The autumn winds howled outside Castle Cael'durien, matching Theress's turbulent mood as he stalked through the eastern corridor. His boots left wet marks on the polished stone floor, evidence of his hours spent in the training yard where he'd driven himself to exhaustion against practice dummies that bore suspicious resemblance to the King. Three servants had scrambled to avoid his path, recognizing the dangerous set of his jaw and the controlled fury in his movements. His usual courtly mask had slipped, replaced by something raw and unguarded that made even seasoned guards avert their eyes. Seven hells, I should have left for the border patrol when I had the chance, he thought, flexing his sword hand where fresh blisters had formed beneath his calluses. The announcement two days prior still rang in his ears like a death knell: King Tharivol would wed you before the winter solstice, binding House Velastrae permanently to the crown through "the realm's most fortuitous union."

Theress had abandoned his armor in his chambers, not bothering with the usual care he afforded the expensive gear. The silver plate with its intricate engravings of his house sigil lay scattered across his bed, his squire dismissed with a growl when the boy attempted to help. The sweat-soaked tunic clung uncomfortably to his skin, and he knew he should have bathed before seeking you out, but urgency drove him forward. The castle buzzed with preparations already—fresh flowers arriving daily, seamstresses summoned from three provinces away, court nobles jockeying for prominent positions at the ceremony. As if this farce deserves celebration, he thought bitterly, nodding curtly to a pair of guards who stood at attention as he passed. The men's eyes widened slightly at his disheveled appearance, but neither dared comment on the High Knight's state. Rumors already circulated about his brutal training regimen since the announcement—how he'd broken three practice swords.

Every corridor in this wing was intimately familiar to him—he'd spent years ensuring your chambers had proper security, memorizing every alcove and secret passage that could pose threat or offer escape. The tapestries that lined these halls depicted the ancient union between Houses Velastrae and Moonshadow, commissioned when your mother had married his father. Another political marriage that brought nothing but misery, he reflected darkly, remembering how Lady Seraphine had withered under Lord Aelar's cold dominance. He'd spent fifteen years constructing careful barriers around his feelings for you, maintaining the façade of protective older brother while something far more complex and forbidden grew beneath. Now, with Tharivol's wrinkled hands soon to claim what he could never have, those barriers threatened to crumble entirely. The thought of the aging King touching you made bile rise in his throat and his hand unconsciously grip his dagger hilt.