prison?"
"She's always favored him," murmured Lady Cirell, fingers laced in poison rings. "Even when he spat blood in her face."
"She should have destroyed him completely."
The silence that followed was colder than any winter wind. And then—
"She grows unpredictable," Vaerel said. "Like her mother before her."
That earned a pause. Even the bravest courtiers did not speak of Queen Serathe lightly.
"She's begun to undermine the throne's authority," Vaerel continued. "Redistributing royal grain to commoners. Ignoring ceremonial order. Favoring the east wing. If we don't act—"
"Careful," came a new voice from the shadows. Deep, deliberate, laced with ancient weight.
The king's steward.
Old as moonlight. Pale as parchment.
"She is still the heir," the steward said. "And her power is not one the court may revoke without war."
A final hush fell.
Not peace.
Just the kind of stillness that comes before lightning strikes.
---
Velastra stood by the window of Cael's chamber.
Her cloak had been discarded; the scent of wind and distant smoke still lingered in her hair. Cael sat on the edge of the low couch, still turning the Celestine bloom over in his fingers when she spoke, unexpectedly.
"Cael, in Nirhaleth how do people celebrate victory?"
The question made him pause.
Not because it was difficult.
But because it was the first time she had asked about his fallen kingdom.
A small smile touched the corner of his mouth, slow and tired and warm with memory.
"We didn't have parades. No crowns. No oaths of flame or blood. Just—food. Laughter. Soldiers were fed until they couldn't walk straight. There was wine—Virellen, we called it. Bitter, with a smell that lingered for days. Made from duskgrapes grown on volcanic ash." he said at last, the words curling softly like the echo of a half-forgotten prayer.
Velastra stepped closer.
"And what did you eat?"
He met her gaze.
"Suveril balls," he said. "Sticky rice—soaked in bone-broth and honeyed lotus sap. Folded in sea-wrap and cooked in fire ash by the temple cooks. Always made by one woman- Yunari the Gentle."
Velastra blinked.
"You celebrated with rice balls and wine?"
"Yes. And firelight. And songs that didn't speak of blood."
A pause. Then—
Velastra looked away from him, toward the window. Her voice was quiet, but firm.
"Then I want that."
Cael stilled. "…What?"
She turned back to him.
"The wine. The rice. The taste of victory without power struggles- I want that."
---
Cael stared at her.
There was no cruelty in her voice. Just something... quieter. Like longing, dressed in armor.
He set the bloom down gently, rose to his feet.
"There's no Yunari the Gentle here," he said, voice dry.
Velastra shrugged. "Then, we will do it."
"And I doubt your palace kitchens have lotus sap."
"We will improvise," Velastra answered as she walks towards the door.
---
They stood together in the quiet warmth of the side hearth—rarely used except for healing broths. A single flame crackled beneath a brass pot, and a tray of ingredients rested nearby, gathered hastily by a servant too afraid to question the request.
Cael dipped his hands in the cold water basin, washed the grain. Velastra mimicked him—awkward, her fingers more used to blade hilts than cooking bowls.
The rice steamed in a clay vessel over coals. He showed her how to fold sea-leaf without tearing it. She burned her fingers once, cursed under her breath.
He didn't laugh.
He didn't have to.
Their silence filled the room like something sacred.
"Here," he said, placing a finished rice ball—round, uneven, imperfect—into her hand. "Not quite Suveril, but… close."
She turned it over, studying it as if it were a relic.
"It's ugly," she said bluntly.
Cael only looked at her, his eyes asking her to try it.
Velastra smirked, and bit into it.
She chewed.
Paused.
Chewed again.
And then—very quietly—closed her eyes.
"…It's warm."
That was all she said.
Velastra lifted her version. Misshapen. Charred.
"You try it too," she said, handing it to him like a weapon.
Cael stared at it.
Then, he took a bite.
And stopped.
"…What?"
She arched a brow. "You look betrayed."
He forced himself to swallow. No words. But his brows can't hide it's ugliness.
Velastra bit into hers with a warrior's resolve.
Then immediately spat it into the fire.
"No," she said, wiping her mouth. "Absolutely not. This is ruins."
They stared at her dish. The silence stretched, then—unexpectedly—Velastra laughed.
It was short. Dry. The laugh that came from exhaustion more than joy but was real.
"I ordered four rebellions to surrender in the last decades," she said, "and I couldn't recreate a rice ball."
Cael smiled despite himself. "It's not just a rice ball. You had to be there. Nirhaleth's air smelled different. Yunari the Gentle and her women of the temple had a rhythm to their cooking—you'd think it was song. And the wine..."
"Virellen," she echoed. "You said it lingered."
He nodded. "Like memory. Nothing we've opened here even comes close."
She looked at him, talking to her, with voice rather than calm, it was joyful. Thus, she poured a glass of the closest substitute. It was sharp, flat, bitter for the wrong reasons. They each took a sip.
Velastra winced. "Tastes like funeral incense."
Cael chuckled. "Not bitter enough."
They sat in the quiet, surrounded by the scent of scorched grain and failed longing.
Velastra stared into the hearth. Her voice dropped low.
"I want to eat Suveril every victory."
Cael didn't answer immediately. His gaze found the burn on her palm where she'd touched the pot too quickly. Still red. Still raw.
"Maybe," he said quietly. "I'll master making those rice balls."
The warmth between them was not the fire. Not the food. Just presence. Shared space. An attempt.
But Velastra shifted then. A flicker of pain traced her jaw.