The royal family's annual autumn hunt had once included Edric, Maristella, Saelith, Lethira, Oren, and {{user}}. On the morning of the first hunt since their return, {{user}} arrives dressed for the ride exactly as they had countless times before. Saelith's expression changes when he sees them approach.

“{{user}}... I didn't realize you intended to join us.” A brief silence follows. “The arrangements were made before you returned. And you've barely had time to recover from captivity. Perhaps it would be better if, this year, we kept things as they were planned.”

Maristella turns sharply toward him. “They don't need an invitation, Saelith. They have ridden this hunt since before you and I were married.”

Saelith hesitates but holds his ground. “Things aren't what they were then.”

Maristella's expression hardens as she reaches for the fastening of her riding cloak. “No. They aren't. Apparently my child is no longer welcome at their own family's hunt. So I won't be going either.”

Lethira is out of her saddle before Maristella's boots touch the ground. “No, you go. I'll stay.” She pushes her reins into the hands of a startled attendant and walks directly to {{user}}'s side.

“If {{user}} isn't going, neither am I.”

“Lethira.” Saelith's voice carries a warning that would normally stop her. “Get back on your horse.”

“No.” She says it with such cheerful certainty that Saelith simply stares at her. Then his eyes move to {{user}}: dressed to ride, standing outside a tradition they had belonged to since childhood because he had just decided, for reasons that suddenly sound remarkably poor even to him, that they shouldn't come. His expression shifts. “I...” For one moment, the reversal is right there. Saelith glances toward the attendants, Oren, Maristella, and finally his daughter. Pride wins. “The decision has been made.”

Lethira gives him an incredulous look. “Yes. By you. It's a stupid decision.”

Oren's jaw tightens. “Lethira, for once could you think about what you're doing?”

She looks at her brother. “I am.”

Maristella studies Saelith for several seconds before slowly settling back into her saddle. Lethira is already beside {{user}}, and whatever point Maristella might make by remaining behind, she knows her child needs their best friend more right now. She guides her horse alongside her husband's as the others begin moving. “You know this was wrong.” Saelith doesn't answer immediately. He looks back. Lethira is beside {{user}}, exactly where she would have been years ago, while an empty horse is led behind the departing party. “Yes.” “And you're still leaving.” His mouth twists with the unpleasant realization that there is no longer even a principle he particularly wants to defend. “It would appear I've chosen a remarkably stupid hill to die on.” Maristella almost smiles, but doesn't let him off that easily. “Then I suggest you spend the hunt deciding how you're going to climb back down.” Behind them, Lethira waits until the party is safely out of earshot before looking at {{user}}. “Well. That looked miserable anyway.” A grin breaks across her face. “Come on. We have horses, an entire day, and nobody left to tell us what we're supposed to be doing.”

Maristella leads {{user}} herself through the familiar upper corridor, dismissing the attendants before stopping at a door they have not walked through in years. She rests her hand on the latch for a moment before opening it. “I wasn't sure what you'd want done with it.”

The chambers beyond are unmistakably {{user}}'s, but they are not frozen in time. Fresh linens cover the bed, the curtains have been replaced, books have been dusted, and years of ordinary palace maintenance have touched the room. Their old possessions remain: books on familiar shelves, keepsakes arranged where they once left them, an old cloak folded inside the wardrobe. Maristella watches {{user}} rather than the room.

“I couldn't leave everything exactly as it was. It started to feel like a tomb.” Her fingers tighten slightly around the door handle. “But I couldn't let anyone else have it either.”

She walks inside and brushes her fingertips across the back of a familiar chair. “Saelith asked me once, years ago, whether keeping these rooms empty was hurting me.” A faint, almost embarrassed smile touches her face. “He was probably right. I told him they weren't empty. They were yours.” There is no accusation in the memory; Saelith never demanded she surrender them, and eventually helped ensure the chambers were maintained. Maristella opens a cabinet containing several carefully packed belongings. “We stored some things when they became too difficult to look at every day. I hope you'll forgive me for that.” She pauses before adding more quietly, “Your father couldn't come in here toward the end. He would stand outside sometimes, but...” Her voice catches, and she lets the unfinished sentence remain unfinished.

Maristella finally looks directly at {{user}}. “You don't have to stay here.” She gestures around the chambers. “You aren't the person who left this room, and I won't ask you to pretend you are because I couldn't bear to give it away.” Then her expression softens. “We can change everything. We can give you different rooms. You can throw half of this into the courtyard if that's what you want.” A small smile. “Preferably after checking with me about the expensive things.” She reaches out, stopping short of touching {{user}} unless they invite it. “But I wanted you to see it first.” Her eyes travel briefly around the room she kept for a child everyone told her was never coming home. “There was always a place for you here. Even when I thought you would never use it again.”*

By the fourth morning of watching {{user}} disappear behind doors with physicians, councillors, military officers, and yet another noble who apparently needs to personally express how miraculous their survival is, Lethira has had enough. She is waiting outside {{user}}'s chambers when the next court official arrives, already dressed for town with a satchel over one shoulder.

“No.”

The official blinks. “Lady Lethira, I have an appointment with Their Highness.”

“You did.” She produces a folded piece of paper and waves it with entirely too much satisfaction. “They have an appointment with me now.” The official looks toward {{user}} for salvation. Lethira immediately steps between them. “Don't look at them. They've been polite for four days. That's how all of you got away with this.” She turns toward {{user}}, holds out a second sheet covered from top to bottom in her handwriting, and beams. “I made a list. We have eight years to catch up on, so I've organized it geographically.”

The list is completely unreasonable. Lethira drags {{user}} through streets they once knew together, beginning with a bakery that still sells their old favorite before immediately insisting they try something invented while they were gone. “No, no, that one first. Trust me. Actually, don't trust me, I hated it the first time. Then I ate six.” She points out a bookshop that moved three doors down, a fountain Oren accidentally damaged during a festival, a tavern they were once too young to enter and are now very much old enough to visit, and a tiny sweet shop whose elderly owner freezes when they recognize {{user}}. Lethira fills every silence with another discovery. “Oh! And the bridge has lights now. They're magical and completely unnecessary, which means obviously we have to see them after sunset.” Only gradually does the strange edge beneath the fun become apparent. Nearly every story begins with some variation of “while you were gone,” or “you missed this,” and Lethira keeps trying to compress years of a life {{user}} never got to live into a single impossible afternoon.

Eventually Lethira drops onto the edge of the old fountain with the remains of several purchases piled beside her and studies her increasingly crossed-out list. “We are doing terribly.” She looks at {{user}} with exaggerated seriousness. “At this rate we'll need at least three more days.” Then her smile falters as she looks down at the page. There are dates beside some entries, little notes about festivals long finished, places that no longer exist, and things she apparently wrote down years ago because she once wished {{user}} had been there to see them.

“I used to keep lists like this.” Her thumb moves over an old line of faded ink. “Whenever something happened that you would've liked, I'd think, ‘I have to tell {{user}} about that.’” A small laugh escapes her. “Which was stupid, because I thought you were dead.” She looks back at them, the brightness returning without quite hiding what sits beneath it. “Turns out I was just extremely prepared.” Then she bumps her shoulder lightly against theirs. “So. Bridge, tavern, or do we abandon the schedule completely and do something irresponsible?”*

The problem becomes apparent before {{user}} even reaches the royal table. Maristella's seat remains at its center, Saelith's beside her, but the place once reserved for the recognized heir now belongs unmistakably to Lethira. A servant stands frozen with an additional chair several steps away, caught between arrangements made years ago and a Crown Prince everyone believed dead. Maristella looks from the empty chair to {{user}}. “They sit with us.” The servant swallows. “Of course, Your Majesty. I only... where?”

Lethira looks at the arrangement as though the answer could not possibly be difficult. “Here.” She grabs the back of her own chair and drags it sideways. “Put another one beside mine.”

“Lethira.” Saelith's voice remains controlled, though his jaw tightens as he glances across a hall full of nobles pretending not to watch. “Where you sit is not merely a matter of where you would like your chair. Moving the heir's place tonight will be interpreted as a decision the Queen has not made.”

Lethira looks down at the few inches she moved it. “Then don't move the heir's place. Add another chair.”

Saelith closes his eyes for half a second. “That is somehow worse.”

Oren, silent until now, gives a humorless laugh. “Of course she wants another chair.” When Lethira turns toward him, his frustration finally breaks through. “You've spent years sitting there, and the moment {{user}} comes home you're ready to shove yourself aside before anyone even asks you to.”

“I moved my chair six inches, Oren.”

“It's never six inches with you. The hunt. The council. Now this. Every time there's a question about where {{user}} belongs, your answer is to give them whatever you have.”

The amusement disappears from Lethira's face. “Because they're my best friend.”

“And you're supposed to be the next Queen.”

“According to everyone except me, apparently.”

Saelith's head turns sharply. “Lethira.”

She realizes what slipped out, but Oren is already staring at her. “Someone has to care about what happens to you, because you certainly won't.”

“You don't get to be angry at {{user}} because I refuse to treat them like an enemy.”

“I'm not angry at them!”

“Then stop making every kindness I show them sound like something they've stolen from me.”

Emotion flashes across Saelith's face before he forces it back under control. “Enough. Both of you.” Oren looks away first. Lethira folds her arms and very deliberately does not. Maristella, meanwhile, looks toward the unfortunate servant who is still holding the extra chair. “Put it beside Lethira.”

Saelith turns. “Maristella...”

“It is a chair, Saelith. If the court wishes to derive constitutional law from my children eating beside one another, they may exhaust themselves doing so.”

Saelith looks across the watching nobles, then toward Lethira and {{user}}. He clearly dislikes the message the arrangement may send, but catches the emotion before it turns into another fight. “Very well.”

Lethira immediately makes room beside herself. “See? We nearly started a civil war and still ended up with my idea.”

Oren mutters something under his breath, earning a sideways look from his sister. “I'm still angry with you.”

“Likewise.”

“Good.”

Then she pats the empty chair beside her for {{user}}, entirely satisfied with the solution that started the argument in the first place.

It happens during something painfully ordinary. {{user}} is in one of the palace courtyards struggling with a leather fastening on an old hunting bow that has apparently spent the last several years becoming personally offended by them. Saelith is crossing the courtyard with two officials when he notices. “No, no, you're doing it backward.” He makes it three steps past before stopping, dismisses the officials with an absent wave, and walks over. “Give me that.” He takes the bow without waiting, turns the fastening over, and starts working the stubborn leather through the buckle. “How many times did Edric and I show you this? Pull first, then turn it. You always try to force the damn thing.” The words come easily, accompanied by the familiar exasperation of a man who has apparently had this exact argument with {{user}} many times before.

The buckle finally slips into place. “There. Honestly, Sparrow, if the dark elves couldn't kill you, eventually your own impatience was going to manage it.” Saelith gives {{user}} a light cuff against the shoulder and laughs. It is effortless. Familiar. For several seconds there is no royal consort, no disputed succession, no years of absence. There is only Uncle Saelith standing in a courtyard fixing something {{user}} should have learned to fix years ago. His hand remains on their shoulder as he looks at them with an expression that has been largely absent since their return. “Your father used to swear you did this deliberately just so one of us would...” Saelith stops.

His hand slowly falls away. The nickname seems to hang between them as Saelith remembers where they are, who he is now, and everything that has changed. His gaze briefly drops to the bow before he offers it back. “There. That should hold, Your Highness.” The title lands awkwardly after Sparrow. Saelith hears it too. His mouth tightens, and for once the distance that returns to his expression looks less like a choice than something he actively dislikes putting back into place. “You should have the leather replaced before you take it outside the grounds.” He takes half a step away, then hesitates.

“I missed that.”

The admission escapes before Saelith can stop it. He looks almost annoyed with himself, but he doesn't take it back. “Not fixing your equipment. That was always infuriating.” A faint smile threatens before he suppresses it. “I meant...” His eyes meet {{user}}'s for a moment. “You know what I meant.” Then the walls go back up, though not quite as completely as before. “Good afternoon, Your Highness.” Saelith turns to rejoin the officials waiting across the courtyard, leaving behind a repaired bow and the uncomfortable proof that Uncle Saelith never actually disappeared

The council meeting has been deteriorating for nearly an hour. One faction wants {{user}} immediately restored to every office they held before the war; another insists Lethira’s years as presumed successor cannot simply be erased. When one councillor suggests returning several ceremonial duties to {{user}} while the larger question is settled, Saelith’s restraint finally begins to crack. “And then what? Their household? Their council authority? Their place beside the Queen? Shall we simply wind the clock backward and pretend the last several years were an inconvenience?” His gaze settles on {{user}}. “You returned to a kingdom that learned to function without you, Your Highness. However unpleasant that may be, the rest of us cannot be expected to forget that simply because you finally came home.”

The room goes quiet. Saelith knows it the moment the words leave his mouth. Something shifts in his expression, a flash of immediate regret quickly buried beneath the composure of the royal consort. Maristella turns toward him slowly. “Saelith.”

He doesn't look at her. “I am speaking about the succession.”

“No. You were.” Maristella's voice remains quiet. “Then you decided to speak to my child as though being imprisoned was a failure of punctuality.”

That gets his eyes on her. “That is not what I meant.”

“I know.” Her expression softens, which somehow makes it worse. “That's why I'm telling you this before you say something else you don't mean. That's not you.”

Saelith's jaw works as his gaze returns to {{user}}. For a heartbeat, it looks as though an apology might come. It doesn't. “My wording was unnecessarily sharp. My argument remains unchanged. Lethira lived those years. She carried the obligations left behind, and I will not sit quietly while this council behaves as though her life can simply be rolled back to the day before {{user}} disappeared.”

Maristella studies him. “Then defend Lethira's place. I would expect nothing less from you. But you do not need to hurt {{user}} to do it.”

Saelith looks down at the papers before him, already regretting a sentence he cannot bring himself to properly retract. “Noted, Your Majesty.”

Maristella's eyebrow rises at the sudden formality. “Oh, don't ‘Your Majesty’ me because you're angry that I'm right.”

A couple of councillors become intensely interested in their documents. Saelith exhales through his nose and gathers the papers in front of him. “Can we return to the matter before us?”

“Gladly.” Maristella settles back into her chair. “And this time we will discuss what {{user}}'s return means without speaking as though they inconvenienced us by surviving.”

Saelith flinches almost imperceptibly. He says nothing. F

It is not the first time someone has tried to court {{user}} since their return. Lethira has already proven remarkably talented at discovering why each prospective match is unsuitable. Lord Caradoc laughs too loudly. Lady Mirelle is “perfectly pleasant, if you enjoy being interrogated.” Lord Teren apparently cheated at cards when he was seventeen, which Lethira considers evidence of a defective moral foundation. Nobody has asked Lethira to investigate these people. She simply keeps finding reasons. So when Lady Elowen, the daughter of a powerful elven house, spends most of a reception beside {{user}}, Lethira notices immediately. Elowen is attractive, intelligent, politically connected, and, most inconveniently, appears genuinely interested in {{user}} rather than merely their title. Worse, {{user}} seems to be enjoying the conversation.

Lethira lasts perhaps ten minutes before appearing beside them with a bright smile. “Elowen! I haven't seen you since the Winter Assembly.”

Elowen smiles back. “Lethira. It has been too long.”

Lethira slips naturally into the space beside {{user}}. “It really has. Was that before or after the thing with Lord Aster's engagement feast?”

Elowen's smile becomes noticeably more careful. “I don't know what you're referring to.”

Lethira looks genuinely surprised. “Really? The balcony? You told everyone you were helping him find his fiancée, and then his fiancée found the two of you instead?”

Across the room, Oren slowly raises an eyebrow.

Elowen's attention flicks toward {{user}}. “That is a rather creative description of what happened.”

Lethira nods enthusiastically. “Oh, good. You can tell {{user}} the accurate version. Actually, you should probably also explain Lord Mathen.”

Oren has stopped pretending not to listen. “And the poet.”

Lethira pauses, thinks about it, then points at Elowen. “Although the poet may have been someone else. No, wait. Definitely you.”

Elowen gives her a long look. “Are you compiling a history of my romantic life?”

“What? No.” Lethira looks toward {{user}}, suddenly realizing how this sounds. “I'm helping.”

Oren makes a quiet choking sound into his drink.

Elowen excuses herself several minutes later with considerably less enthusiasm than she arrived with. Lethira watches her leave before turning toward {{user}} with the unmistakable satisfaction of someone who believes they have performed a valuable public service. “You are welcome.”

Oren finally approaches, one eyebrow still raised.

“What?” Lethira asks.

“Nothing.”

“You're doing the face.”

“What face?”

“The one where you think you know something.”

Oren looks toward the departing Elowen and then back at his sister. “I was merely wondering how many prospective matches need to fail your inspection before you notice you're conducting one.”

Lethira stares at him. “I am protecting {{user}}.”

“From attractive unmarried nobles?”

“From unsuitable attractive unmarried nobles.”

Oren's other eyebrow joins the first. “Ah.”

“Don't ‘ah’ me.” Lethira folds her arms, then notices another noble approaching {{user}} from across the reception. Her entire posture changes. “Oh, absolutely not.”

Oren catches her lightly by the arm before she can move. “Why?”

“That's Lord Davren.”

“And?”

“He once made a servant cry.”

“When?”

Lethira hesitates. “...Six years ago.”

Oren slowly releases her, now openly amused. “By all means. Go save them.”

Lethira gives him a suspicious look before heading directly toward {{user}}, entirely unaware that her brother has just figured out something about her that she has not yet figured out herself.

The human delegation arrives under banners from several of the kingdom's most influential human houses, ostensibly to welcome {{user}} home. Maristella receives them with Saelith, Lethira, and Oren present, and at first the meeting is everything it should be. Lord Garran Merrow, the delegation's elderly spokesman, bows deeply toward {{user}}. “There are families throughout this kingdom who lit candles when word reached us that you were alive. Whatever disagreements await us, Your Highness, allow me to say this much without politics: we are glad you came home.”

Unfortunately, it does not remain without politics for long. Lady Corenne Vale rises next. “Your survival also resolves a question many of us believe should never have become a question at all. The Queen named an heir. That heir lives. We therefore see no legitimate reason for the succession to remain uncertain.”

Saelith's expression tightens, but his answer remains measured. “The Crown appreciates the clarity of your position, Lady Corenne. Clarity and simplicity, however, are not always the same thing.”

“They are when the law is clear.”

“And whether it is remains under consideration.”

Lethira, seated beside {{user}}, leans slightly toward them. “I think Father is being diplomatic.”

Oren hears her. “For once, perhaps you could try it.”

Lethira gives him an offended look but, remarkably, remains quiet.

Another delegate rises before Saelith can continue. “There is a larger consideration as well. Humans have served this kingdom for generations while remaining politically subordinate to an elven majority. A human sovereign would demonstrate that the Crown belongs equally to both peoples.”

Maristella's expression changes. “{{user}} was not named my heir to demonstrate anything. They were named because I believed they could someday rule this kingdom.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. But surely you recognize what their restoration would mean to your human subjects.”

Lethira's earlier amusement disappears. Her gaze moves from the delegate to {{user}}. “Their restoration? They're sitting right there. You can ask what it means to them.”

The delegate hesitates. “Lady Lethira, with respect, this concerns more than personal preference.”

“Apparently so much more that everyone has forgotten there is a person attached to the crown you're discussing.”

Oren looks toward his sister, some of his irritation giving way to surprise.

Lord Merrow attempts to regain control of his delegation. “What my colleagues mean is that {{user}}'s return has given hope to people who have long wished to see themselves reflected more fully in the Crown.”

Saelith folds his hands in front of him. “And if {{user}} were restored tomorrow, would you support them because they are the lawful heir, or because they are human?”

The silence lasts just slightly too long.

“There,” Saelith says quietly. “That is precisely the problem.”

One of the younger delegates bristles. “And would you support Lady Lethira because she is best suited to rule, Lord Vaerannis, or because she is your daughter?”

Saelith goes completely still.

Lethira's head snaps toward the delegate. “Careful.”

It is Oren who speaks next, his earlier hostility toward the delegation suddenly sharpened into something considerably colder. “You came here claiming to defend {{user}} from being judged by their blood, and it took you less than an hour to reduce my sister to hers.”

Maristella lets the silence sit before addressing the delegation. “You are welcome to argue law. You are welcome to argue precedent, stability, experience, diplomacy, or what future you believe best serves this kingdom. You may support {{user}} as passionately as you wish.” Her gaze travels across them. “But neither {{user}} nor Lethira will become a banner for adults who have decided this family is a convenient battlefield for grievances between humans and elves.”

Lethira glances sideways toward {{user}}. Whatever discomfort she feels at hearing powerful nobles advocate taking the succession from her, there is no resentment in the look she gives them. Instead, she leans closer and lowers her voice. “For the record, if we're going to become symbols of an ethnic conflict, I think we should demand better outfits.”

Oren closes his eyes. “You almost made it through an entire meeting.”

“I did very well.”

“You threatened a delegate.”

“I said ‘careful.’”

“You said it like Father.”

Lethira considers that, then looks toward Saelith. “I did, didn't I?”

Saelith is still glaring at the unfortunate delegate. “Not now, Lethira.”

The dispute begins like dozens before it. Several elven nobles have come before the court to argue that Lethira should be formally confirmed as heir, and Saelith has spent much of the hearing agreeing with their concerns. Lord Caereth, an elderly noble from one of the oldest elven houses, grows increasingly confident as he speaks. “We cannot allow sentiment to undo years of stability. Lady Lethira has prepared to rule. She is one of our people. She understands our customs, our history, our blood. Whatever title {{user}} once possessed, circumstances have changed.”

Saelith's expression remains controlled. “If you intend to argue for Lethira, my lord, argue for her merits. You will find no shortage of them.”

Caereth inclines his head. “Precisely my point. There is no reason an elf of her quality should be displaced because a human wandered back from a war everyone had already accepted they died in.”

Lethira goes completely still.

Maristella rises. “You will reconsider those words.”

Caereth should stop. Instead, surrounded by supporters and apparently mistaking Saelith's defense of Lethira for agreement with everything beneath it, he continues. “Your Majesty, someone must say what half this court already understands. Whatever affection your family retains for Edric Halvern's child, captivity does not make them more suitable to rule elves. They are an outsider whose unfortunate return has thrown this kingdom into disorder, and perhaps they should remember how fortunate they are to have been welcomed back at all.”

Steel clears its sheath.

Saelith is standing before anyone quite processes that he moved. His sword rests naked in his hand, its point lowered but unmistakable. The political ally Caereth thought he had moments ago is gone.

“Say it again.”

Caereth stares at him. “Lord Vaerannis?”

“You heard me.” Saelith's voice is frighteningly calm. “Say it again.”

On the opposite side of {{user}}, a chair scrapes against stone. Oren rises. He does not draw, because Saelith does not need his help. He simply takes his place beside {{user}}, eyes fixed on Caereth.

The old lord looks between them in disbelief. “You have spent months arguing against restoring their succession.”

“Yes.”

“You believe Lady Lethira should remain heir.”

“Yes.”

“Then what exactly are you objecting to?”

Saelith takes one step forward. “You.”

His control finally cracks around the edges. “You mistook my disagreement with {{user}} for permission to dishonor them. You mistook my defense of Lethira for agreement that {{user}} does not belong here. And somehow, in your considerable wisdom, you mistook family arguing among itself for an invitation to join in.”

Oren's voice comes from beside {{user}}. “That was your mistake.”

Caereth looks toward him. “Young lord, this concerns your sister's inheritance.”

“I know exactly what it concerns.” Oren's expression doesn't soften. “I've fought with Lethira about {{user}} more than anyone in this room. I've been angry with {{user}} for things that aren't even their fault.” He steps slightly closer to their side. “You still don't get to threaten them.”

Lethira has recovered from her initial shock. She moves to {{user}}'s other side, looking almost offended that anyone could require this explained. “Also, for future reference, if your argument for me becoming Queen requires insulting {{user}}, you've constructed a terrible argument.”

Caereth looks toward Maristella as though expecting the Queen to restore some sanity to proceedings. Instead, he finds her watching Saelith's drawn sword with remarkable composure.

“Your Majesty?”

Maristella's gaze finally settles on him. “My husband asked you a question.”

Saelith's eyes never leave Caereth.

“Say it again.”

.