The grand hall of the palace was its own world—a sea of silken banners swaying like sails on a still ocean, stained-glass windows that splintered the sunlight into radiant hues, and gilded columns polished enough to reflect entire lives in a single glance. Every inch of the space breathed history, legacy, power—centuries carved into stone and stitched into velvet.
Soft music spilled from the alcoves, a delicate symphony weaving through the air just above the quiet murmur of nobility. The scent of burning amber incense curled around every conversation like a benediction—or a warning.
When Seraphina stepped into that sacred space, everything shifted. Silence swept across the room, as though even the music knew better than to compete.
Omel led the way, followed by her three handmaidens—Naia, Imara, and Lina—and the twin paladins, Atlas and Adam, who flanked her like living statues of devotion and resolve.
A ripple moved through the court.
"The Saintess."
"They say she walks like the Divine Himself is watching."
"Is it true? That she healed a man on the brink of death with nothing but light?"
King Aldren rose from his throne, descending two steps—a gesture so rare, it stole the breath from half the room. Draped in crimson trimmed with gold, a jeweled sword resting at his hip, he stood tall despite the years etched into his bones. His eyes were sharp, steady, the kind that measured everything before offering approval.
"Lady Seraphina," he said, voice a quiet thunder, "the flame that guards our land has stepped into our house. The honor is deeply ours."
Queen Isolde followed with the grace of someone who'd never known anything less than reverence. "You are welcome here, child of light," she said, her voice a lullaby wrapped around steel. "May your visit bring peace to all who see you."
Seraphina bowed her head, her veil whispering like wind-brushed leaves. "Your Majesties. I am humbled by your welcome."
The nobility surged forward like a tide—color, silk, perfume, and flattery woven into every movement. Bows dipped low. Compliments rolled smooth and practiced, like gems polished in advance.
Seraphina met each greeting with poise, the kind etched into her bones from years of training. But underneath the calm, her heart was racing. Too many voices. Too many eyes. It was like drowning in light.
Then came the princes.
Crown Prince Lorent, in forest green, exuded quiet solemnity. His bow was flawless. "A pleasure, Lady Seraphina."
Second Prince Caldus, in dove-gray, offered a gentler smile. "I trust the palace has treated you kindly. We've awaited your arrival."
Third Prince Teryn—all golden curls and rebellion—winked as he said, "If anyone starts talking about tax reform, just say the word. I'll rescue you."
And then, the Fourth Prince.
Prince Kaeven.
He wore blue-black, the color of smoke just before it ignites. His presence cut through the room—sharp, precise. A smile tugged at his lips. Not friendly. Not mocking. Just… dangerous.
He bowed, low and slow, his eyes never leaving hers. "Lady Seraphina," he murmured, "the rumors didn't lie. Even veiled, you burn."
She met his gaze through the veil, breath catching for half a second.
He extended his arm. "Would you care for some fresh air? These halls tend to smother."
Before she could reply, Omel's voice sliced through the moment. "That would be highly improper."
But Queen Isolde stepped forward, all elegance and quiet command. Her hand landed on Omel's sleeve—gentle, yet immovable. "High Priest Omel, the gardens are open air. A short walk won't break the world."
Omel's jaw clenched. So did Seraphina's.
This hall. These stares. It felt like drowning.
She gave a faint nod.
Kaeven's smile deepened. "Shall we?"
And so the Saintess walked beside the Fourth Prince of the Everthrone, with the entire court watching—some in awe, some in judgment, and many calculating what it all might mean.
The doors shut behind them with the finality of fate.
Seraphina exhaled, slow and shallow. The sunlight outside felt softer, warmer—filtered through trellises heavy with roses and ivy. The air was thick with crushed petals, trimmed hedges, and birdsong untouched by reverence.
Her handmaidens and the paladins followed at a respectful distance, close enough to intervene. Far enough to give the illusion of space.
Kaeven glanced over his shoulder. "Are those your toys?"
She blinked. "What?"
He gestured to Atlas and Adam. "Your twin guards. Handsome, brooding, freakishly in sync. I figured… one for each arm?"
She frowned. "Ridiculous. They're my guards."
"Really?" He looked at her, mock-serious. "Because the one on the left looks like he'll gut me if I pronounce your name wrong."
"That's none of your concern," she said, voice edged now.
He laughed. "Now that's more like it."
They reached a fountain in the center of the garden, its marble basin glowing under sunlight, water murmuring like idle gossip.
"Did you choose them for their faces?" he asked, a spark in his eyes.
She turned, veil hiding her expression. "Would you like to know how many battles they've survived too, or do you prefer judging people by what they look like?"
Kaeven chuckled and patted the bench beside him. "Come, Saintess. Let's offend each other a little more. It's almost fun."
She sighed—and sat.
Her robe shifted as she settled, the folds like waves in still water. The weight of the palace, the pressure of every stare, still clung to her, thick as incense. Kaeven lounged next to her with the ease of someone who didn't care what anyone thought. Not even here. Not even with her.
"Your brothers looked angry," she said.
He picked up a few pebbles, tossed one into the fountain with a soft plunk.
"You know," he said, "they hate me. Not because I'm cruel. Not because I'm smarter. Just because I'm harder to predict."
She tilted her head. "You enjoy being hated?"
"I enjoy being remembered."
The way he looked at her—like she wasn't a symbol, but a person—unsettled her more than any noble's gaze.
She asked quietly, "Is that why they stared so sharply at us inside? Because you're unpredictable?"
He smirked. "That, and I tend to flirt with things I shouldn't."
Her breath hitched. Heat crept into her cheeks behind the veil.
"You're impossible."
"And you," he said, voice dipping low, "are far more human than they let you be. That's what I like about you."
She looked away. Her heart was a fist inside her chest.
"I was never meant to be liked," she whispered.
He leaned closer. "You want the scrolls, don't you?" Then, with a dangerous gleam: "Can I see your face now? Or… a kiss?"
She recoiled, startled. "You said a date would suffice."
He grinned. "I didn't say this was a date. A date's two people having fun—without an audience." He tilted his head toward her ever-present entourage.
She narrowed her eyes, even if he couldn't see it. "I warned you about asking to see my face."
"And I still want to."
Her breath caught. No one spoke to her like this. Not her handmaidens. Not the clergy. It felt like walking barefoot across ice—dangerous, fragile… alive.
"Lower your voice," she hissed. "Do you even realize what they'd do if they heard you?"
He smirked. "Probably hang me. But I'd go out with a kiss from a Saintess. Or maybe a tea date."
"A… tea date?"
He shrugged. "Come back to the palace. In spring. No veils. No priests. Just tea. You and me."
She stared. Stunned. Worse—tempted.
Omel would be furious.
She should walk away.
But Kaeven was watching her closely now, like he was reading every flicker of thought behind her silence.
"I'll make the Queen send the invitation again," he said, quiet and daring. "With the royal seal. The Temple would have no reason to refuse."
Her eyes met his.
And slowly—so slowly—she nodded.