Chapter 102 – Politics and Parties

  Avalon Citadel was rarely still in the past few weeks, but on this morning, it seemed every corridor had come alive. Footmen hurried with linen-draped trays, maids darted like sparrows with silver polish and ribbons, and the air smelled of beeswax, lavender, and the faint tang of iron from freshly scrubbed sconces. The grand hall had been swept thrice since dawn, its marble floors gleaming like still water, the banners of the great houses unfurled along the balustrades.

  The kitchens thundered below like a distant forge—roasting spits creaked, pans hissed, voices shouted over one another. Outside, gardeners pruned the rose terrace, while in the courtyards the guards drilled, for no guest of Avalon would see the citadel unkempt.

  And at the heart of all that motion stood the two young heirs—Aldric and Lissette Avalon—cornered by their tutors in the eastern gallery.

  “Stand straight, my lord,” chided Mistress Erane, smoothing an invisible wrinkle on Aldric’s sleeve. “And no slouching, my lady,” she added, tugging Lissette’s ribbon until the girl winced.

  “I should prefer slouching to suffocation,” Lissette muttered under her breath.

  Aldric’s mouth twitched. “Suffer it, sister. You’ll be on display soon enough.”

  She turned her sharp blue eyes toward him. “As will you, brother mine. You’ll have half the noble daughters fluttering about, pretending to be impressed by your swordplay.”

  He chuckled. “And you’ll have their brothers declaring sudden fondness for poetry.”

  Their tutor pretended not to hear, though her sigh spoke volumes. She released them at last, muttering prayers to the Veils that at least one of them would remember which fork to use.

  The siblings lingered by the tall windows overlooking the city. The sun was slipping through gauze clouds, painting the river below in molten gold.

  “It’ll be the first great party of this gathering,” Aldric said, watching the distant bustle of arriving carriages. “Father means it to show strength.”

  Lissette leaned her chin on her hands. “And the ministers will come to measure us. They scrutinize us, you know. Every look, every word—we’re just livestock on display.

  “Not livestock,” he said, gentle but firm. “Banners. Father’s strength. Every house prepares their children for show. That’s just the way of the world.”

  She shook her head, her voice dropping. “Doesn’t make it any less ridiculous. Ever wonder what they see when they look at us? Just names? Pawns? Futures, they think they can bargain for?”

  Aldric glanced over, half-smiling before turning serious. “All of that. Which is why we never let them see who we really are.”

  Lissette’s smile was small and sharp. “So what are we, then? A wolf and a fox?”

  He laughed. “Maybe. But you’re the one with the sharper bite.”

  Their laughter bounced off the stones, quick and bright, before fading away under the rush of footsteps—servants bustling past with arms full of flowers. Lilies and cedar drifted after them, soft but stubborn, a hint of what the night would bring.

  In the courtyards, heralds practiced the house calls. Soon trumpets would blare, banners would flare in the wind, and the Lord of Avalon would stride out to greet the noble crowd. You’d think it would feel like a celebration. But even with all the color and noise, both kids could feel that same tight knot of worry thrumming beneath it all.

  Aldric spoke first. “They’ll test us. Father won’t say it, but he will want to know which of us they’ll favor. Which of us can they influence”

  Lissette’s eyes narrowed. “Then let them test. I’ll not curtsy to anyone who thinks me a prize.”

  He studied her face—a mixture of youth and the early fire of command, and he almost pitied the courtiers who would underestimate her. “Try not to freeze them too soon,” he said softly.

  “No promises.”

  …

  Upstairs in the private area of the citadel, the halls caught that late-afternoon glow—warm, golden, almost dreamy. Through the tall windows, you’d see lamps blinking on in the courtyards, one by one. Downstairs, the place was alive. Laughter carried up the stairs, someone barked orders, dishes clanged, and heels tapped out a steady rhythm across the marble.

  In her room, Lissette sat before the long mirror, her shoulders tense beneath the light silk of her gown as the maids wove her dark-gold hair into intricate coils. They murmured among themselves about the guests to come — the jewels, the dresses, the talk of the court — but Lissette barely heard them. She was watching herself, the reflection of a young girl poised between childhood and the dawning shape of power.

  She was wondering whether she’d rather face a battlefield than a ballroom when there came a soft knock at the door.

  The servants froze, startled. A glance passed between them, and one hurried to open it.

  Lady Seraphine, her mother, entered with a shorter, serene woman, Lady Anastara of Hollow March. Their presence quieted the room at once. Her gown was unadorned save for a single silver clasp at her throat, yet it carried a weight no gem could match.

  “That will be all,” her mother said gently. The maids curtsied and withdrew, the whisper of silk fading down the corridor.

  Lissette stood uncertainly. “Mother, Lady Anastara? Has something happened?”

  Seraphine’s expression softened. “No, my dear. Sit. We wish a moment with you before the noise begins.”

  Her mother crossed to the window, drawing aside the gauze curtain to watch the sunset stain the city in rose and gold. “I’ve had a letter,” Lady Anastara began, “from an old friend — the Lady Isolde of the Galeden Vale. Her granddaughter has arrived in Avalon today, traveling with her uncle’s train. They have accepted our invitation to tonight’s gathering.”

  Lissette tilted her head, curious. “A new guest? Why tell me so privately?”

  Seraphine turned then, her eyes thoughtful. “Because I would ask a kindness of you, my heart. The girl — Aureline — is shy, almost painfully so. She has lived long in seclusion, since her affinity awoke.”

  Lissette’s brows lifted. “Her affinity?”

  “Yes.” Her mother’s tone grew quieter, weighted. “But not as yours, my love. Hers… came with pain. Fire, I think, or some echo of it. When it awoke, it left her marked — the healers could not wholly mend the scars. She hides them, of course, as her family insists. But she bears them still.”

  Lissette’s hands, folded neatly in her lap, tightened on the silk. “Scars?” she whispered. “From the gift itself?”

  Lady Anastara nodded once. “It happens when the awakening comes without guidance or law. Some call it the Veils’ cruelty, while others call it their test. Regardless, it has made her uncertain of her place, uncertain even of her worth. I would have you look after her this evening — draw her into conversation, help her find her footing among the young nobles.”

  “But—” Lissette hesitated, her eyes narrowing. “She’s older than I, isn’t she?”

  “By four years,” her mother admitted, with the faintest smile. “But age matters less than courage, and yours has always been fierce.”

  Lissette rose and paced a step or two, the hem of her gown whispering over the rug. “And her scars,” she said slowly. “Are they…”

  Seraphine’s voice cut gently across the question. “Not proper, my dear. Do not ask her. The wounds of the Veils are private things.”

  Lissette inclined her head, chastened yet still burning with curiosity. “I understand, mother.”

  “Good.” Her mother reached out, smoothing a strand of hair from Lissette’s cheek. “You have a wonderful gift for reading people, child. Use it kindly tonight. Not every power needs to show itself as flame or frost.”

  Lissette smiled faintly, though her thoughts were already spinning. Aureline of the Galeden Vale. A girl four years older, scarred and uncertain, walking into the glittering fire of Avalon's court.

  She could almost see it now — the glances, the whispers, the pity that cuts sharper than cruelty. Lissette knew that world well, and she knew how to play within it. But she also knew she must tread carefully. A wounded creature is cornered too soon and trusts even more slowly.

  When her mother finally withdrew, leaving a kiss on her brow and a faint trace of lavender behind, Lissette turned back to her mirror. Her reflection met her gaze steadily.

  “Scarred,” she murmured softly to Bella, testing the word. “But alive. Then we will see what the Veils have left in her. If she is strong enough to endure their fire, perhaps she is strong enough to stand beside me.”

  She smiled—a sly, sharp flicker that would've rattled any courtier watching her. “And if not? Well, let's find out if the nobles are really scared of a girl who turns pity into power.”

  The citadel’s bells started up outside, ringing out and calling everyone together.

  The party was waiting. Lissette Avalon stood, meeting it head-on, her heart just as cold and clear as the frost crawling over her window.

  …

  Outside the citadel walls, wheels rattled, and hooves thundered—more and more by the minute. Flags with strange symbols snapped in the fading light. Servants traded rumors about distant coastal lords and royal envoys, about ministers and merchants who seemed to bring more cunning than gifts. Honestly, Avalon hadn’t seen this kind of crowd in ten years.

  By the time twilight brushed the battlements, the candles had been lit in their thousands. The citadel glowed—a living constellation of gold and glass. Music floated faintly from the grand ballroom below, and Lissette stood beside her brother at the balcony, watching as the first of the guests were announced.

  “They’re beautiful,” she said quietly. “Like a painting come to life.”

  “Paintings don’t bite,” Aldric replied.

  “Then these aren’t paintings.”

  She glanced sideways, reading the tension in his jaw. “Don’t worry, brother. You’ll play the heir well enough. They’ll all believe what they’re meant to.”

  He gave a half-smile. “And you?”

  “I’ll play myself,” she said simply. “And let them wonder if they should be afraid.”

  Below, the musicians struck the opening chords of the dance, and the herald’s voice rose like a trumpet through the noise:

  “Behold the House of Avalon, Wardens of the Vale—Lord Eldric’s blood, heirs to the citadel!”

  The doors opened wide.

  Aldric offered his arm to his sister. “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be. But mark my words, Caelen will pay for abandoning us to this!”

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  They descended together into the blaze of light and color—two young heirs walking toward the scrutiny of a realm that would one day be theirs to rule or ruin.

  And somewhere above the murmur of the crowd, beyond the silk and silver and false smiles, the wind outside caught the ancient banners and made them whisper against the stone,

  …

  The corridor outside the council chamber already shone with polished silver and the flash of helmets. You could hear the low hum of guests drifting up from below, echoing off the stone.

  Lord Eldric Avalon stood by the window, his shoulders cutting a dark shape against the fading twilight. Lady Seraphine waited beside him—she looked calm enough, but there was a sharp focus in her eyes. Just behind them, Baelric, the Citadel’s steward, hunched a little, age and worry weighing him down.

  “The guests are gathering in the lower hall,” Baelric said, bowing as he spoke. “Plenty of them brought attendants—a variety of talents. Priests, seers, magisters from the lesser orders.”

  Eldric turned, his face growing even harder. “How many?”

  Baelric cleared his throat. “More than we planned for, my lord. The whole place reeks of incense and self-importance.”

  Seraphine’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Priests?”

  He nodded. “Yes, my lady. At least six sects have sent people. But I’ve handled it—everyone paid the tribute the law requires. The tolls are recorded, and we’ve banned their relics. Anyone who complained found the doors shut until their purses changed our minds.”

  Eldric gave a curt nod. “Good, good. Avalon bows to no outside creed within its walls.”

  Seraphine exhaled through her nose, the faintest smile ghosting her lips. “Then let us hurry. I would not have Aldric or Lissette left too long among that pit of vipers.”

  “As you say, my lady,” the steward replied, though his eyes darted uneasily back to his ledger. “However there is one other matter.”

  Eldric raised a brow. “What matter?”

  Baelric hesitated, then spoke in a lower tone. “Many among the guests are inquiring whether the young master—”

  “Caelen,” Seraphine finished softly, her voice tightening.

  Baelric inclined his head. “Aye, my lady. Whether he will be in attendance tonight, nearly every envoy and noble delegate has repeated the question. I’ve given them the answer you approved—‘the young master is indisposed, and under the care of his tutors in a northern cloister.’”

  Eldric’s eyes flicked to Seraphine’s, a rare crack of shared emotion flashing between them: worry. Then his voice dropped. “How many asked exactly?”

  The steward’s mouth twisted into a humorless smile. “All of them, my lord. Every single one.”

  A moment of silence hung heavy as the dusk pressing through the glass. Then Seraphine straightened, her tone decisive. “Then the sooner we descend, the better. Let them feed on rumor, not truth. If we appear confident, they will think nothing is amiss.”

  Eldric gave a grave nod. “Confidence, then. Come, wife. Let us show Avalon yet stands.”

  Baelric bowed and hurried to the great doors. “Heralds are ready, my lord. The guests await your presence.”

  The horns sounded — low, resonant, shaking dust from the rafters. From below, the murmuring crowd fell still.

  “Make way for Lord Eldric of Avalon and Lady Seraphine —Warden and Lady of Avalon!”

  The vast doors of the great hall swung open, and for a moment, everything inside seemed to glow. Dozens of candles flickered in crystal sconces, their flames throwing wild reflections off the mirrored shields on the walls. Silk banners, each marked with the Tower’s sigil, drifted overhead, and the room buzzed with the warm scent of spiced wine and heavy, savory food.

  Eldric strode in first. You could see the command in his stance—a man who’s led armies, used to people stepping aside when he enters. Seraphine walked at his side, calm as moonlight, her blue gown flowing and shimmering, catching the light like ripples on a lake.

  The assembled guests bowed as one, though here and there, sharp eyes flicked between them — the courtiers measuring, the priests murmuring blessings under their breath, the merchants counting worth in silence.

  High above, the musicians struck a note to herald the hosts, and the herald’s voice rang again:

  “The Lord and Lady of Avalon bid welcome to all houses, all banners, all friends of the Vale!”

  A thousand courtesies followed — curtsies, nods, murmured greetings — and though the evening glittered with the illusion of grace, the undercurrent was unmistakable.

  The predators watched for any scent, any uncertainty.

  Eldric sensed it coming, like how the air changes before a storm. He glanced around the hall—priests decked in white and gold, seers wrapped in their smoky cloaks, lords whispering behind sharp smiles—and then he spotted his children near the dais. Aldric stood straight and unflinching, Lissette beside him, bright and steady. For a moment, the tightness in Eldric’s chest let go.

  “Good,” he murmured, offering his arm to Seraphine as they began their descent into the hall. “Let them observe the children of Avalon. Let them see that our house still commands.”

  “Until the Veils themselves deny it,” Seraphine replied softly, with a trace of steel beneath her calm.

  And together, under a hundred watching eyes, the Lord and Lady of Avalon entered their hall — to dine, to dance, and to face the delicate warfare that is politics dressed as celebration.

  …

  The music from the ballroom had become mellowed to a polite murmur, a well-guarded accompaniment to talk and negotiation. The scent of candlewax and wine mingled in the heat, thick under the sparkle of chandeliers. Aldric, resplendent in dark blue and silver, stood at a banquet table piled with goblets and half-eaten fruit. He smiled easily, the kind of smile that was polite but removed; an heir well-instructed in the etiquette of listening more than talking.

  Across the table, Lord Fenric, a minor noble from Caladon, sharp-eyed and always wearing that knowing grin—lifted his glass, all sly charm. “Quite the crowd tonight, my lord,” he said, glancing around with a smirk. “Your father’s really outdone himself. Just the banners alone must have taken weeks.”

  Aldric inclined his head. “He values the old customs, Lord Fenric. Avalon stands on steel and ceremony alike.”

  Fenric chuckled, not quite convinced. “Blade and velvet, right? Hard to juggle both nowadays. I heard you’ve been away—on the caravan, was it? That’s not an assignment they give to just anyone, especially not at your age.”

  Aldric smiled, easy and untroubled. “It taught me quite a bit.”

  “I’m sure it did.” Fenric leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing a confidence. “So, what did you learn out there? Trade secrets? Merchant rumors? Or maybe something about the guards? Word is the roads aren’t safe anymore. Bandits, some say. Others blame neglect.”

  Aldric’s smile did not falter. “Trade, like diplomacy, has its risks. But men of sense adapt. I learned much in security and business.”

  Fenric swirled his wine, studying Aldric. “And the land? You’ve seen it all now, from one end to the other. There’s talk at court—low valleys, river plains, even the marches. So, are the fields truly as plentiful as people claim? Would explain these rising taxes.”

  Aldric lifted his glass, regarding the dark red reflection. “Rumor often withers under the sun, my lord. The land endures, and the people with it. What they lack, they compensate with resolve. But I heard that the levies were for cost in the north and ships for the coast, reasons far away from Avalon.”

  Fenric chuckled softly, the sound oily and pleasant. “Ah, the optimism of youth. Resolve does not fill granaries, nor mend the bridges. Still, it is good to hear Avalon prospers. The king will be reassured.”

  “I’m certain His Majesty will find the truth of it in his own time,” Aldric said, tone still calm, still level.

  Fenric’s gaze sharpened. “You are your father’s son, my lord. Careful words, tempered like steel.” He leaned back, eyes narrowing in mock thought. “And what of your brother? The middle child —the quiet boy. I hear he’s… touched.”

  Aldric’s hand tightened imperceptibly around his glass. “Caelen is well.”

  “It is good to hear,” Fenric continued, undeterred. “Though some say his recovery is… unorthodox. That the boy’s mind is—how shall we put it—unsettled? The Veils claimed too much of him; his mind wanders the threshold between worlds, perhaps?”

  The silence that followed stretched thin as glass.

  Aldric turned his gaze upon him, steady and unblinking. The lord felt it—the faintest pressure, like the pause before a storm.

  “My brother,” Aldric said at last, each word precise, “is as the Veils made him—no more, no less. Avalon tends to its own, Lord Fenric. You’ll find no gossip here.”

  For a heartbeat, Fenric looked as though he might press further. But then Aldric smiled again—calm, effortless, the mask sliding back into place. “Ah,” he said, “but forgive me. You’ve not yet met Lord Daren of Silverhold, have you? He knows more of the caravans than any of us. I’m certain he can satisfy your curiosity better than I.”

  Before Fenric could object, Aldric gestured across the room to a tall, silver-haired man engaged in quiet conversation. “Come. You’ll find him fascinating company.”

  Caught in courtesy’s snare, Fenric could only bow faintly. “As you wish, my lord.”

  Aldric inclined his head, the very image of civility. Together they crossed the marble floor, and as they did, the young heir’s eyes caught the mirrored reflection of the ballroom—the nobles laughing, whispering, watching. The dance of words never ended here.

  When they reached Lord Daren, Aldric turned smoothly to make the introductions. His tone was warm, effortless. “Lord Fenric was just asking about the trade routes in the south. I told him no one could explain them better than you.”

  Daren, unsuspecting, began to speak, and Aldric stepped back with a courteous nod, letting the conversation close around his would-be interrogator like silk drawn tight.

  From across the hall, Lady Seraphine watched her son’s maneuver with quiet approval.

  Lord Eldric merely murmured, “He’s better than I ever was.”

  Somewhere in that hush between the musicians’ notes, the House of Avalon stood bold and bright—as if it understood every word tonight meant something. Words mattered here. People weighed them, traded them, never letting a syllable go to waste.

  Overhead, chandeliers scattered wild starbursts across crystal and brass. Music floated through the hall, strings, flutes, and the gentle hum of noble conversation. Their voices sounded light, almost playful, but everyone present knew the actual stakes. Every laugh, every tale, concealed a sharp edge beneath the charm. In the middle of it all, Lissette stood out, glowing just enough to draw every eye.

  She’d prepared for nights like this—flashing the perfect smile, standing just right, saying everything and nothing all at once. Truthfully, she relished it. Unlike the rigid old guard, she didn’t just play the game—she made it look effortless.

  The first to come over were young women from noble houses and wealthy merchant families. Ribbons everywhere, eyes wide and eager. They flocked around Lissette like moths, hovering close but never quite daring to touch. Some awe, some shyness. Lissette greeted each by name, offered a few kind words, and their faces brightened. It wasn’t long before the group was bubbling with easy laughter.

  After that, the young men showed up—well, the ones who liked to think they were men, anyway. One after another, they ventured forth like brave but ill-equipped knights, each hoping to win favor from the Lord’s daughter.

  Lissette’s approach shifted subtly. The timid ones she teased gently — “If you have courage enough to stand before me, surely you’ve courage enough to dance?” she said with a gleam in her eye. Most blushed, stammered, and withdrew with a bow that was far too low.

  The bold ones fared no better. When one particularly self-satisfied youth from the eastern marches declared, “Lady Avalon, may I have the honor of your next dance?” she tilted her head thoughtfully.

  “Only if you can tell me,” she said, “which flower blooms at midnight and wilts before dawn.”

  The boy blinked, utterly lost. “I… beg your pardon?”

  “The moonvine,” she said, smiling sweetly. “A beautiful thing, but brief. Much like certain ambitions.”

  The girls around her covered their laughter behind their fans. Even a few of the older ladies, watching from a distance, smiled approvingly. Word of the young Lady of Avalon’s wit began to spread through the room like perfume.

  It was then that a more petite girl, no more than ten, tugged shyly at Lissette’s sleeve. “My lady,” she whispered, “I met your cousins earlier. They said you turn into a dragon when you’re angry!”

  Lissette burst out laughing — a bright, unrestrained sound that drew glances from across the hall. “Did they?” she said between peals of amusement. She leaned close, her eyes glimmering with mischief. “Only when someone deserves it.”

  The child’s eyes grew wide. “Really?”

  “Truly,” Lissette whispered. “But don’t tell anyone — dragons prefer their secrets kept.”

  The girl nodded solemnly, awe-struck.

  It was in that moment, as Lissette straightened, that she noticed Aureline of the Galeden Vale across the room. The older girl stood at the edge of a column of light, pale gold hair pinned with pearls, her expression uncertain. Lissette gave a small wave — graceful, welcoming. Slowly, Aureline crossed the floor, her limp barely visible beneath her gown.

  By the time she reached them, the conversation had shifted again — now to strange sweets and foreign treats. “What is this new thing they call molasses?” asked one girl. “My friend Mira of House Vellin said your house used it in something called cookies!”

  Lissette smiled wistfully. “Ah, yes. I had some once, a gift from my brother. He’s quite the cook, though he pretends it’s only for experiments.”

  “Truly?” said another girl, eyes widening. “Your brother cooks?”

  Lissette’s laughter returned, lighter this time. “Better than most of our kitchen staff.”

  Not far away, Lady Corrinne of Berrant lingered, the sort of woman who flourished on rumors and the small opportunities they offered. She overheard someone say "brother," then "gift," then "molasses"—words that caught her interest. With a quiet word to her companions, she slipped away, drawn toward a servant moving through the crowd with a silver tray.

  The servant paused, bowed, and extended the tray. Corrinne picked up a mushroom tart, took a cautious bite, and—just like that—her eyes lit up with pleasure.

  “These are excellent,” she said. “Whose recipe?”

  “House specialty, my lady,” the servant said. “Young Master Caelan created them for his sister’s birthday feast.”

  Lady Corrinne froze for half a heartbeat, then smiled — the slow, calculating smile of someone who had just glimpsed a hidden door.

  “Delicious,” she murmured. “Utterly delicious.”

  When the servant moved on, she turned, crossing the room toward the knot of young nobles from House Berrant, where Lady Eryndel of Culterrax was holding court. Corrinne leaned in and whispered just loud enough to stir the perfumed air: “Lady Eryndel, your insight was right. Young Lord Caelan has a keen mind enough for recipes—honestly, some of these are brilliant.”

  Eryndel blinked, surprised, while Corrinne took another bite of tart, grinning like she’d just won a prize.

  “These here,” Corrinne said, waving the pastry a little, “are worth their weight in silver. We need to learn more about this molasses. Wherever it comes from,” she added with a sly little smile, “that’s where we’ll find the boy.”

  All around them, laughter and music swelled — unaware that beneath the polished veneer of the party, the first whispers of discovered intrigue had begun to coil like smoke beneath silk.

  Lady Eryndel turned to her maid, “Have them bring a tray of the pastries and request the recipe.”