The Great Dining Hall was a cavern of obsidian and flickering blue flame, the air thick with the scent of roasted meat and the sharp, medicinal tang of the King's preferred vintage. As the doors groaned open, the conversation at the high table died an immediate, surgical death.
King Valen sat at the head, his presence a heavy, physical weight. To his right, Alistair sat with a posture so rigid he looked like he had been poured into his chair.
"You're late," Alistair said, his voice a level, icy rasp. He didn't look at Kestrel; his luminous blue eyes were fixed entirely on Elissa, tracking the way she walked beside his sister. "The King does not appreciate his guests wandering the grounds after dark."
"Oh, hush, Alistair," Kestrel said, sliding into a chair and pulling Elissa down into the seat beside her—the one directly opposite the Crown Prince. "The 'guest' was admiring the frost-patterns. It's called appreciation of nature. You should try it sometime between beheading traitors and brooding in the dark."
Alistair's jaw tightened. He finally looked at Kestrel, his gaze flat and unamused. "I am perfectly aware of what nature is, Kestrel."
"Are you?" Kestrel reached for a silver carafe, pouring herself a glass of dark wine. She leaned forward, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Then perhaps you can explain why there are Southern frost-lilies being grafted in the greenhouse? Vane told me the head gardener is in a tizzy because someone—who shall remain nameless—ordered them to be kept at a 'precise' temperature."
Alistair didn't blink. He picked up his glass, his movements slow and deliberate. "Stability in the flora is a sign of a stable fortress. It is a matter of aesthetics."
"Aesthetics," Kestrel repeated, her voice dripping with mock-seriousness. She looked at Elissa, who was staring at her empty plate, trying to disappear into the midnight silk of her gown. "Did you hear that, Princess? My brother has suddenly developed a passion for 'aesthetics.' Next, he'll be writing poetry about the moon."
"I would sooner pull my own teeth out," Alistair stated. He looked at Elissa, his expression softening by a fraction of a millimeter. "Eat, Princess. You've spent the day chasing wolves and talking to my sister. You must be exhausted."
The King, who had been watching the exchange with a look of profound boredom, finally spoke. "A Frost-Walker pup, they say." His voice was a low rumble that made the silverware hum. "The beasts of the Ridge are picky, Southern girl. Why did it choose you? Did you use some Starwind trick? A scent? A spell?"
Elissa looked up, her face pale. The King's gaze felt like a physical pressure against her chest. "I... I don't know, Your Majesty. It just seemed... lonely. I didn't do anything."
"She didn't have to," Kestrel interrupted, her hand finding Elissa's under the table and giving it a supportive squeeze. "The North recognizes its own. Even if the 'own' in question is currently shivering in three layers of fur."
"The girl is a hostage, not a druid," the King snapped, his eyes flashing cerulean. "Alistair, ensure she is kept away from the wilder parts of the woods. I will not have our omens being touched by a human who hasn't even mastered her own breath."
Alistair's hand tightened around his glass until the silver groaned. "She was under my protection, Father. And the 'omen' chose her. If you have a quarrel with the spirits of the North, take it up with the mountain. The Princess will continue her training as scheduled."
The silence that followed was brittle enough to shatter. Elissa looked from the King's suppressed fury to Alistair's cold defiance. She felt like a glass ornament sitting between two hammers.
"You're very protective tonight, brother," Kestrel murmured, her voice light but her eyes sharp as she watched Alistair's reaction. "One might almost think you were worried about her."
Alistair finally looked away from his father, his gaze landing on Elissa. His face was a mask of marble, his expression unreadable, but the blue flame in his eyes burned with a possessive heat.
"I am worried about the integrity of the treaty," Alistair said, his voice a flat, sarcastic hum. "A broken hostage is a useless hostage. Now, eat. Before Kestrel decides to start singing; the last time that happened, the wine turned to vinegar."
Elissa picked up her fork, her hands still trembling slightly. She could feel Alistair's stare—constant, heavy, and strangely grounding.