Chapter Text
“Fenedhis,” Ellana hissed as she collided with someone in the shadowed alcove, their goblets meeting in a disastrous splash of spiced wine. She'd been so intent on escaping, her skirts gathered in one hand, goblet sloshing in the other, and Lord Cathiel’s voice carrying down the corridor from behind, that she didn’t notice the man moving in opposition to her own retreat. Wine soaked through his fine doublet, ruined with crimson stains just like her own sodden velvet. In the dim light filtering from the feast hall, she could see his lips part in surprise. Then they curled, pursed and tight, into a scowl.
Voices echoed down the corridor.
The man opened his mouth to speak—
—but Ellana pushed them both deeper into the alcove, ducking behind a tapestry to further obscure them, her hand flying to cover his mouth. His body went rigid against hers, but he didn't resist as she pressed them into the shadows between two columns. The space was barely wide enough for one person, let alone two—her back and right shoulder pressed against cold stone, his own body mirrored and chest against hers. Very little light filtered through the tight warps and wefts.
Lord Cathiel's distinct tenor drifted past. “... saw her come this way…”
Ellana held her breath. The stranger's lips moved against her palm—soft, warm, frowning deeply. She was suddenly aware of every point where their bodies touched. His thigh pressed between hers, trapping her skirts. Fragrant drops of wine fell from the hems of their clothes. This close, even in the dim lighting behind the arras hiding them, she could see the fine embroidery on his collar, the blatant upset in his eyes.
Her hand pulled away from his mouth, leaving only an index finger against the cupid’s bow of his lips. She pulled that away then, too, pressing it to her own. Shhh. His eyes followed the movement, drawn to her finger, her mouth, as though she'd cast a spell. His gaze lingered there as footsteps approached their hiding place.
“Lady Lavellan?” Cathiel's voice came from just beyond the alcove. His footsteps slowed. “Come now, surely a dance with me wouldn't be so terrible?”
Ellana pressed back harder against the wall, her skirts tangling with the stranger's legs. He shifted to accommodate her, one hand bracing against the wall beside her head, the other resting lightly at her waist. The position brought his face startlingly close to hers, his breath hot against her brow.
“Your suitor is persistent,” he murmured, so quietly she felt the words against her cheeks more than heard them.
“Be silent, or he will prevail in his endeavors.”
Cathiel lingered on one end of the passageway. Ellana could hear him move again, some paces away, pausing once more. Perhaps to look around the corner? Behind a statue?
Or, she thought as a prickle of dread settled in her chest, he could be looking at the tapestry.
“Perhaps he would be inclined to leave you alone if he discovered you entangled with another man,” her companion in concealment whispered.
The fool.
“Be quiet,” Ellana glowered, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow, “Or I shall have to muzzle you once more—”
“Unless you think he would duel for your affections and favor.”
“Perhaps you can afford to be found in a such a way,” Ellana hissed, “but I cannot. I would be ruined.”
“Perhaps if you—”
The words died as Cathiel's footsteps resumed, coming closer still. Their bodies tensed in unison, the space between them collapsing completely. She could feel the rapid thud of his heart beneath his wine-stained shirt and jacket, the way his hand at her waist tightened minutely. Drawing her bottom lip between her teeth to quiet her breathing, she met his gaze and found the earlier irritation replaced by something far more dangerous: interest.
“That man,” she whispered as Cathiel's footsteps began to fade, “is about as charming as a nettle. He is not a suitor. He is a plague.”
“And you, my lady, are as uncommon as a winter storm.” His hand at her waist eased, though he made no move to retreat. “Tell me, do you always hide in alcoves with strange men when avoiding paramours, or am I uniquely blessed this evening?”
“I fear it is rather that I am cursed. My misfortune has drawn me into the company of a new fool whilst trying to evade another.”
His laugh was low, a sound that seemed to bypass her ears entirely and settle somewhere near her collarbone. “The Lavellan ladies speak very freely indeed, judging by how swiftly this judgment came.”
“You know who I am?”
“Your lover called you by name.”
“He is not my—and who are you to assume—”
“Who? You mock me, my Lady, assault me, and you do not even know to whom you bestow the title ‘Fool’?”
“Is that the standard by which I should judge everyone I meet? Whether I know them?”
“No,” he admitted. “I find it refreshing. Most people know exactly who I am, and act accordingly.”
“And how would you prefer people act?”
“Honestly.” His gaze dropped to her wine-stained bodice, then back to her face. “Though I am discovering I may also have a preference for this brazen behavior from you.”
Ellana became acutely aware of their positioning again—her back still against the wall, his hand lingering at her waist, their bodies so near that she could smell the blooming scent of cloves from the spilled spiced wine as it warmed on his body. His arm bracketing her in, hiding them both like conspirators about to tryst in the dark.
She pushed him back and off, stepping out of the alcove with a huff. The space between them felt insufficient still. “And what business do you have skulking about in the dark here?”
“Skulking? Another harsh accusation for a man you know nothing about.”
“You may choose to tell me the truth of it should you wish me to reconsider judgement.” Ellana crossed her arms over her chest and arched a brow, her tone clipped but not unkind.
“You’re very quick to demand answers, Lady Lavellan. I am, as you said, your fool.”
“My fool?”
“You bestowed upon me my title.”
He reached, almost absently, to catch a loose thread of gold brocade from her draping sleeve, allowing his fingers to linger there as if assessing the quality of the fabric. Frowning, she snapped her arm away.
“Will you answer every question with a cleverly invented non-truth? It is a curious trait for a man who claims to value honesty.”
His lips twitched, and for a moment, she thought he might laugh. Instead, he stepped back, giving her more of the space she wanted, though his eyes never left her own. “Very well. I was avoiding someone—several someones, in fact. The pre-tournament festivities have a way of drawing out those who wish to… ingratiate themselves. I find such attentions particularly tiresome.”
“Ingratiate themselves,” she repeated, “Is that a delicate way of saying they’re vying for your favor?”
“Indeed.”
“And why would they do that?” She tilted her head, studying him. “Who are you, Fool, to inspire such efforts?”
“No one deserving or particularly interested in such supplication. Does it matter? As we are now—strangers—you speak to me more candidly than any.”
“It does if you expect me to believe you’re not just another lordling preening for attention.”
“You’re not one to mince words, are you?”
“Would you prefer I flatter you instead?”
“I prefer you this way,” he said, his voice softer now. “Honest. Rude. Interesting.”
Ellana felt her cheeks bloom with heat but refused to look away. “You still haven’t answered my question—this aversive nature of yours is increasingly odd for one who paragons truth and candor.”
“And you still haven’t asked for my name.”
“Perhaps I don’t care about some rakish lordling’s name or title.”
His lips curved, and this time he did laugh—rich and full. “Rakish? Just how low can your opinion of me fall?”
“You’ve given me little reason to improve my opinion of your character,” she said, though the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. “Lurking in shadows, speaking in riddles—it’s hardly the behavior of an honorable man.”
“Perhaps I should endeavor to prove otherwise.”
Before she could respond, distant voices echoed down the corridor, growing nearer. He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her. “I believe our hiding place is about to be discovered. It might be best if we weren’t seen together.”
“Afraid of scandal?”
“Only on your behalf,” he said, giving her a small bow. “Good evening, Lady Lavellan.”
Tallow candles blazed in iron sconces along the stone walls as Solas returned to the feast hall, tugging at the edges of his doublet where the wine had soaked through. He could not hide the stain, but there were few in attendance inebriated or stupid enough to attempt to make comment. The gathering had grown more raucous in his absence—dancers now swept across the marble floor in time with the minstrels' lively tune, while servants weaved between clusters of nobles with trays of sweetmeats and goblets. Courtiers gathered like preening birds, and the din of a hundred conversations echoed off the vaulted ceiling, punctuated by the sharp clatter of pewter plates and the occasional bursts of raucous laughter.
His gaze slid across the grand hall, noting the political alliances and more subtle power-plays between nobility on display. Duchess Andruil held court near the western windows, her followers adorned in stylized hunting regalia despite the formal occasion. Duke Dirthamen and his twin brother lurked in more shadowed corners, as was their wont, observing more than participating. And there, seated upon the dais at the head of the hall, Queen Mythal watched the proceedings with her usual air of aloof serenity, while her husband, the King, laughed, already deep in his cups.
Solas bit back a scowl. It was his presence, the King's, that complicated matters most. King Elgar'nan rarely left the palace these days, his moods having grown increasingly volatile, metered only by his wife the Queen. Her hand occasionally brushed her husband's arm, not in affection but in subtle restraint. The court whispered that she alone could gentle the Sun King's rages, though fewer now believed she tried to curb them rather than direct them. The tournament was to have been the perfect opportunity—neutral ground where like-minded nobles might exchange words away from the King's tyrannical gaze. But now, with Elgar'nan himself in attendance, any such meeting would be…
“There you are, My Lord.” A trim, smiling man appeared at Solas’s side as if he’d slipped out of the ether, breaking him from his thoughts, two fresh goblets of hippocras in hand. Felassan had a skill in such arrivals, weaving through crowds and people with the same inborn ease as one did with breathing. He offered one goblet to Solas, violet eyes that matched the shade of his livery glinting with amusement. “I was beginning to think you'd abandoned the festivities entirely.”
“The temptation had crossed my mind,” Solas replied, accepting the wine with a nod of thanks.
“I am sure the thought left your mind as soon as you considered the Queen’s displeasure for escaping without her leave,” Felassan's gaze dropped to the crimson stain spreading across the fine fabric. “Ah, and is this a wound from your momentary treason?”
“An unfortunate collision.”
“Hmm.” Felassan's lips curved upward. “A collision with what? Or should I ask, with whom?”
Solas took a long drink from the offered goblet rather than answer immediately.
“You're distracted,” Felassan noted, following Solas's gaze as it swept once more across the hall. “That's unlike you. Especially with so many of our friends in attendance.”
Few would recognize the subtle emphasis apart from Solas. The Count Fen’Harel did not have ‘friends’, Felassan being perhaps the only exception, though there were several lords that he had hoped to meet with who were present. They stood scattered throughout the hall in careful arrangements that suggested neither conspiracy nor coincidence. Unfortunately, the opportunity to speak freely with them had diminished considerably with the unexpected arrival of the King.
“Lord Gatson asked again about the summer grain levy. His people face starvation while the eastern granaries stand empty,” Felassan murmured, his voice low enough that even the most attentive of eavesdroppers would struggle to hear, and his eyes flicked meaningfully towards the high table. “The King has commissioned another gold dining service despite the treasury's warnings. And, further, you’ve rather made a mess of things yourself, my Lord. I arranged it so that Lord Boran was waiting for you in the eastern hall. He grew concerned when you failed to appear and has since moved on within the feast hall.”
Solas suppressed a frown. Lord Boran controlled the mountain passes that would be essential to their plans. The man was notoriously cautious—a good trait in an ally—it might be weeks before another opportunity to speak with him arose. Still, apart from that, this news of Gatson was a meaningful addition to his ledger: pieces were falling into place faster than even he had anticipated. Each lord with a grievance, each village with empty bellies, brought them one step closer to the tipping point.
“I was... delayed,” Solas replied, his thoughts returning unbidden to wide eyes and sharp words. The brush of skirts against his legs and that pert, rude, mouth.
“So I gathered.” Felassan's gaze lingered pointedly on the wine stain. “Though I confess, My Lord, I'm curious as to what manner of delay could prove so thoroughly... dampening to your evening.”
Solas idly traced the rim of his goblet with one finger, his attention seemingly drawn to a movement across the hall—Lady Lavellan, still in her burgundy gown, navigating through the crowd with her head held high despite the evening's earlier mishap. She stopped, ultimately, in the company of a young man with strikingly similar features to her own, and a wry smile. A sibling? A cousin?
“Tell me about House Lavellan,” Solas said, changing the subject with little subtlety.
Felassan's eyebrows rose, then he tracked his lord’s gaze across the hall. “The Lavellans?”
He leaned against a nearby column, studying Solas with new interest before giving a noncommittal shrug. “They are minor nobility from the eastern marches, as I recall. They rarely grace us with their presence at court because they are rarely invited.”
“And yet they are here now.”
“Indeed. Lord Lavellan now serves as an advisor to Duke June. They say he has a keen understanding of craft, trade routes, and negotiating with the merchants from across the sea. His eldest son is similarly learning such trade.” Felassan tilted his head. “But I suspect you're not interested in the old man's mercantile talents, or the son that has previously been in attendance at such gatherings when you ask about a family you’ve never once noticed before.”
A sibling, then. Solas kept his expression even, but his vassal knew him too well.
“So it's the daughter, then?” Felassan smiled into his wine.
“How is it that you are always so informed about the members of each of these patchwork noble families?”
“Because, Count Fen’Harel, you pay me to be well informed. I will presume your lack of rebuttal confirmation in any case—the eldest daughter of Lord Lavellan would be the Lady Ellana, newly come of age and recently presented at Arlathan’s court. I’ve heard she’s a rather sharp one, too. Studied alongside her brother under their father's tutelage. Languages, mathematics, history—even the sciences if rumor is to be believed.” Felassan's voice lowered. “I've heard she's turned down three marriage proposals already. Her father indulges her independence, much to the consternation of her mother.”
Solas found his lips curving at this information. It aligned perfectly with the sharp-tongued woman who had called him a fool to his face.
“She wouldn't know you by sight,” Felassan continued, watching Solas carefully. “The Lavellans keep to themselves in their holdings. They've little interest in court politics or the games of the nobility.”
“A refreshing quality.”
“Is it?” Felassan swirled the wine in his goblet. “I never took you for one who valued ignorance.”
“There is a difference between ignorance and innocence,” Solas replied. “One is the absence of knowledge, the other the absence of corruption.”
Felassan chuckled. “Well, whichever it is, you might want to stake your claim quickly, My Lord. Lord Cathiel has been rather vocal about his intentions toward her, Gods help the poor woman.”
Solas took another drag of his wine. “Has he?”
“Oh yes. He's quite determined to win her hand. He's even entered the tournament with the stated purpose of dedicating his victories to her.”
“Cathiel is competing?” Solas straightened, his attention fully captured now.
“He is. Along with his brothers.” Felassan studied Solas with open, playful, curiosity. “Why? Does that concern you?”
Solas took another sip of wine, his mind already turning with possibilities.
“It changes nothing,” he said after a moment. “As the Queen's champion, I am expected to participate regardless.”
“Ah yes, but there is a difference between participation and enthusiasm.” Felassan's grin tugged the corners of his mouth wider. “In previous years, you've made your distaste for the spectacle quite clear.”
“I have never seen the value in men beating each other senseless for the amusement of the crowd.”
“And yet you excel at it nonetheless.” Felassan leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Six tournaments won in as many years, despite your disdain. The crowd, and your Lady the Queen, expects you to emerge victorious again.”
Solas's gaze drifted back to where Lady Lavellan stood with her father. Lord Cathiel had approached them now, bowing with exaggerated courtesy that seemed to make the lady stiffen. Even at this distance, Solas could see the uncomfortably firm set of her jaw.
“The Queen places great importance on these traditions,” Solas said, the words rehearsed from countless similar exchanges. They were as empty as the Lady Lavellan’s regard for her suitor. “I serve at her pleasure.”
“Indeed. Though I wonder if the Queen's pleasure will be what motivates you this year.” Felassan glanced meaningfully at the Lavellans. “You know the final ceremony requires the victor to crown a lady of his choosing.”
“A meaningless ritual.”
“Is it? The woman chosen to wear the laurel crown as the tournament’s Queen of Love and Beauty often finds herself the subject of considerable attention. Sometimes even advantageous proposals. It is an honor most Ladies at court would happily cut off a limb for, and think it a fair exchange.”
“It is fortunate then that such mutilation is not required—and I should remind you that as the Queen has ordered me to participate as her champion, the title belongs to her as it has been in years past.”
“Did she order you to give it to her should you be victorious?”
“No, but to give the honor to a Lady apart from the Queen would no doubt stir a great many unwanted gossips about my own interests. It would be taken as a declaration of intent, surely.”
“Would that be so bad, My Lord? If you were interested in someone?”
The implication hung in the air between them as purple eyes flicked back across the room. Ellana was laughing, her hand covering petal pink lips, as her brother spun some tale. Solas's fingers tightened imperceptibly around his goblet.
“I doubt Lady Lavellan would welcome such attention,” he said finally.
“Perhaps not from Lord Cathiel,” Felassan agreed, “but from the Count Fen'Harel? The beloved champion of the Queen? That might be an entirely different matter.”
Solas gave his friend a sharp look. “You presume much.”
“I observe much, My Lord,” Felassan corrected, his tone light but his eyes knowing. “Including the fact that you've hardly taken your eyes off her since we began speaking of the tournament.”
From across the hall, Queen Mythal rose from her seat, the movement causing a ripple of attention through the gathered nobility. Beside her, King Elgar'nan leaned back in his throne, goblet raised high as he laughed boisterously at something a courtier had said. Wine had already stained his own ermine mantle, deep burgundy blooming across the snow-white fur and his eyes, bright with drink and revelry, held the dangerous gleam of a man whose temper might turn as swiftly as a weathervane in a storm. The golden circlet upon his brow sat askew, and though servants hovered nearby, none dared approach to adjust it.
The Queen placed a hand on his arm, a subtle gesture that nonetheless seemed to focus the Sun King’s attention, if only momentarily.
“The Queen approaches,” Felassan murmured. “I suspect she wishes to discuss tomorrow's proceedings with her champion. I shall make myself scarce.”
Solas nodded, setting aside his goblet on a passing servant's tray. “We will speak more of this later.”
The Queen didn’t walk so much as she did glide when she crossed the feasting hall with all the noble grace of a high born and well-bred woman who had perfected the art of demanding attention without overtly appearing to seek it. Guards flanked her at a respectful distance, their eyes forward, hands resting on the chased silver hilts of their court swords.
“My Champion,” she said, her voice carrying just far enough to reach his ears and no further. “Walk with me a moment.”
With a dutiful nod, Solas fell into step beside her, matching her unhurried pace as they moved toward the colonnade that overlooked the inner courtyard. The music and laughter from the feast faded behind them.
“You seem distant tonight, my lord Fen’Harel,” she observed. “Troubled, perhaps. Is aught weighing upon your mind?”
“No, I am merely contemplative, Your Majesty.”
“And what is it that drags you into such sour-faced contemplation? Come, my lord. Weren’t we friends once? There was a time when you used to come to me directly to tell me your worries; I would give you my ear again.”
Solas met her gaze directly, something few at court dared. “There was a time when you were Mythal, Lady of a noble house of Arlathan, and I was a young man who thought that I might earn your hand in the way a man courted a woman. You chose to accept the advances of the King, and now you are Arlathan’s Queen. I would not presume to have the ear of a monarch.”
A flicker of something crossed her face before smoothing into the familiar mask of serene authority. “Even when freely offered?”
“The King does not share his treasures,” Solas replied, gaze drifting momentarily to King Elgar'nan, who laughed too loudly at some courtier's jest, spilling yet more wine down his sleeve. “Nor would I risk imposing where I am merely tolerated by the regent, especially when as of late you keep me here at your court as little more than your piece on the chessboard.”
Queen Mythal’s eyes followed his. Her husband's golden circlet sat askew, and though footmen hovered nearby, none dared approach to adjust it. The Queen's lips thinned almost imperceptibly, and the moire silk of her gown caught the torchlight in rippling patterns. She smoothed a hand over one sleeve, its cuff fastened with pearl buttons larger than fat raindrops.
“There was a time when you believed in more than mere tolerance,” she said. “When you thought we might reshape Arlathan together… that dream has not yet gone.”
“And what has been reshaped, Your Majesty? The peasants still starve while new gold adorns the palace. The lords still tremble while the King's temper grows more volatile.” His voice lowered further. “You promised change from within. I see only new chains with familiar hands holding the keys.”
The Queen studied him, something unreadable shifting behind her eyes. “Power requires patience, Count Fen’Harel. And sacrifice.”
“Indeed. Your own. Mine. And who else’s blood has paid for your crown these past years?”
Queen Mythal's hand, adorned with signet and cabochon rings whose worth might provision a village for a season, moved as if to touch his arm but stopped just short. “Be careful, old friend. I shall afford you the decency of… forgetting this conversation has happened. You’ve clearly had too much wine judging by the wine on your own doublet, and you are not thinking clearly. Pray remember yourself come morning: I would hate to see what becomes of a dog who forgets his leash.”
“—and they never thought to search for us there. Lord Davrin and I hid for six, no seven, hours behind the barrels until long after sunset and we ran, as fast as you can think, bare asses in the moonlight, all the way back to his family hold.”
Ellana tried her best to hide her laughter, peals of it escaping through her fingers despite efforts to remain composed. “That was scandalous. Father would—it would ruin both ours and Davrin’s families if anyone found out. Tell it again!”
Rook rolled his eyes, a similar shade of verdant green to her own, “The ending doesn’t change, sister. Besides, I have half a mind to hear what tales you are creating this evening. You were hiding again, and since you’ve returned I’ve been watching you navigate this hall like a ship avoiding rocks in a storm. What poor soul have you been evading this time?”
“You very well know that Lord Cathiel has been on me like a hound chasing the scent of fox. He seems to believe persistence will eventually wear down my resistance.”
Her brother grinned. “Can anyone truly blame him? Vixen that you are? The hound is doomed to hunt a cleverer pray, sister, it is a dog’s nature. I do almost admire his persistence, if I am to be honest with you, though it is becoming rather sad. Perhaps he thinks your heart will soften toward him if he merely stands in your presence long enough, like moss growing on a stone.”
“Then he has gravely misunderstood both me and the nature of—no. He is not moss at all. He is a fungus, and I shall burn him out just the same with the heat of my disinterest.” She took a long sip of wine, her eyes scanning the crowd. “This whole affair is absurd. Father should have left me at home.”
“And miss the opportunity to parade his eligible, beautiful daughter before the nobility of Arlathan? Never.” Rook's teasing tone softened. “Besides, I'm glad you're here. Court would be unbearable otherwise.”
Ellana nudged his shoulder affectionately. “You just wanted someone to rescue you from dancing with Duchess Andruil's nieces.”
“Guilty as charged. Those girls are terrifying. I shall make a boon to you though, sister. Should I find myself against his lance in the joust, I’ll unseat him from his horse so quickly that he will be too ashamed of himself to bother you further. Then you may gaze down at him in the dirt, batting those pretty jade eyes—”
Rook was cut off when a sudden lull in the music preceded a hush that fell over the hall, drawing their attention. Queen Mythal had risen from her seat at the high table, her golden gown shimmering in the candlelight. King Elgar'nan beside her was deep in his cups, roaring with laughter as servants rushed to refill his goblet.
“The royal couple graces us with their presence and it has many of the gentry on edge, sister,” Rook murmured. “Father says the King rarely leaves the palace these days. I have personally never seen him attend such a feast, either. Usually it is just the Queen…”
“Why now, then?” Ellana asked, watching as the Queen began to move through the crowd, nobles parting before her like water.
“Who can say? I am hardly a man to know the mind of a King. Perhaps it is politics. The Queen likes to—” Rook broke off, his eyes widening slightly as he followed Mythal's path. “Ah. She's approaching Count Fen'Harel.”
Ellana's gaze shifted to where the Queen was headed. Standing there, with his severe features and stained doublet, was the man from the hall. Her Fool.
“Count... Fen'Harel?”
Rook glanced at her curiously. “Yes, surely you know of him? The Wolf of the Western Marches? Queen's Champion for the last three tournaments?”
Ellana’s stomach sank, remembering how she'd called him a fool to his face. More than once. How she'd taken great liberty, touched him, pressing her hand, her finger, her body, against him in that cramped alcove, their bodies flush against each other. He was talking to the Queen now, straight backed and knightly in his comportment, bowing politely but not cowing before a royal.
“Come now dear sister, you are meant to be the studious one between us! The Count holds vast territories along the western borders granted to him by the Queen Mythal herself after he quelled the border rebellions. They say that his estate, Vi’Revas, is—”
Vi’Revas was one of several palatial estates within the kingdom and, to Ellana’s knowledge, the only one to be owned by a non-royal. Beneath the rank of the royal family and their cousin Dukes or Duchesses, the Dread Wolf of Queen Mythal was a name so well known across the realm that it had taken on its own form of life in the form of wildly spun stories about his prowess on the battlefield.
“Hush! I know who he is!”
“You hush! There is no need to yell, Ellana, goodness people are staring… hm. You've gone quite pale, sister,” Rook observed. “Is something the matter?”
“I… believe I may have made a rather significant error in judgment,” she managed, her eyes still fixed on the Count.
As if sensing her gaze, Fen'Harel looked up, his eyes meeting hers across the hall. The corner of his mouth quirked upward for a fraction of a moment. The Queen, having noticed his distraction, looked as well. She was frowning.
Rook’s eyebrows shoot up. “Ellana... why is the Count looking at you like that? And her Majesty?”
“Like what?”
“Like that. At all, actually.” Rook turned to her, suddenly serious. “What happened? What have you done?”
Ellana murmured under her breath, “I may have accidentally ah—assaulted—the Queen's Champion.”
“You what?”
In an instant, Ellana found herself unable to escape her brother's interrogation as they retreated to a quieter corner of the feast hall, Rook's expression wavering between equal measures of genuine horror and gleeful amusement.
“You accosted the Queen's Champion?” he hissed, keeping his voice low. “Ellana, by all the gods—”
“I did not accost him,” she whispered fiercely. “We merely... It was an accident. We hid a behind the wall hanging, a mutual goal for the briefest of moment—”
“You grabbed a count and threw him into a dark corner so that you could hide with him from another lord?” Rook's eyebrows rose impossibly higher. “That's what you're not saying, isn't it? Saints and spirits, sister, anyone else would have simply apologized and moved on! Would it have been so terrible for Cathiel to find you in comparison?”
Ellana stole another glance across the hall. The Count still stood in conversation with the Queen, but his gaze kept drifting toward her. Even at this distance, she could see the faint curve of his mouth. Was he telling Mythal about their encounter? Something else? It was impossible to know.
“He didn't tell me who he was,” she muttered. “He let me believe he was just some... some...”
“Some what?” Rook pressed.
“Some fool,” she admitted, feeling heat rise to her cheeks.
Rook's laughter, hastily stifled, drew curious glances. “Oh, Ellana. I know you. I can only assume that you told him as much to his face. As a man who hopes to one day inherit father’s business, please tell me you didn't call the most feared warrior in the realm, the Queen's own champion, a fool to his face. As your brother, please tell me what his face looked like when you did.”
Her frowning silence was answer enough.
“Gods help us.” Rook ran a hand through his hair. “Father will have an apoplexy when he hears of this. No, on second thought, perhaps we shouldn't tell Father at all.”
“We absolutely should not,” Ellana agreed quickly.
“At the very least, he doesn’t… seem insulted or to carry an air of dread wolf-ishness. Should it have truly bothered him, I imagine your head would already be on a spike.” Rook's expression turned thoughtful as he studied the Count from across the room. “No, he doesn’t seem angry at all. Quite the opposite.”
“What do you mean?”
“Vixen. Did you get tired of dogs and so you found a wolf instead? I can’t tell if you’re clever or stupid, sister.”
Before Ellana could formulate a response, a shadow fell across them. She turned to find Lord Cathiel making another approach, having found their conspiratorial corner, his smile fixed and determined.
“Lady Lavellan,” Cathiel began, executing a perfect bow. “I am pleased to have finally found you. I believe I was promised a dance—”
“I made no such promise, My Lord.”
Rook cleared his throat. “My sister has already promised this dance to me, Lord Cathiel. Perhaps another time?”
But Cathiel's smile only widened. “The next one, then. I shall wait.”
With little choice that wouldn't cause a scene, Ellana accepted her brother's arm as he led her to the dance floor. “You've merely delayed the inevitable I fear,” she muttered.
“As I’ve said, the poor hound is doomed to hunt. The fox is doomed to be hunted,” Rook replied, guiding her through the first steps. “Besides, look who watches from the edge of the hall.”
Count Fen'Harel stood with the Queen beside him, his gaze unmistakably transfixed on Ellana as she moved through the dance. As the music ended, Cathiel moved to approach again, but Ellana managed to slip away, feigning exhaustion and retreating to her chambers before he could corner her again.
Though the feast continued long into the night, Ellana was glad to have retired early. In truth, she needed time to gather her thoughts away from curious gazes and the disconcerting knowledge that the Queen's Champion seemed inexplicably interested in her.
Sleep came fitfully, her dreams filled with broken lances and wolves prowling the edges of the tourney.
The climbing summer sun burned away the dawn mist that clung to the tourney grounds. Pennant banners from lordly houses snapped in the breeze, silk standards dyed with rare indigos and madders displaying the ancient heraldry of competing bloodlines—falcons and bears, blades and stars, all vying for prominence against the cloudless sky. Beneath that cloudless sky, servants bustled about, preparing the field for the day's events while nobles and commoners alike streamed towards viewing stands. Awnings had been erected for the highborn, their canopies trimmed in passementerie and hung with embroidered badges. Already, within the higher stands lords and their learning lordlings or ladies had begun their theater: pointing out alliances with grand gestures, offering coin to the Herald’s runners in view of their rivals.
“I hear the western lords were pressed for a new levy,” a page muttered nearby. “Another loan to the Crown, they say. And those who refuse—”
“Find their forests claimed for ‘royal hunting,’” his companion finished. “Or their sons drafted into the King’s retinue.”
Below, the common folk gathered behind rope barriers or sat on packed earth benches, shaded only by their thin straw hats or the backs of taller sun-blocking neighbors. And the King… Ellana’s eyes drifted, over to King Elgar'nan's pavilion, which gleamed with imported silks and golden flagons, each worth more than what most farmers earned in a year.
Ellana adjusted the tight-laced sleeve of her kirtle as she walked beside her father and brother. She had chosen a gown of sage green today, and her hair was carefully braided and pinned with veil quartz tipped bodkins, adorned with small white flowers that her maid had insisted would bring her luck.
Though why she needed luck at all as a noncompetitor was a notion of some concern.
“Remember,” Lord Lavellan was saying, weaving them through hawking vendors selling meat pies and honey cakes to the growing crowd with calls rising above the general din, “we are here at Duke June's invitation. Our position is precarious at best. No wandering off, no sharp words to lords who outrank you, and—”
“A little late for that, I fear,” Rook snickered, earning a scowl from his sister.
Their father frowned. “What?”
“Nothing, Father,” Ellana said quickly, shooting her brother a warning glance. “Rook is being foolish, is all. As usual.”
“Well, cease it,” Lord Lavellan admonished his son with a smack to the arm before turning back to Ellana. “As I was saying—we must be mindful of our conduct. The eyes of the court are everywhere, and impressions once made are difficult to unmake.”
“I should take my leave,” Rook said, adjusting the sword at his hip. “The competitors will be gathering soon.”
Lord Lavellan clasped his son's shoulder. “Remember what we discussed. A respectable showing is all that's needed—there's no honor in challenging those well above your station.”
“You mean there's no profit in it,” Rook replied with a wink. “If I lose, you are out of your unpaid assistant. If I win, we have an angry Lord bearing down on our house, so wisdom dictates I strive for naught but respectable mediocrity—”
“Mind your tongue,” their father warned, though his eyes held a glimmer of pride. “I care more about your wellbeing than a win. And mind your guard. Duke June's second son nearly took your arm last year.”
“This year I intend to return the favor,” Rook said with a grin, then bowed to his sister. “Wish me luck, Ellana. Were it not for the fragile egos of our betters, I would win and grant you the laurel crown of Queen of Love and Beauty myself if only to save you from the attentions of less agreeable champions and dogs.”
“Dogs?”
“A jest, Father. Be at peace. I will not win, but I will not shame us either. You will cheer for me?” With that, he strode off toward the competitors' pavilions, leaving Ellana and her father to continue to their seats.
They reached the stands, finding their seats among the lesser nobility. Duke June had been generous in his arrangements—though the Lavellans were hardly of note in the grand hierarchy of Arlathan’s nobility, they were positioned near the wooden railing of the innermost ring of the arena with a clear view of the field rather than the higher, farther, stands on platforms where the outskirts of society would strain to glimpse the colors of competing knights below.
“Is that...” Ellana began, her eyes narrowing as she spotted a familiar figure among the competitors.
“Count Fen'Harel?” her father supplied, following her gaze. “Yes, as the Queen's Champion, he'll be competing today. They say he's never been unseated in a tournament, it is impossible for a man to catch one such as him unawares or off his guard.”
“Perhaps a woman should try….”
“Ellana! Remember yourself.”
“Yes, father. Sorry, father,” Ellana murmured, still studying the Count as he moved through the gathering competitors below. While other nobles competed in rich livery emblazoned with their house symbols, Fen'Harel wore a surcoat of midnight blue over his armor, marked only by a simple silver wolf's head across the chest. His armor lacked the ornamental flourishes of his peers, unembellished steel burnished to absorb light rather than reflect it… but anyone looking at him would be a fool not to notice the craftsmanship or the expense. Few could afford indigo dye on clothing that would be ruined in melee.
“You should have seen it, my girl. At the last tournament I attended, he unseated three knights in succession without breaking his lance,” Lord Lavellan said, “When Duke Dirthamen’s champion drew blood in the melee, the Count disarmed him so soundly, so furiously, that the man's wrist never healed properly.”
Ellana thought of how she'd pressed that very man against an alcove wall, her body against his, her hand over his mouth. His hand gently tugging her sleeve in the dark.
“Is he truly so dangerous?”
“All men of power have teeth, daughter,” Lord Lavellan replied, watching servants drive boundary stakes into the tournament ground dirt.
A fanfare of trumpets quieted the crowd. Queen Mythal and King Elgar'nan appeared on the royal dais, centrally located in the arena, their attendants arranging cushions and canopies against the sun. The Queen's gown of ivory and gold seemed woven from sunlight itself, her dark hair arranged in an intricate crown atop her head with chips of precious stones woven in. Beside her, the King's expression remained dark despite the festivities, eyes narrowed as he surveyed the field.
“He seems displeased.”
“The Sun King rarely shows contentment these days,” her father responded quietly. “His temper has grown more unpredictable. Even the most loyal courtiers hesitate to approach him with news. I… my dear, really it is improper to discuss the King’s current state, so we should—”
At that moment, a small commotion at the far end of the lists drew their attention. Rook and Davrin burst through the competitor's entrance, still fastening pieces of armor as they hurried toward their designated positions with the other combatants. They were laughing, Davrin clapping Rook on the shoulder as they separated to their respective pavilions. Rook's dark copper hair caught the sun as he fussed with his gorget, his green eyes—so like Ellana's own—scanning the crowd until he found his family. He offered a wide smile, grinning so much that his eyes crinkled about the edges, before a squire hurried forward with the last pieces of his armor.
It was hardly an impressive set of armor compared to some of the others worn; Rook wore nothing but serviceable plate that was half inherited, half purchased with funds won in games of wicked grace. Over it, he wore a surcoat of deep forest green, their family's halla sigil embroidered in golden thread across the chest—Ellana recognized her mother's needlework in the delicate stitching. His shield, freshly painted for the occasion, matched.
Davrin, by contrast, cut a more imposing figure in armor trimmed with bronze filigree along the pauldrons and breastplate. His surcoat of deep navy bore the silver griffon of House Weisshaupt that shone starkly apart from his deep skin. He was smiling, too, and nodded his head with a polite bow up to Ellana and her father.
“Late again,” Lord Lavellan muttered, though his lips twitched with suppressed amusement. “Those two haven't changed since they were boys sneaking into the kitchens past curfew…”
The herald stepped to the center of the field, unrolling a parchment. “My lords, ladies, and gentlefolk of Arlathan! By decree of His Majesty King Elgar'nan and Her Majesty Queen Mythal, I declare the first day midsummer tournament… open!”
Cheers rose from the stands as competitors took their places. Jousting would come first, followed by archery, and then finally the grand melee. Lords and knights paraded before the royal dais, bowing to the sovereigns before taking their positions. Ellana found herself watching Count Fen'Harel approach the dais. Unlike others who performed elaborate gestures of fealty to their sovereigns (and even Rook did a flourishing, fool-like bow), the Count’s movements were… simplified. Intention spoke louder in his composure rather than grand gesture, and so his own bow was measured, heavy with obligation rather than an ask for any favor.
The King's frown deepened at this, but remained silent as the Queen acknowledged him with a nod.
As the Count turned away, his eyes found Ellana in the crowd. Their gazes met across the distance, and warmth crept into her face before he continued on, mounting his charge as the first competitors were announced.
“Lord Rook Lavellan of the Eastern Marches against Ser Davrin of House Weisshaupt!” the herald called.
Ellana gripped the wooden barrier, her stomach tightening as her brother guided his mount to one end of the field. At the opposite end, Ser Davrin raised his visor to flash a quick grin at his opponent.
“He'll be fine,” Lord Lavellan said, though his knuckles whitened around his walking stick. “They've practiced together since boyhood. Neither will seek to humiliate—or harm—the other, their friendship would not allow it.”
... Lord Davrin and I hid for six, no seven, hours behind the barrels until long after sunset and we ran, as fast as you can think, bare asses in the moonlight, all the way back to his family hold…
If only her father knew the things their friendship had gotten them into.
The signal came—a blare of trumpets that sent birds scattering from nearby trees. Both riders dug metal spurs into their destriers' flanks, the massive warhorses snorting plumes of steam in the morning air as they surged forward. Lances couched under arms, shields raised to cover vulnerable torsos, the painted emblems momentarily hidden behind the protective steel. Ellana watched, biting down on her lower lip as they thundered toward one another, the ground trembling beneath the weight of armored horses at full charge. Even friendship couldn't save a man from a poorly aimed blow. It was rare, but men died in jousts such as this.
The first pass ended with Davrin's lance striking true against Rook's shield while Rook's own lance glanced harmlessly off his opponent's pauldron.
“A point to Ser Davrin of House Weisshaupt!” the herald announced as the crowd applauded politely.
Rook wheeled his mount around, adjusting his grip on his lance as he prepared for the second pass. Ellana could almost see her brother's determination through his closed visor.
The signal sounded again—three short trumpet blasts that sent the crowd surging to their feet, and the riders charged, mail shirts jingling beneath surcoats. There was a loud crack at impact, and wood splintered as both lances struck true, fragments spinning through the air like autumn leaves, yet neither rider fell. The crowd roared, some women waving embroidered handkerchiefs while men pounded wooden railings, as Rook and Davrin circled back to their starting positions, each man's squire rushing forward with a fresh lance from the rack.
“A point to Lord Lavellan!” the herald announced, and another marker was raised to mark the new score. “The match stands equal!”
The crowd voiced approval at this development. Davrin removed his dented helm, his expression one of surprised amusement as he exchanged a quick glance with Rook across the field.
The signal for the final pass sounded. Rook and Davrin charged, their horses thundering across the packed earth. Their lances struck simultaneously—Rook's against Davrin's shield, Davrin's glancing off Rook's pauldron. The impact sent both men reeling, but it was Davrin who lost balance, sliding sideways from his mount to land in the dust.
“Victory to Lord Lavellan!” the herald announced as the crowd erupted in cheers.
Ellana applauded enthusiastically, watching her brother circle the field. As he passed their section, he raised his visor to grin at his sister before riding to help Davrin to his feet. The two exchanged words, Davrin's laughter audible even from the stands as he clapped Rook on the shoulder.
“Ah, good. A proper display of fellowship,” Lord Lavellan noted with approval.
Subsequent matches proceeded rapidly. With each thunderous collision for following jousting lords, the crowd's voices rose to higher fever pitches—the wooden stands trembled as spectators stomped their feet in unison, and the smell of dust, horse sweat, and spilled ale from overexcited onlookers built and built. Squires darted across the field between matches, gathering shattered lance fragments that could later be sold as souvenirs while heralds announced each new pair of competitors stepping forward to earn their place in the afternoon's more prestigious contests.
Ellana's stomach tightened as Lord Cathiel, unfortunately, unseated his second opponent, the man's crimson and gold livery catching the sun with an ostentatious filigree that matched his smug expression. The sharp crack of his lance striking true sent a nobleman from the western marches—a friendly acquaintance of her father's—tumbling into the dust. The day would’ve been more enjoyable had he been knocked out of the competition already, but he was… performing frustratingly well. She winced at the impact, the sound of metal crashing against the packed earth echoing in her chest.
With this victory, the pest of a lordling would advance to the afternoon brackets, where only sixteen competitors remained from the morning's initial thirty-two.
“Not again,“ she muttered under her breath as Cathiel wheeled his destrier around, the beast's massive hooves churning up clods of earth that spattered the silken slippers of ladies in the frontmost row. Her fingernails dug half-moons into her palms when he directed his mount toward her section of the stands.
Cathiel wheeled his mount toward her section of the stands, performing an elaborate bow in her direction. The peacock feather in his helm bobbed ridiculously as he bent low, a clear display meant to claim her attention. Several young women nearby sighed appreciatively, while Ellana merely pressed her lips together, wishing he would fall from his horse on the next pass. She offered him the barest inclination of her head to be polite, to avoid outright scandal, and then quickly averted her eyes to search for her brother among the competitors' pavilions.
Anything to avoid encouraging the man.
Not more than a few minutes later, the herald’s announced the next pair of competitors, and the crowd’s attention shifted to the freshly cleared jousting lane. Ellana leaned forward in her seat, her fingers drumming lightly on the wooden railing as she watched the next two riders take their positions.
Lord Teyrn of the Dales, a burly man with a bear sigil emblazoned on his shield, faced off against Ser Evander, a younger knight known for his agility rather than his brute strength. The signal came, and the horses surged forward, their hooves pounding the packed earth. Teyrn’s lance shattered against Ser Evander’s shield with a resounding crack, but the younger knight, surprisingly, managed to stay mounted, his lance grazing Teyrn’s shoulder armor.
“A point to Lord Teyrn!”
Ellana barely registered the outcome nor the next several runs, her gaze flicking briefly to the competitors’ pavilion where Rook was preparing for his next match. He was adjusting his gauntlets, his squire handing him a fresh lance. He was doing well, and surge of pride swelled up in in the space near her heart—Rook, her naughty corvid of a sibling—had he not needed to supplicate to the more fragile egos of the more powerful members of court, there was a very real chance that he could win such a tournament as this. He would lose, intentionally, in a later round.
Nearby, Lord Cathiel stood amidst a cluster of admiring courtiers, his crimson and gold livery gleaming in the sunlight. Ellana’s stomach twisted at the sight of him.
He was doing well. Dread quickly started to surpass any fraternal pride where might’ve lived near her heart a moment ago.
“Victory to Ser Evander!”
In Ellana’s periphery, matches continued in quick order. Duke June’s eldest son, a surprisingly skilled jouster despite his reputation for indolence, unseated a knight from the southern marches with a well-placed lance strike to the shoulder. Duchess Andruil’s champion, a wiry man with a falcon sigil on his shield, narrowly defeated a grizzled veteran from the northern holds. Each victory was met with cheers and applause, though Ellana’s attention remained divided between the field and the pavilion.
At this rate, there were very few participants left.
Finally, the herald announced the only real match of interest to her.
“Lord Rook Lavellan against Lord Cathiel!”
Of course.
Ellana’s breath hitched as her brother stepped forward, his homely green and gold surcoat a bright contrast to Cathiel’s ostentatious crimson. Rook’s helm was tucked under his arm, revealing his easy devil-may-care-I-am-handsome-enough-to-misbehave smile as he exchanged a few short words with his squire—but then she saw how tightly his other hand gripped the lance.
I shall make a boon to you though, sister. Should I find myself against his lance in the joust, I’ll unseat him from his horse so quickly that he will be too ashamed of himself to bother you further.
Cathiel—gods, even the sight of him was irritating—seemed oblivious to his opponent’s very real, very focused, very competitive intent, and looked every bit the preening peacock. He mounted with an exaggerated flourish, waving to the crowd as if it were a stage play staged for his benefit alone. The feather in his helm bobbed with each motion, ridiculous and smug. He turned in the saddle, visor raised, and offered a pointed look toward Ellana’s section of the stands.
“He’s playing to the crowd,” Lord Lavellan murmured, his voice tight with disapproval. “No true knight needs to stoop to such theatrics.”
Ellana nodded, her eyes fixed on Rook as he mounted and took his position at the end of the lane. He donned his helm, settled into the saddle, and dropped his lance into its couched position. The signal came, and the two riders spurred their horses forward.
Both riders surged forward, destriers pounding across the packed earth, lances leveled like arrows loosed from enormous bows. The clash came in a burst of wood and noise—Cathiel’s lance shattered against Rook’s shield, and Rook’s own struck squarely against his opponent’s cuirass, making the arrogant nobleman sway in his ornamental saddle.
“A point to each!” the herald called.
The crowd erupted in cheers, and Ellana could see Rook roll his shoulder as he circled back around, as if testing for tension. He was steady in his seat, remarkably relaxed for having a wooden pike longer than he was tall slamming into his body, and there was little doubt that he was smiling beneath his helm. Meanwhile, Cathiel wheeled his destrier around, his face flushed beneath his visor.
“A new lance!” he barked at his squire, his voice sharp with irritation. “And make sure it’s straight this time!”
They charged forward again at the drop of the flag. This time, Rook’s lance splintered across Cathiel’s shield with a sharp crack. But Cathiel’s aim was… off. His lance slipped past the shield entirely, the tip striking Rook high in the shoulder—not a blunt force, but a puncture. Rook jerked in the saddle, but his torso knocked back hard, his helm flying off and clattering into the dirt. He swayed, limp like a ragdoll for a moment as his horse charged ahead and for a moment it looked like he was dead then and there in the saddle but… he didn’t fall. Rook staggered and swayed, pulling himself back up with great difficulty amidst the scattered wood and dust.
From the stands, the contact looked clean.
“A point to Lord Lavellan!” the herald announced.
Relief rushed through her. She clapped politely, though her heart hadn’t quite settled.
Below, Rook dismounted in a clumsy, pained slide. His squire rushed to hand him his fallen helm, but Rook ignored it, and instead flexed his arm, drawing a clear grimace to his face. He was gesturing—damn it all he was too far away to hear over the cheering!—but Ellana could make out the squire fumbling to loosen his cuirass, peeking beneath the armor and then their quick, heated conversation.Rook, her smiling naughty Rook, was scowling now, and his face was pale.
Rook’s gaze flicked up to the stands, first to Ellana where it lingered a moment and softened.
I am sorry.
One did not live with their sibling as closely as she did with him without learning the silent language of a gaze.
Before Ellana could parse through the rest of his expression though, Rook’s eyes slid over to their Father, clearly questioning something. Weighing it. He snapped something at his squire who balked but obeyed; fiddling with his armor again, packing folded bits of linen into the gap between his undershirt and the metal, then using a leather fastening atop the piece once it was laced back in place to hold it tight.
Cathiel’s voice cut through the fanfare “You should withdraw, Lavellan! It would be a shame to embarrass yourself further in front of your lovely sister.”
Rook only spat into the dirt in response, and, after a tense moment, he remounted, his grip on the lance awkward and visibly strained.
The horns sounded.
Again the horses surged down the line, steel-shod hooves tearing up the earth. Rook’s lance drove forward—but this time, it glanced off Cathiel’s side, skidding harmlessly into the air. Cathiel’s lance struck home with a sickening crunch, the sound of splintering wood and grinding metal reverberating through the stands. The impact threw Rook backward in the saddle, his body snapping like a whip under the force of the blow. His fingers clawed at the reins, knuckles white against the leather, but the momentum was merciless—flung from his horse, Rook’s body hit the ground with a deafening clatter of metal in a plume of dust.
“Victory to Lord Cathiel!”
Ellana’s scream for her brother was lost in the surge of cheers.
“Rook!“
While Cathiel celebrated, Rook lay sprawled in the dirt, his helm knocked askew, his chest rising and falling in shallow, labored breaths. Then, slowly, he stirred, his gauntleted hand digging into the dirt as he pushed himself upright. His movements were stiff, each one drawn out as if every muscle screamed in protest. His face, pale and streaked with sweat, was a mask of grim determination as he raised a hand to signal he was unhurt, though Ellana saw his movements had lost their ease, and… his arm… he’d never cradled it like that before in a joust. He bowed stiffly to the crowd, his squire already hurrying toward him. Across the field, Cathiel was basking in the applause, pulling off his helm to flash his most insufferable smile.
Cathiel raised his lance in triumph, his grin wide and self-satisfied. He turned his mount toward the stands, his eyes locking onto Ellana’s section.
“My lady!” he called, his voice carrying over the crowd. “A victory for your favor!”
But Ellana was already on her feet, her father’s voice a distant murmur. “Ellana, you’re being rude, he is speaking to you—”
She didn’t hear the rest, her focus fixed on Rook as he staggered off the field, his arm still cradled awkwardly against his side. Something was wrong. She pushed past the other spectators, her heart pounding as she hurried toward the competitors’ pavilion.
Cathiel guided his destrier toward the stands, his lance tipped in Ellana’s direction.
“My lady,” he called again, his voice dripping with false charm.
But Ellana was already halfway down the steps, her back turned to him as she disappeared into the crowd, hiking up her skirts to dash towards the medical pavilion and its blue-mark banner and its chirurgeons… and hopefully, her brother.
A distance away beneath the stands and in the competitors’ pavilions, it stank of churned earth, sweat, and the cloying sweetness of crushed rose petals. The final matches had left the field rutted and uneven, gouged by the thundering hooves of warhorses. Shattered lances lay strewn like kindling, and the midday sun glinted off steel armor, turning the world to a blinding haze.
Solas adjusted the strap on his bracer, not out of need but from habit—the way a soldier re-checks a blade before war, even when he knows it’s sharp.
He loathed tournaments.
Not for their bloodshed or spectacle—he had seen worse, caused worse—but for the falseness of it all. War dressed up as courtship. Violence masked by velvet. Every man here wanted glory, but few of them had earned it beyond the list rails. And fewer still understood what it meant to fight with purpose.
Violence here wore silk. It curtsied. It smiled.
He glanced across the field—habit, not curiosity—and caught sight of Lord Cathiel finally leaving the field after his gloating just as Felassan walked in, and clicked his tongue, following his Lord’s line of sight.
Felassan said, leaning casually against a wooden post. His tone was light, almost disinterested, as if discussing the weather. “He’s rather popular this season. The ladies adore a showman.”
Solas huffed, a quiet, dismissive sound. He reached for his helm, brushing off a speck of dust. “He’s popular because he performs like a mummer.”
“True. But the crowd does enjoy a little theater.”
Solas didn’t respond, his attention already drifting to the field. The arena’s roar crested and ebbed like the tide, a distant hum that barely reached him. Some other combatant won while another lost. He hardly cared enough to track the names.
“A pity,” Felassan added, more casually this time. “The Lady Lavellan isn’t in the stands; run off after her fallen brother it seems. She won’t see you humble Cathiel.”
“... I don’t know why it should matter if she does or not.”
Felassan didn’t even pretend to hide his grin. “Because you might not be wearing a pretty feather like that fool, but you’re not above peacocking for her. You’ve never noticed a woman at court before like that.”
Solas scoffed, shaking his head. We are both fools, then. He fastened the final strap on his bracer and reached for his helm. “I intend only to win.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Felassan said, stepping aside with a mock bow. “But one must wonder—for whose benefit?”
“Count Fen’Harel versus Lord Cathiel!”
The crowd erupted, a deafening wave of cheers and whistles. Solas mounted up in a single fluid motion, his destrier snorting and pawing at the ground. He didn’t wave. He didn’t nod. He simply guided his horse to the starting line, set his lance into the cradle, and waited.
Across the field, Cathiel paraded in a slow circle, his helm tucked beneath one arm. His golden hair gleamed in the sunlight, and he raised his lance to the stands, basking in the adoration. His grin faltered briefly as he scanned the crowd, clearly searching for someone who still wasn’t there. He recovered quickly, flashing a too-wide smile to the nearest cluster of young women.
Peacock indeed.
The first horn sounded. Solas lowered his visor.
Surely the fool hadn’t thought that besting the Lady’s younger brother would impress? That the mockery of her own House would make her swoon?
The second horn. His fingers tightened on the reins.
If she wasn’t interested before, sharp-tongue thing that she was, it hardly seemed plausible that something as meaningless as a joust would improve her low opinion.
And yet… he wondered, just for a brief moment, what her opinion of himself might be, were he to knock this annoying bird into the mud.
The third horn.
The flag dropped..
They raced toward impact, breath and metal catching the wind. In that moment, all the color of the world with its banners and heraldry flags, the shouts from peasants and princes, dissolved into a narrow line of sight: there was his breathing. The weight of the lance. His enemy down the line, surging towards him. Violence was simple in ways life was complex. Solas leaned into the charge with an exhale, and his body moved in time with the stride of his horse. Wind rushed through its mane, black locks of hair whipping back towards him. His own hair, from where it extended beyond his helm and visor, streamed behind him like a banner of war.
Cathiel, a blur of motion down the rail, treated the joust like a game. He’d never seen battle, nor war, nor death out in the muck. He’d never used a sword to cleave a man from his mount, much less a lance. He had no chance to recognize Solas’s own singular focus: forward, hold firm, strike there and hard with all the same intensity he would in a real conflict.
The distance between them closed in a heartbeat.
Cathiel struck first, his lance cracking harmlessly across Solas’s shield, hitting where it was sturdiest, and it shattered to splinters. Solas’s own strike landed squarely; angled not for lethality, but to catch him high and sharp, just beneath the collar of the breastplate. A blow meant not only to unseat, but to unmake. The tip of his lance snapped with a resounding crack.
Immediately, Cathiel’s armor dented inward with a deep metallic crunch like an anvil dropped from height, the force of the blow driving any air from his lungs. He reeled back in his saddle, his destrier sidestepping in protest with a high-pitched squeal, hooves skidding as he lost grip of the reins. Cathiel slid sideways and tumbled to the ground in a clatter of armor and dust.
Solas guided his snorting, proud destrier to the end of the lane, where he handed his broken lance to a squire without a word before dismounting. There was no need for him to stay up in the saddle.
Across the field, Cathiel pushed himself upright, one arm braced against the churned dirt. His once-pristine surcoat was streaked with mud, his visor tilted askew. His chest rose and fell in shallow, erratic bursts—each breath rasping like bellows stuck half-open, as though the blow had knocked the rhythm from his lungs and left him trying to relearn it. Cathiel staggered upright, only to tumble back down in a heap of his own armor until squires rushed to his aid.
A ripple of laughter followed the scrabbling thuds and wheezing, their pleasure in pain sharp and unsparing—nobles and commoners alike jeering as Cathiel floundered.
“The dolt’s gone and forgotten how to breathe!”
“Someone fetch him a tutor!”
The herald’s voice boomed across the arena. “Victory to Count Fen’Harel!”
Behind him, two squires were still hauling Cathiel from the lists, one under each arm, armor clanking with every graceless step as he swatted weakly at their assistance. Solas did not look back as he left the field, turning toward the pavilion. He passed the reins to a waiting stablehand, who bowed and murmured something beneath his breath—perhaps to the horse, perhaps to the rider. The destrier snorted once more, tossing its head, flank streaked with sweat and sand. Laughter still rippled from the stands—high-pitched and cutting, tinged with the kind of glee reserved for nobles who’d never taken a blow harder than a spilled goblet or a bruised ego.
Squires swept the lane behind him, gathering splintered hafts into bundles, raking dust over the gouged divots left by hooves and fallen men. The tilt was already being reset. Another name would be called, another rider praised or forgotten, as the final brackets played themselves out beneath the sun.
By the time Solas returned to the arena, the trumpets had changed—their fanfare no longer martial, but triumphal. The final brackets had been fought, the last dust settled, and the field raked clean of splinters and blood. Solas had claimed each match with the same economy of force that had unseated Cathiel, his victories accumulating like tallied coin.
Now, with the sun tilting westward and the lists cleared for ceremony, the royal couple rose from the dais. The Queen stepped forward as attendants emerged in procession, each bearing a cushion of deep-velvet blue trimmed with gold passementerie with prizes.
First, Lord Cathiel was summoned first to claim third place. He had managed to recover a scrap of his wounded dignity after his defeat, though his armor still bore the dent from the Count's lance. He knelt before the royal couple, his peacock feather slightly bent in his helm.
“For Lord Cathiel,” the herald announced, “the bronze medallion and a purse of twenty gold sovereigns.”
Queen Mythal presented him with a medallion on a crimson ribbon, which he accepted with a bow that was a touch too stiff. His eyes darted briefly to Ellana's section of the stands, then away again when he found her seat empty. The purse was handed to him by a page, the coins within clinking softly as he took it. The crowd offered polite applause as he returned to his place among the competitors, his pride only slightly soothed by the pittance of a token prize.
Duke June's eldest son was called next to receive the second highest award. The silver medallion gleamed against his azure surcoat as he bowed deeply to the sovereigns.
“Champion of the Midsummer Joust, for the sixth time in six years: Count Fen’Harel of Vi’Revas!”
Solas dismounted in silence to cheers. His armor bore the scratches and dust of the field, but no blood. No loosened strap. His gait was unhurried as he crossed the open space before the dais and knelt—not before one, but both.
To the Queen, poised and inscrutable, and to the King, whose grip on his goblet was more secure than his hold on the realm.
Elgar’nan offered no words of praise. He barely registered the proceedings, his gaze glazed, his jaw slack behind the ruddy beard he no longer bothered to oil.
It was Mythal who extended her hand.
“You continue to serve with excellence,” she said, just loud enough to be heard over the applause.
“I serve at your pleasure, my lady,” Solas replied.
The Queen placed something into his hands—not a crown, but a length of silk, pale gold and finely embroidered with her personal crest: the silver dragon rampant in the shape of her pointed crown, wings spread wide across a field of stars.
A token of favor.
Ceremonial, yes. Expected, perhaps. But it was also a message, and everyone watching would understand it: a mark of honor—and ownership.
Solas bowed low once more. “I accept this honor with gratitude,” he said, folding the silk carefully in his hands.
“Then wear it well,” Mythal replied, and stepped back.
He turned from the dais and faced the crowd, raising the silk briefly—not in flourish, but acknowledgment. The cheers came louder now, though he knew many cheered for what he represented, not for who he was. The Queen’s victory was his. Or so they believed.
His eyes scanned the stands again.
Rook Lavellan still stood beneath the banners of his house, flanked by his father. But the seat beside him remained empty.
So she hadn’t come back.
Solas lowered the favor, folding it once in his palm. Then he walked from the lists, the embroidery brushing against the curve of his gauntlet like a tether.