The dining hall smelled of warm bread and citrus peel. Light fell in soft squares across the table, catching the gold thread in the queen's sleeve and the pale sweep of Aria's hair whenever she turned. Sounds were muted here — the clink of a spoon, the subdued rustle of robes — because this place, for all its duty, kept room for small mercies.
Arcanis entered slowly, the kind of slow that meant he had already decided the shape of the morning. He moved like a man who had practiced stillness: shoulders relaxed but ready, breath even, hands folded behind his back. Aria's face brightened before her feet could move.
"Brother!" she burst—one bright word like a shard of sunlight.
He reached his seat before she finished the sound. When he looked down at her, his eyes were warm in the way they were only with family: open, unguarded, familiar as an old window left ajar to the sun.
"You woke early," Queen Elara said without looking up from the parchment she smoothed. The remark carried the itch of a mother's worry, softened into a gentle tease.
"Practiced," Arcanis answered simply. His voice was low and measured; each syllable carried weight. He spoke plainly because some moments required a clean line, not a flourish. The king's smile was the small, approving curve he saved for quiet things that pleased him.
King Alistair folded the report and set it aside. He watched his son with the look of a man who had been a traveler and officer and knew how the road reshaped a person.
"There's something I should say," the king began, no pretense in his tone. "In a few days we'll finalize your first assignment. The captains and I will choose the place. You will go beyond palace walls."
The sentence landed like a pebble in still water. Aria froze, a pastry forgotten in her small hand. Color drained from her face and then, like a thing breaking, the brightness in her throat collapsed into a tremor.
"No," she whispered before she could stop herself. It was the simplest, most honest refusal. "You can't go."
Arcanis's breath stuttered in the way only Aria could cause. He set his fork down with a soft sound and reached across the table for her hand. His fingers closed around hers—deliberate, practiced tenderness.
"Aria," he said, the name an anchor. He leaned forward until his forehead nearly touched the back of her hand. "Listen. I won't be gone as if I disappeared. These next days, I'll wrap them around you like a shawl. We'll go where the baker sells the small honey tarts you like, and we'll walk the market until the sun sets orange. I'll teach you to bargain without fluster. I'll let you win every game in the square until you're bored."
A small laugh—half joy, half fear—escaped Aria and broke into a trembling sob. "You promise?" she asked, the child clinging to the promise like a rope.
He smiled—not loud, but steady, the sort of smile he'd been building across a thousand quiet minutes. "I promise," he said. "Until the day the first horse is ready for me to ride away, you have my mornings and my evenings."
She launched herself at him, fierce in her smallness. He received the hug like something sacred: arms that knew the contour of her shoulders, a slight inclination of the head that told everyone in the room who they were. Nobody made a fuss. The king's sternness softened; the queen folded her hands in quiet gratitude.
Conversation orbited gently back to ordinary things: the coming festival, the new spice merchant on East Street, Aria trying to feed him a sweet that landed on his cheek. He let it stay there until she squealed and wiped it away herself, slapping his wrist playfully. Their laughter tightened the table into a small, private world; for a few breaths the idea of his leaving felt like a distant cloud—manageable and small.
The cloud returned with the king's steady voice later, when plates were cleared and candles burned lower. "Prepare," he said, not unkindly. "Make sure you rest. There will be plans to finalize."
Arcanis inclined his head—readiness in the set of it, and a thin, private ache beneath. Part of him thrilled: the world he'd wanted was opening. Another part felt the cost in the slow geometry of absence.
---
He rose before dawn the next morning. Being generous required time as much as any appointment. The corridor lamps still leaned toward sleep; the palace moved in small, patient sounds. At Aria's chamber he heard the domestic tumble: rustle of fine fabric, the low orders of an overworked maid, the rattle of combs, the chorus of "No—hold—the ribbon—" and then a high, muffled giggle.
A corner of a smile caught his mouth. The noise of her being fussed over was a comfort he'd never trade for title.
He knocked softly.
"Enter," the chorus answered—Aria eager, the maids practiced.
The room snapped into disciplined stillness. Brushes hung mid-air. Five pairs of hands stilled. The maids bowed as if at the ring of a bell.
"Good morning, Your Highness," one said, small and proper.
Arcanis nodded. Aria launched herself like a small comet into his arms, clinging with the absolute devotion only a child gives.
"You're here—" she murmured into his chest. "I had a dream you left last night. It was scary."
He tucked his chin over her head and breathed soap and sugar and hair oil. Her words fell into him like small, meaningful stones. "I'm here," he said, softer than morning itself. "And I'll be here for breakfast. For the market later—remember?"
She peeked out, micro-expressions shifting: delight, plotting. She was already planning how to secure more sweets.
He turned to the maids. They waited with patient practice and an old hope in the oldest one's face that the prince might take the private duty. Arcanis smiled at none of them; instead he asked plainly and kindly, "Could you step outside, please? I'll take her."
The youngest maid bowed, cheeks flushed. "Yes, Your Highness."
They filed out, leaving a faint scent of rosewater behind. He shut the door and found Aria sitting on the vanity stool, legs swinging.
"You'll be still?" he asked, reaching for a comb.
She made a mock-serious face. "As still as a statue."
He laughed—a very soft sound that belonged only to them. He combed her hair with patient care, untangling knots, smoothing flyaways. The comb whispered rhythmically. Aria leaned her head against his fingers and told him small things: the color of a new ribbon, big things: the shape of the fear she'd had.
When a tiny lock caught, his hand paused longer than necessary; that pause was a conversation. "Brother?" she said.
"Yes?"
"Are you cold?"
He adjusted a ribbon like setting a small moon. "A little." He tucked the stray hair behind her ear with the practiced gentleness of a man who had kept tenderness to himself through many nights.
She watched him with the unfiltered adoration of a child who hasn't learned to measure moments by pain. "I will miss you," she said, solemn and sudden, making the room feel both small and vast.
"You will," he said honestly. He offered no false promises about absence. "And I will miss you too. Which is why I'll make these days only yours."
She flushed and then tried to look fierce. "Then you better buy me extra pastries!"
He tapped the comb against the vanity like a small gavel. "Deal."
They shared that quiet, conspiratorial laugh siblings keep—trading bargains and secrets. He pinned a tiny star clip in her hair. She admired herself, then turned to him, bright and unashamed.
"Do I look like the princess who will lead festivals?" she asked.
He cocked an eyebrow, a corner of his mouth lifting. "You always did," he said. "But today, you look especially dangerous—in a charming way."
She stuck out her tongue; he kissed the top of her head. Small physicalities had become their private grammar. The gesture cost him nothing and meant everything.
They walked to breakfast hand in hand. Dawn left the hall feeling fresher than the night before; the air had less weight. King Alistair's eyes lifted when they entered—steady humor and guarded affection softening his features.
"Good morning," he said. "You two have been up early."
"Yes," Aria chirped, then more seriously: "Brother combed my hair and promised extra pastries."
The queen's laugh was genuine. "I trust you managed manners."
Arcanis sat with the quiet certainty of a man who knew how to make space. Servants brought bowls and bread. When the king leaned in to whisper about the northern supply route, Arcanis listened with steady patience; the world was giving him pieces in measured increments.
For a while they simply existed—whole, human. Arcanis slid a piece of bread to his sister; she stole it with a conspiratorial grin, flour dusting her nose. The queen watched with softness that turned the hall into home, not just palace. The king's jaw eased. It was apparent how rulers could be proud and fearful at once: their son was stepping toward the verge he'd dreamed of, and their daughter would remain on the other side of that step until he returned.
When breakfast ended, Arcanis lingered, letting light memorize his face as if storing the image. If wars or long nights came later, he would keep the warmth of this morning like a talisman.
They left for the market together; Aria chattered about stalls and cakes and which vendor had the fatest figs. He listened; he corrected mispronunciations gently; she pretended to be offended and surrendered to laughter. The palace felt alive with small noises that kept it human amid large things.
They passed a gardener tending winter roses. The gardener bowed and raised a hand; Arcanis returned the bow with easy courtesy. Small gestures that said the world they defended was worth the rituals that kept people whole.
Aria tugged his sleeve, breathless. "Will you take me today?" she asked.
He dropped to one knee without ceremony and met her at eye level. "Yes," he said plainly. In that word lived a quiet vow. "I'll take you to the fountain that makes faces and to the boy who sells plum pies. We'll buy the fanciest trinket and hide it in your room."
She hugged him loud and sure and small, and he wrapped her in return—quiet as a promise. For a sliver the world narrowed to that embrace: a child's laugh, the smell of bread, the tap of a comb on a table.
They walked toward the market—prince and princess in the same small world. He listened when she talked and answered when she asked. He asked stallholders about prices; he let her choose a ribbon until she picked one too showy for the queen's taste and he pretended not to notice. Tiny, deliberate generosity—making the child believe she mattered without a word.
When they returned late morning, sun higher and market chaos a pleasant tangle, Arcanis felt the day press like a possible weight. He carried Aria's chatter like armor; her small victories—a new pastry, a ribbon—became pockets of quiet he would draw on during long roads.
That night, before velvet black took the sky, he allowed the Codex one small page: a diagram of mana flow in sword techniques, a note about adjusted footwork. He closed it like tucking a child in—methodical, soft-handed. He went to Aria's door and listened to her breathing. He left a folded ribbon at the edge of her pillow—a simple treasure she would find at morning.
He slept that night not with conquest on his mind but with small human maps: the child's trusting face, the taste of the pastry she loved, the way a ribbon sat at the corner of a cheek. Those quiet reserves would sustain him in months to come.