The palace swallowed Levi in silence.
The Harvest Ball was already decaying—music thinning, drunken laughter sputtering out, nobles drifting like dying embers. The royal family had long scattered into their chambers, leaving behind only those too greedy or foolish to let the night end.
Ryker peeled away at the courtyard steps.
"Goodnight, Your Highness," he said with a soldier's crisp bow. "I'll report to the barracks."
Levi nodded.
No need for words.
Ryker disappeared into the lower grounds, boots fading into darkness, and Levi continued alone through the grand doors. Passing the ballroom, he didn't bother to look in. Not interested in the fading spectacle. Not interested in the nobles clawing at what scraps of the night remained.
He climbed the stairs, silent as a blade, wanting nothing but the isolation of his room.
But the moment he opened the door…
He felt it.
A presence that didn't belong.
He didn't think—he reacted.
A dagger hissed through the air, flashing straight toward the intruder leaning in the dusky corner—
The man slipped aside with a calm flick of movement, the blade burying itself in the wall behind him.
"Still so jumpy," Alaric murmured, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. "You really should warn people when you intend to kill them."
Levi's expression didn't change.
"You shouldn't be in my room."
Alaric stepped fully into the candlelight, face composed, eyes cold. There was no warmth between them—not even hatred. Just… nothingness. Two strangers forced to share blood they never asked for.
"Father was displeased," Alaric said, examining his nails as though Levi's dagger hadn't nearly impaled him. "Leaving the ball without greeting him. Without greeting anyone." He lifted his gaze. "He called it disrespect."
Levi unbuckled his cloak with a controlled slowness, turning his back on him.
"He can call it whatever he likes."
"He intends to."
Alaric's tone didn't shift—flat, official, distant. "There will be consequences."
Levi set his cloak aside. "Let me guess."
He began removing his gauntlets.
"Confinement."
Another buckle.
"Stripping titles."
Another, slower.
"Or execution, perhaps?"
Silence stretched, thick as frost.
Alaric's lips twitched—not amused, not surprised—just acknowledging the word like one might acknowledge rain.
"Yes," he said simply. "Execution was mentioned."
Levi didn't so much as pause.
He placed the gauntlet on the table. Straight. Precise.
"I see."
Alaric watched him closely—as if searching for something that never came.
"You're impossible to read," he said finally. "Father hates that."
"Father hates many things."[Levi]
"Especially you."[Alaric]
Levi turned then, eyes like night pressed into glass.
"We are in agreement on at least one matter."
Alaric didn't argue.
He took a step back toward the door, posture impeccable, gaze unreadable—two men sharing the same father, but absolutely nothing else.
"Be ready," he said calmly. "The council meets at dawn. They'll want to make an example of you."
"And you?" Levi asked. "What do you want?"
Alaric paused at the doorway, not turning around.
"I want nothing."
And that, perhaps, was the truest thing either of them had ever said.
He left without another word—no slam, no lingering look. Just absence.
The door clicked shut.
Levi stood alone in the quiet.
Not bothered. Not shaken.
Just aware.
Aware of the storm gathering around him.
Aware of the strange, unwelcome tightness in his chest he couldn't name.
Aware that something had gone wrong tonight—something he hadn't yet seen.
And for the first time since entering the castle…
Levi Unwilling wondered where Tyche was.
---