Ravel, the eldest brother, stepped forward before Nael could even think of retreating.
With an ease that came only from years of familiarity and unquestioned authority, the crown prince hooked an arm through Nael's and drew him a step closer, already steering him away from the center of the hall. His movement was smooth, unhurried—as if this had always been his intention.
As they shifted aside, Ravel glanced back over his shoulder and lifted a hand toward Leo, his expression almost too calm.
"Enjoy yourself," Ravel said lightly. "We'll borrow him for a moment."
Leo opened his mouth—whether to protest, explain, or salute, Nael couldn't tell—but the decision was taken out of his hands. Ravel was already moving, the current of authority pulling Nael with him.
Leo could only lift his hand in a helpless wave, his face caught somewhere between apology and resignation.
Nael turned his head just enough to fix him with a sharp look.
You traitor. You left me here.
As if hearing the accusation loud and clear, Leo paused mid-step. He turned back, eyes bright, entirely too amused for the situation. A grin spread across his face—wide, shameless, and completely unrepentant.
Then he raised his thumb.
A firm, unmistakable thumbs-up.
Good luck.
Nael's eye twitched.
"Coward," he muttered under his breath, though he didn't resist as Ravel continued to guide him forward.
By the time he finished the word, his second and third brothers had already closed ranks around him—one presence solid and imposing, the other sharp and observant. Their combined auras formed an unspoken barrier, cutting him neatly off from escape.
Leo disappeared into the crowd behind them.
And Nael, abandoned by his knight and delivered straight into the hands of his brothers, had the distinct feeling that whatever came next would be far more terrifying than the grand entrance itself.
Marcus, the second brother, broke the tension first.
"Let's eat something," he said simply, as if that alone could solve everything.
Nael's eyes lit up instantly, the earlier apprehension evaporating like mist under sunlight. He didn't even try to hide it.
"Yes," he agreed without hesitation.
Before anyone could say another word, Nael reached out, hooked his arm through Marcus's, and decisively dragged him forward toward the banquet tables.
Marcus blinked once—then laughed, allowing himself to be pulled along.
A step behind them, Ravel and Adrien stopped at the exact same time.
They looked at each other.
Then, almost in unison, their gazes shifted to the retreating figures ahead.
"…Did he just leave us?" Adrien asked mildly.
Ravel sighed, rubbing his temple. "He did."
There was a brief pause.
Then they followed.
The hall opened wider as they walked, the scent of fresh pastries and warm dishes drifting through the air. Servants moved seamlessly, trays balanced with practiced ease.
Ravel fell into step beside Nael, his voice casual. "So," he asked, "what pastry are you in the mood for today?"
Adrien leaned in from the other side, just as curious. "Sweet or nutty? Or are you still obsessed with fruit fillings?"
Nael looked between them, smiling openly now, the tension completely gone. "Honey almond," he said first, then added, "and the berry tarts. The ones with the thin crust."
Marcus chuckled. "Of course."
Ravel nodded thoughtfully. "You haven't changed."
Adrien smiled, amused. "Or maybe you've changed just enough."
The conversation flowed easily as they walked, Nael laughing softly at something Marcus said, his arm still comfortably hooked through his second brother's.
Ravel watched it all with a calm expression.
Too calm.
To anyone else, it might have looked like nothing—but to Ravel, that casual closeness was an eyesore.
He cleared his throat lightly. "Marcus."
Marcus turned. "Hm?"
"Father is looking for you," Ravel said, tone effortless, as though passing on a minor message. "Near the eastern aisle."
Marcus stiffened instantly. "Now?"
"Yes."
Without a second thought, Marcus released Nael's arm and strode off, already scanning the crowd for the king.
The moment Marcus's back turned, Ravel moved.
Smooth. Efficient. Shameless.
He stepped into the vacant space and, with practiced ease, hooked Nael's arm through his own—settling them together as though that had always been the arrangement.
Nael blinked, momentarily confused, but before he could question it, they were already walking again.
A few moments later, Marcus returned.
He looked around, brows furrowing.
Then he saw it.
Ravel.
Standing exactly where Marcus had been.
Nael's arm looped securely through his.
Marcus stopped short.
His jaw tightened as realization dawned.
Ravel glanced sideways at him and offered a faint, victorious smirk.
Marcus responded with a glare sharp enough to cut steel.
Before either of them could say anything, Nael spoke up, his voice gentle but firm.
"Brothers," he said, glancing between them, "let's sit there. I'm tired."
Ravel immediately softened, concern replacing triumph. "Of course."
Marcus swallowed his irritation and nodded. "Alright."
Adrien had stopped a short distance away, a pastry plate balanced lazily in one hand.
He watched the entire exchange unfold—the sudden "father is calling you," Marcus's confused retreat, Ravel's seamless takeover, and Marcus's return just in time to witness his spot stolen.
A slow, amused smile curved Adrien's lips.
"Hah," he murmured to himself, eyes glinting with interest as he took a bite of pastry. "Let's see who wins this fight."
His gaze followed the three brothers as they moved to sit, the tension subtle but unmistakable.
This was going to be entertaining.