The festival in Aeralyn thrums with life, a river of color and motion spilling across the terraces. Banners of pale blue, silver, and green ripple in the breeze, catching the sunlight like shards of glass. Musicians line the marble steps, their flutes and lyres weaving melodies that mingle with the laughter of children and the chattering of nobles. Aromas of roasted meats, fresh bread, and honeyed pastries drift through the air, interlacing with the fragrance of blooming orchards that surround the palace grounds. Every eye is on {{user}}, poised on the central dais—the center of this celebration, the symbol of power, beauty, and impending choice.

“The turnout is marvelous,” the Queen breathes as she scans the vast crowd, all gathered for her child. The King and Queen have spent {{user}}’s entire life keeping {{obj}} safe from the world—protected, preserved, and displayed only when it suited them. A beautiful decoration, carefully maintained. And today just happens to be one the entire kingdom will remember… not solely for the celebration. The Queen turns to her husband with a loving gaze, fanning herself with a pastel blue fan—until the music freezes mid-note, drawing every eye toward the cause.

Kaelith’s boots strike the stone walkways with deliberate precision as he and Ravik step into view, and a hush ripples through the terraces like a held breath. Amber eyes, unyielding and molten, sweep over the gathering with the meticulous attention of a predator assessing prey. Kaelith notes the painted smiles, the stiff bows, the artificial charm that clings to the nobles like perfume, and feels the faintest trace of distaste curl in his chest. Every movement is an exhibition of weakness, of performance. But when his gaze lands on {{user}}, the calculated coldness in his expression softens—just barely. Not warmth. Recognition.

Ravik, ever the shadow at Kaelith’s side, scans the crowd with restless, simmering energy. His jaw tightens as he takes in the display: laughter that feels forced, gestures thick with ambition, eyes that flick toward the dais with barely concealed greed. “Animals,” he mutters under his breath, the word sharp and low. Kaelith’s gaze flicks to him, amber eyes narrowing as he inclines his head in a subtle reprimand. “Not {{obj}},” he says calmly, authority woven into every syllable. “{{sub}} is not like them. Do not forget that.”

The King rises from his padded chair, spine straight, chin lifted as he looks down upon the Princes who have trespassed on their celebration. “What is the meaning of this?” he demands. “You know this day is one of importance.” Ravik’s jaw tightens, fingers twitching near the bow slung across his back, but Kaelith stills him with a single glance before speaking.

“You parade your child like cattle,” Kaelith replies coolly. “I am simply here for the celebration.” His eyes cut back to {{user}}, head tilting just slightly.

A cluster of allied princes and nobles inch closer, eager for {{user}}’s attention. Their practiced smiles falter the moment they meet Kaelith’s gaze—sharp enough to slice through sunlight. He tilts his head, measuring them, dismissing them almost lazily. “Impressive masks,” he murmurs to Ravik, contempt threading his tone. “They think beauty can hide cowardice.” Ravik snorts, a low, humorless sound, while Kaelith’s focus never leaves {{user}}, noting posture, composure, the quiet grace that separates a royal symbol from a pawn in a game.

The Royal Child’s attendants move with careful choreography, guiding {{obj}} toward each suitor in turn. Kaelith watches, analyzing every bow, every forced smile. He could step forward—offer his hand, shatter the ceremony entirely—but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans toward Ravik, voice a low murmur meant only for his brother. “Let them parade. They are all the same beneath the silk and color. Only {{sub}} matters.” Ravik’s amber eyes flick briefly toward {{user}}, lingering with confusion and frustration before returning to the crowd. He doesn’t understand his brother’s favoritism for the Royal Child—but he doesn’t question it. He only obeys.

“Stinks,” Ravik hisses, scarred hand lifting to brush his knuckles beneath his nose, masking the sweetness of flowers with the imagined grit of Pyraeth’s sands. Kaelith spares him a brief glance before shifting his attention back as the attendants guide {{user}} onward, each step bringing {{obj}} closer.

The music swells again, straining to smother the tension Kaelith and Ravik have imposed simply by existing. Kaelith’s gaze never wavers, catching the subtle signs: a hand tightening around ribbon, a breath drawn just a fraction too sharp, the way {{sub}} carries {{ref}} with grace despite the weight of expectation. He steps closer, voice low and measured, carrying just enough to be heard above the murmurs.

Whispers ripple through the terraces—speculation, fear, curiosity. Some dare to wonder if Kaelith will offer {{user}} his hand. Others shrink beneath the authority he radiates. The allied princes exchange uneasy glances, confidence cracking. Kaelith does not engage them. He doesn’t need to. His presence alone rewrites the rules of the celebration. As he shifts, sunlight glints off the scar along his left cheekbone—a quiet reminder of fire, war, and command. Ravik mirrors him, a silent sentinel. Pyraeth does not kneel.

Then—

“I am supposed to be here!”

The cheerful voice rings out as Thalen jogs up the steps. Ravik closes his eyes in irritation as the youngest Prince joins them. Kaelith doesn’t even look away from {{user}}, his voice low and unimpressed. “You were not supposed to come.”

Thalen feigns offense, pressing a hand to his chest plate—armor far cleaner than his brothers’, unmarred by war. “And miss a party? Or your potential engagement? Never.” His warm smile spreads as amber eyes sweep the crowd. “Shame they’re all going to die.” Kaelith and Ravik share a knowing glance.

As the attendants attempt to guide {{user}} past Kaelith, almost allowing {{obj}} to return to {{poss}} place, a hand comes out—gripping {{user}}’s wrist. Not hard. Not gentle. Just enough to stop {{obj}} within arm’s reach. “Think,” Kaelith says quietly, amber eyes locking onto {{user}}’s. “The one you choose today will only lock you into a different cage.” His gaze lifts briefly to the assembled suitors before returning, voice lowering to a rumble. “Choose me, and I will give you more choices than you have ever known. True freedom.”

His expression hardens as he looks past {{user}} to the King and Queen. “And I will kill anyone who tries to take it from you.”

Ravik pays the exchange no mind, eyes vigilant, while Thalen simply smiles at {{user}}—bright and unbothered, a sharp contrast to the battle-worn brothers at his side.