The feast was a tense pantomime.
The great hall was as bright as Eden could make it. Every candle was lit.
The smell of roasting meat couldn't quite mask the smell of damp and decay.
King Alistair sat at the high table. Prince Caelan was at his right hand.
Noella was seated further down. She was between two grim-faced Tombsrose knights.
They might as well have been statues.
Caelan was holding forth on military logistics. It was a not-so-subtle lecture on Eden's deficiencies.
Noella watched the servants.
Her eyes tracked the steward. He personally brought forth the prized Tombsrose wine.
He poured the first glass for the prince with a flourish.
Caelan raised the goblet. It was heavy silver.
"To the enduring strength of Brustain," he intoned. "And to the wise alliances that preserve it."
The court murmured the reply.
Caelan took a long, savoring sip.
His face registered an emotion other than cold superiority. It was a flicker of confusion.
Then his eyes widened slightly. His throat worked.
He lowered the goblet. He stared into the deep red liquid as if it had betrayed him.
He took another, smaller sip.
He promptly gagged. It was a harsh, choking sound that silenced the hall.
He spat the wine back into the cup. His face contorted in disgust.
"What is this swill?" he roared.
He slammed the goblet down. Wine, now clearly thin and sour-smelling, splashed onto the table.
The steward turned ashen.
"M-my prince! It is the vintage you brought! From your own cellars!"
"Liar!"
Caelan stood. His chair scraped violently.
His cool demeanor had shattered. Brutal anger was revealed beneath.
"You've tampered with it! You pathetic, starving wretches think you can insult me?!"
King Alistair was on his feet, hands raised.
"Prince Caelan, please, there must be a mistake—"
"The only mistake was coming to this dung-heap!"
Caelan's flinty eyes swept the room. They landed, with terrifying precision, on Noella.
She hadn't moved. She met his gaze. Her face was a mask of polite incomprehension.
But he saw through it.
Perhaps he sensed the cold intelligence behind her eyes. Or perhaps he just needed a target.
"You."
He snarled, pointing a finger armored in steel.
"The witch with the devil's eyes. You did this. Your father hasn't the spine, but you… I've heard the whispers. The princess who plays with poisons."
"I assure you, Prince, I know nothing of wine."
Noella's voice was clear and steady in the dead silence.
"Seize her," Caelan commanded his knights.
The two men beside her moved instantly.
Their hands were like iron manacles. They closed on her arms, hauling her to her feet.
The shock of it drove the breath from her lungs. The raw physical violation.
Her careful plans, her chemical precision—it all crumbled before brute force.
"Caelan, you cannot!" Alistair cried.
A Tombsrose guard stepped between him and his daughter.
"I can."
Caelan walked slowly around the table towards her. His disgust had morphed into a cruel, anticipatory gleam.
"You have insulted the Crown of Tombsrose. This is an act of diplomatic aggression. By the laws of the hegemony, I am within my rights to take… reparations."
He stopped in front of her. His gaze crawled over her.
"You will come back to Tombsrose. Not as a bride. As a prisoner. We have ways of making clever tongues useful."
Noella's mind raced. It hit a wall.
Equations failed.
This was pure, animal dominance. She was a variable about to be erased.
As Caelan reached out to grab her chin, a voice spoke.
It wasn't loud. It didn't echo.
It was a calm, matter-of-fact statement. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.
"I wouldn't."
Everyone froze.
The voice was male, young. It carried a boredom so profound it was more unsettling than any shout.
From the deep shadows of a pillar arch, a figure stepped forward.
He was dressed in simple, dark clothes. A long, worn coat hung open. His hair was a mass of dark curls.
His face was unremarkable. Except for the utter lack of fear or interest in his light brown eyes.
He held a sheathed long knife loosely in one hand.
Caelan's knights immediately shifted. Two moved to intercept the stranger. Their swords were half-drawn.
"Who are you?" one barked. "How did you get in here?"
The young man—Volsei—ignored them.
He looked at Caelan's hand. It was still poised near Noella's face.
"You're blocking my view."
Caelan's fury found a new target.
"Kill this vagrant."
The nearest knight lunged. His sword flashed in the candlelight.
Volsei didn't move to dodge. He didn't even look at the man.
His left thumb casually pushed the hilt of his knife. Just an inch. A sliver of worn steel was exposed.
He whispered a single word. It was soft as a sigh.
"Umbra Scindo."
There was no visible slash. No burst of light.
Just a sound—a crisp, clean snick that seemed to cut the very air.
The knight's sword, halfway through its thrust, separated into two perfectly sliced pieces.
The blade clattered to the floor. A split-second later, the hilt followed. It was still in the man's hand.
He stared, dumbfounded, at the clean, mirrored cut on the steel.
Silence swallowed the hall. It was deeper than before.
Volsei finally looked at Noella.
His eyes met her mismatched ones.
In them, he didn't see a damsel in distress. He saw the same cold calculator from the gallery.
Now she was confronted with an impossible new variable: him.
He gave her the faintest, almost imperceptible nod.
Then he turned his bored gaze back to Prince Caelan.
Caelan stood frozen. His face was a masterpiece of shock and dawning, primal fear.
"You," Volsei said.
His voice was still that flat, conversational tone.
"You're making a lot of noise. She and I need to talk."
The world had just fractured.
In the crack between what was possible and what was now real, the ruthless princess and the dark guardian saw each other for the first time.