Morning light spills through the tall window, soft and gold, brushing across Kael's room like a quiet wake up call. Dust floats in the sunbeams, slow and aimless. The air still holds a bit of night's coolness, making the bed feel warmer than it really is.
Kael opens his eyes.
For a few seconds he just lies there, staring at the ceiling, letting the day settle onto his shoulders. The house is already awake. Faint footsteps pass somewhere down the corridor. Dishes clink softly from a distant kitchen. Curtains whisper as servants pull them aside to welcome the morning.
He exhales and sits up, pushing a hand through his slightly messy hair. Sleep leaves him slowly, like mist thinning under sunlight.
After washing and dressing, he steps into the hallway. Sunlight pours through the long windows along the corridor, stretching bright shapes across the carpet. The Ravenshade estate feels calm, almost too calm, as if something important has stepped out and taken the noise with it.
He makes his way to the dining hall.
The doors are open. The long table gleams under the morning light, silverware neatly arranged, glasses clear and untouched. But the seat at the head of the table is empty.
Only Zara is there.
She sits sideways in her chair, completely ignoring proper posture, a book open beside her plate. She looks up the moment she hears him.
"Morning," she says, brushing hair away from her face.
"Morning," Kael replies, taking his usual seat.
A servant moves forward quietly to serve him. The sounds of breakfast fill the room, the soft tap of cutlery, the gentle pour of tea, the small everyday noises that make a house feel lived in.
Kael glances toward the empty head chair.
"Where's Father?" he asks.
Zara chews, swallows, then answers, clearly having expected the question.
"He left early," she says. "Told me he had something important to do."
Kael looks at her. "Did he say where he was going?"
She shakes her head. "No. I asked. He just gave that secretive smile and said he'd be back later."
Kael's eyes drift back to the empty seat.
Sunlight reaches it, bright and warm, but it does not make the chair feel any less vacant.
He looks down at his plate, quiet, thoughtful.
Across from him, Zara pretends to focus on her food, but her eyes keep flicking up to study his face, curiosity written all over her.
Rowan Ravenshade sits behind the wheel of his early motorcar, one of the few in Grimsford owned only by the wealthiest families. The vehicle rumbles with a deep mechanical growl, its brass fittings catching the morning light as it rolls away from the Ravenshade estate.
The iron estate gates close slowly behind him.
He drives alone.
The steering wheel is large, the motion firm but controlled under his gloved hands. His posture remains straight, composed, his expression unreadable as always. The road ahead reflects in his steady eyes.
Grimsford is just beginning to stir.
Horse carriages clatter over cobblestone streets. Newspaper boys call out headlines on corners. Shopkeepers lift wooden shutters, and the smell of fresh bread drifts from small bakeries opening for the day. A few pedestrians pause when they hear the distinct chugging sound of Rowan's motorcar, turning to look as it passes.
Motorcars are still rare.
And a Ravenshade is never unnoticed.
Rowan does not spare a glance. His focus remains forward.
The dense city streets slowly give way to wider roads lined with tall elm trees. Gas streetlamps, still lit from the night, flicker as workers move along the sidewalks to extinguish them one by one. The air grows cleaner the farther he travels from the industrial heart of the city.
Soon, the urban noise fades behind him.
Ahead stretch the royal gardens, vast and meticulously maintained. Gravel paths wind through endless beds of blooming flowers. Marble statues of historical figures stand between sculpted hedges. Ornate fountains send thin arcs of water into the air, the droplets glittering in the morning sun.
Birds scatter gently as the motorcar passes, its engine a foreign sound in such a peaceful place.
Everything here feels distant from ordinary life, quieter, refined, as though even nature behaves with discipline near the crown.
And then they rise into view.
The palace gates.
Towering wrought iron, crowned with gold-tipped crests. The royal emblem is worked into the center with elegant detail. Two palace guards stand at attention on either side, dressed in formal military uniforms of deep royal colors, rifles resting upright at their shoulders.
At the sight of the approaching motorcar, they straighten even further.
Rowan guides the vehicle forward at a controlled pace, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
He has already left home far behind.
And now, Rowan Ravenshade arrives at the palace.
King Valerius Silverwindcrest stands at the top of the palace steps, already waiting.
Morning light washes over the white stone behind him, turning the carved pillars and tall archways pale gold. A faint breeze moves through the royal banners above, the fabric shifting with a slow, dignified rhythm.
He is not dressed in full ceremonial regalia today. Instead, he wears a refined dark coat with subtle royal embroidery along the cuffs and collar, formal, but personal. A sign that this is not merely a king receiving a businessman.
This is a friend waiting for another.
At the sound of the approaching motorcar, Valerius lifts his gaze. The deep mechanical rumble grows louder as Rowan's vehicle comes into view along the garden path.
For a moment, the years seem to peel away.
They were boys once. Running across palace courtyards and estate gardens. Sneaking away from tutors. Competing over trivial things that felt like matters of honor at the time. Two heirs from the most powerful families in the land of Krythalis, raised in privilege, expectation, and watchful eyes.
Their friendship had not been planned.
It had simply happened.
Because when children are young enough, they do not yet understand politics, alliances, or status. They only understand who laughs with them, who stands beside them, who does not treat them like a title.
But time is not gentle with heirs.
Responsibility arrived early and never loosened its grip. Lessons turned into duties. Duties became burdens. Meetings replaced games. Decisions replaced dreams.
Even living in the same city, they rarely see each other now.
Not because distance separates them.
But because crowns and empires do.
The motorcar slows to a stop at the base of the steps. Gravel crunches beneath the tires before the engine quiets into silence.
Rowan steps out, adjusting his gloves with his usual calm precision. His posture is as straight as ever, his expression controlled, carved into quiet authority by years of command.
Yet when his eyes lift and meet Valerius's—
Something softens.
Just slightly.
Valerius descends a few steps, a small smile breaking through the composure expected of a king.
"Rowan," he says, voice warm with familiarity that few are ever allowed to hear.
Rowan inclines his head, but not as deeply as he would to a monarch in court.
"Valerius."
Not Your Majesty.
Not here.
Not like this.
For a brief moment, they stand not as ruler and magnate, not as pillars of Krythalis…
But as two old friends who have not had the chance to simply talk in far too long.
Rowan climbs the final steps, polished shoes meeting pale stone still cool from the night air. He stops in front of the king, close enough now that the distance of years feels smaller than the space between two breaths.
"It has been a long time," Rowan says.
His voice is steady, but beneath it rests something older than formality. Memory. Shared history. The quiet acknowledgment of everything they did not have time to say over the years.
Valerius exhales a soft breath that almost becomes a laugh. "Too long," he replies. "We live in the same city, yet it feels as if we stand in different worlds."
A palace attendant moves to approach, but Valerius lifts a hand slightly. The message is clear. Not now.
"This way," the king says.
They enter the palace together.
Inside, the air is cooler, touched with the faint scent of polished wood and fresh flowers arranged along the corridor tables. Sunlight filters through tall stained glass windows, scattering muted colors across the marble floors. Their footsteps echo gently as they walk side by side, the sound steady, unhurried.
Servants bow as they pass, but neither man slows. This path is not ceremonial. It is familiar.
They move through grand halls adorned with portraits of past rulers, crystal chandeliers hanging high above like frozen constellations. Yet Valerius does not lead Rowan toward the throne room or council chamber.
Instead, he turns down a quieter corridor.
The decorations here are more personal. Landscapes. Old tapestries. A suit of ceremonial armor that has not been worn in decades. The noise of the palace fades behind thick walls, replaced by a stillness that feels almost private.
Valerius stops before a pair of dark wooden doors carved with the royal crest.
He opens them himself.
"After you," he says.
Rowan steps inside.
The room is spacious but not grand in the way the rest of the palace is. A private study. Tall bookshelves line the walls, filled with worn volumes and leather-bound records. A large desk stands near the windows, though papers have been pushed aside, leaving only a tea set prepared on a smaller table nearby.
No guards.
No advisors.
No servants waiting in corners.
Just two chairs facing each other near the window where morning light spills across the carpet.
Valerius enters after Rowan and quietly shuts the door.
The soft click of the latch seals the room in silence.
For the first time since they were boys running through gardens without titles attached to their names…
They are alone.
Valerius gestures toward the chairs near the window, the morning light resting across the carpet like a quiet guest that arrived before them.
"Tea or coffee?" he asks, his tone lighter now, less king and more old friend.
"Tea," Rowan replies without hesitation.
Valerius nods and turns toward the door. He opens it slightly and signals to a passing servant in the corridor. His voice is calm and measured as he gives the order. "Bring tea and coffee."
The servant bows and leaves at once, footsteps fading down the hall.
The door closes again, and the room returns to stillness.
For a short while, neither of them speaks. Rowan moves toward the window, hands resting behind his back, gaze drifting over the palace gardens below. From this height, the world looks peaceful, almost untouched by the weight both men carry.
Valerius watches him, noticing the faint lines time has placed at the corners of his old friend's eyes. Responsibility leaves marks no crown can hide.
A gentle knock breaks the silence.
"Enter," Valerius says.
The servant steps in, carrying a polished silver tray. Porcelain cups rattle softly against their saucers as he walks across the room with careful steps. He sets the tray on the small table between the two chairs, then pours the drinks with quiet precision.
Steam curls upward in thin, twisting ribbons.
The servant bows once more and leaves without a word, closing the door behind him.
Now the room holds only the soft scent of tea leaves and roasted coffee.
Valerius picks up the coffee cup. Rowan takes the tea.
For a moment, they simply sit there, warm cups in hand, morning light on their shoulders, the silence no longer distant but shared.