The great hall of Veylar was draped in banners of crimson and gold, lit by hundreds of flickering candles that floated like stars above the banquet tables. Musicians played softly in the corner, their flutes and lyres weaving a melody that seemed too sweet, too fragile, for the tension in the air.
It was meant to be a celebration — the feast marking the annual Festival of Radiance — but for Aelion, the laughter, the glittering gowns, and the swirling goblets of wine were nothing more than a mask.
He sat at the high table beside his father, the King, his posture flawless, his smile rehearsed. Every noble present cast him a glance now and then, measuring, weighing, whispering behind jeweled hands.
And just behind him, as always, stood Kealen.
Kealen's presence was like a silent shield, steady and watchful. His eyes scanned the hall constantly, missing nothing: the nervous twitch of a merchant, the way a knight's hand lingered too close to his sword, the shadows near the columns where servants passed in and out.
Aelion's heart, however, was focused elsewhere. On the memory of their kiss two nights ago.
He could still feel it — the warmth, the startling tenderness, the way Kealen had pulled back too quickly, as if afraid he'd broken some sacred vow. Since then, neither had spoken of it. But silence carried weight, and tonight, it felt unbearable.
"Prince Aelion," a nobleman's voice interrupted his thoughts. Lord Veyric, heavy with jewels and pride, leaned across the table. "You must consider the proposal from House Eryndel. Their daughter would make a fine match. Strong blood, good lands."
Aelion's smile tightened. "I will consider it."
His father chuckled low, approving of the match-making schemes. But Aelion's gaze flickered back to Kealen. Just one glance over his shoulder, and his chest tightened. Kealen's jaw was set, his eyes darker than the torchlight could explain.
Was it jealousy? Or simply the burden of his duty?
The music swelled, and dancers took to the floor. Aelion rose, excusing himself, and descended the steps from the high table. As expected, Kealen followed. Together they slipped through the throng of nobles, their steps a silent rebellion against the expectations crushing them.
In the shadow of the eastern corridor, away from the crowd, Aelion stopped.
"You're unusually tense tonight," he said softly, turning to face him.
Kealen's gaze softened for a moment, but then hardened again. "There are too many eyes. Too many possibilities for danger."
"Danger," Aelion echoed with a humorless laugh. "Or something else?"
Kealen's silence said more than words.
Aelion's breath caught. He reached out, just enough to let his fingers graze the edge of Kealen's sleeve. "We can't keep pretending nothing happened." His voice was low, urgent, trembling with both fear and desire.
Kealen swallowed hard, his hand twitching as if he wanted to hold Aelion's but dared not. "If anyone finds out—"
"They'll find out eventually," Aelion cut in, his eyes burning with defiance. "The prophecy doesn't scare me, Kealen. What scares me is losing you before fate even has its chance."
Before Kealen could reply, a scream shattered the air.
The music stopped. Nobles gasped.
From the far end of the hall, a servant collapsed to the floor, blood spilling from his lips. And above the chaos, carved into the grand pillars of the hall, words began to glow with an unholy red light:
"Only one will live."
Gasps turned to cries of panic as the prophecy manifested before their very eyes.
Aelion froze, the weight of destiny pressing down like stone.
And Kealen — his hand finally grasped Aelion's, pulling him close, eyes blazing. "We don't run from this. Not tonight. Not ever."