The palace was quieter in the morning, hushed as though it too still lingered in the aftertaste of the ball. Pale light spilled through the long glass panes that lined the corridors, scattering across polished marble and gilded molding. Servants moved along the edges, swift and silent, their eyes lowering as Dorian passed. They did not speak, but he felt the whisper anyway, the faint stir of attention that always followed him, as constant as a shadow.
He didn't hurry. There was never any reason to. His stride was long, measured, every step carrying the kind of ease that others tried to imitate and never managed. With one hand, he smoothed through his hair, letting it fall into the kind of deliberate disarray that looked accidental only to those who didn't know better.
His shirt was left as it was, the top buttons neglected, fabric loose across his shoulders in a way that made no apology for its casualness. He hadn't bothered with formality. Let them see him as he was—untamed, unbothered.
The memory of the maid's summons still amused him. Your Highness, your presence is requested... The courtroom, of course. Where else would the king or his watchful council want him, so soon after last night's spectacle? He could almost picture them now, shifting uneasily in their seats, deciding how grave they ought to make this, how sharp their words should sound.
Dorian rolled one cuff as he walked, not because it needed fixing, but because he enjoyed the indulgence of the gesture. Drawn out, unbothered. A man summoned, yet in no rush to arrive.
The nearer he drew to the courtroom doors, the more the air changed. Murmurs tapered off, steps slowed. Guards straightened to attention and pushed the great doors open without meeting his eyes.
Dorian let the pause stretch for just a moment, the faintest curve of amusement tugging at his mouth, before he crossed the threshold.
The doors closed behind him with a deep, resonant weight, the sound carrying through polished wood and gilded trim.
The courtroom carried less of a throne hall's ceremony and more of a council chamber's gravity. A long rectangular table stretched across the center, polished to a mirror-dark gleam. At its head, three elevated chairs stood apart from the rest—the King's at the center, larger, heavier in its carving, with two slightly lesser seats flanking it, one for the crown prince, the other for the queen when she chose to sit in. The arrangement left no doubt where authority resided, yet it borrowed the language of a modern council.
Two advisors sat along the length of the table, tablets and slim folders set neatly before them. At his approach, both rose briefly, dipping their heads in the required bow. Their eyes flicked down as they resumed their seats, posture betraying unease—shoulders too rigid, hands too deliberate as they adjusted their notes and screens, careful not to linger on him.
Dorian crossed the wide floor with the same pace he'd carried through the corridors—slow, deliberate, each step its own refusal to rush. When he reached the head of the table, he inclined his head in a shallow bow to the King—no ceremony, just the brief acknowledgment of a son greeting his father.
The King's gaze held steady. After a pause, he returned the gesture with a small, approving nod, the kind reserved for private moments rather than public show.
Dorian lowered himself into the chair set to the King's right, posture sprawled, careless in a seat that others treated with reverence.
The silence stretched, elastic. He let it.
At last, one of the advisors cleared his throat, his voice thin but striving for firmness. "Your Highness, the kingdom has not ceased its chatter since last night."
Dorian tilted his head, watching the man as if studying a puzzle.
"You have given them too much to feast on," the advisor pressed, eyes darting to the King as if for strength. "A necklace worth a hundred million. A dance witnessed by the entire ballroom. Words and gestures... too intimate for the floor."
The other advisor leaned in, voice clipped. "It is unbecoming. The people forget the boundary between crown and commoner when you allow yourself to be displayed so. A baker is not fit company for a prince."
Dorian's gaze slid to the King. His father's eyes, dark and unyielding, held his. The King had not raised his voice, had not so much as shifted in his seat, yet the weight of his silence pressed more than the advisors' fretful words ever could.
Finally, the King spoke, his tone cutting clean through the air: "What do you mean to accomplish?"
It was not a shout, not the fury of a father rebuking a reckless son, but the sharpened demand of a ruler expecting an answer.
Dorian's lips curved. He leaned forward slightly, enough to suggest engagement, though his eyes gleamed with quiet amusement, as if the advisor's panic were little more than a passing diversion. "Accomplish? Father, the kingdom is awake this morning speaking of me—of me and a baker." Would you prefer their tongues wag over trade disputes? Or the fractures in the northern provinces? Shall I hand them weightier gossip?"
A faint ripple crossed one advisor's face, indignation tempered by the fact that his words had been preemptively cornered.
Dorian let the silence hang a heartbeat longer, then added with deliberate carelessness, "Better they waste their ink on a baker than on matters that weaken the throne."
The phrase landed sharp. The advisors stiffened. One cleared his throat, grasping at ground already slipping beneath him.
"Even so, Your Highness, public appetite grows dangerous when it fixates on scandal. A prince should not be reduced to—" He stopped short, unable to frame Isla as less without seeming to offend the King himself.
His companion leaned forward, voice tighter:
"Respectfully, the Court cannot afford distraction, however... trivial. The world is watching."
Dorian leaned back, posture returning to indolence, one hand idly rolling his cuff as if the exchange had cost him nothing. "Then let them watch," he said, almost lightly. His smirk was a blade sheathed, visible only to those who knew to look.
The silence that followed was taut. The advisors shifted in their seats, one drumming nervous fingers against his tablet, the other pressing lips together in a thin line. Their unease spread like static, filling the chamber with something sharp and unspoken.
The King exhaled, not quite a sigh but close, his gaze fixed on his son. He knew this tone, this carelessness that looked like confidence but stirred trouble in its wake.
"You play games as though there will always be time to set the board right again," he said at last, his voice steady, firm. "But you know how quickly the Court twists a whisper into something heavier. The advisors are not wrong to be wary. You may find it amusing now, but tread carefully, Dorian. The kingdom's attention is not a thing to toy with."
It was not a plea. It was a warning.
Dorian inclined his head in acknowledgment, though whether it was obedience or something else, was impossible to tell.
The meeting dissolved as swiftly as it had begun. The advisors adjusted their folders with nervous precision, and the King's attention turned to matters beyond his son.
Dorian rose unhurriedly, steps soundless on the polished floor as he made for the doors.
Outside, the hall welcomed him back with its hush. The weight of his father's words should have followed him, but instead, his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Isla Reed.
He pictured her again—not shrinking, not tucked away, but caught mid-motion, mid-surprise, the kind of expression the world couldn't turn from even if she begged it to. The court could fret, his father could caution, the advisors could gnash their teeth over propriety. None of it mattered.
What mattered was that she had stepped into their light, unwillingly perhaps, but undeniably. And once seen, she could not be unseen.
A low sound of amusement stirred in his chest.
The court wanted silence. He had no intention of granting it.