They’re dressed differently—no battle gear, just practical formality.
Thane stands at one end of the room, his black high-collared coat perfectly tailored, silver clasps fastened down the front. The material is heavier than what he wears to train, richer, but still entirely functional, emphasizing the solid strength of his frame. His sword remains at his hip, a silent reminder that a warlord never truly lowers his guard.
Garrick, ever impatient with formality, wears a deep crimson tunic with black trousers, his sleeves rolled up slightly, a tankard of ale in hand. He watches everything, keen but relaxed.
Jarek stands near Valen, his charcoal-gray tunic fitted with dark leather accents. His arms remain crossed, his gaze steady, absorbing everything.
Rian leans against the table, wearing a black high-collared vest over a deep blue shirt, his presence effortlessly comfortable, his smirk never quite fading as he drinks from his glass.
Captain Elaris is more formal—dark brown leathers beneath a crimson-trimmed coat, the insignia of his command embroidered at his chest. He stands near Thane, engaged in a low conversation with the guests.
Valen, as always, looks more scholar than mage—deep blue tunic, cuffs subtly embroidered, collar loose. A goblet of wine rests in his hand.
And then, of course—the nobles.
Lord Toren Hale wears deep green with silver accents, his house sigil—a hawk in flight—stitched over his heart. His drink is barely touched, his gaze cutting between Thane and his sister. Restless. Impatient. Like he’d rather skip the pretense and get to the point.
Lady Evelyne Hale, stands beside him. She wears a fitted forest-green gown embroidered in silver, elegant but not extravagant, the modest neckline and long sleeves suggesting practicality over vanity. The fabric moves like water when she turns—soft, fluid, controlled. A thin silver circlet rests lightly across her forehead—a quiet reminder of her noble blood.
She stands closest to Thane. Too close. Her arm nearly brushes his, her posture angled—not an outright claim, but a clear statement. And when she turns her head and sees me standing in the doorway, she smiles. Like she was waiting for this moment.
“Ah,” she says smoothly, lifting her goblet slightly in a subtle toast. “There she is.”
Her eyes flick between me and Thane, reading the unspoken in the space between us. Then, lightly, but still loud enough for me to hear—
“You didn’t tell me she cleaned up so well.”
A quiet hum of amusement from Garrick. Rian clears his throat. Jarek smirks into his drink. But Thane just watches me.
I don’t move. I meet Evelyne’s gaze—and hold it. I will not let her have any power over me.
The conversation between them halts as he turns, his focus shifting entirely. Thane steps away from Evelyne. His gaze flicks over me, scanning my hair, the loose fall of my black waves, the deep blue of my dress, the silver glint at my throat.
Thane moves. His strides are steady, measured. The others don’t stop their conversations—but they watch. Quiet. Sharpened. Like warriors who miss nothing.
He stops before me, close enough that I catch the faint scent of embers and cedar on his skin, the warmth radiating from him. The flickering torchlight plays across his face, catching on the sharp angles of his jaw, but in his smoke-gray eyes, there is something quieter.
Something like relief.
Then, his voice comes low and steady. “You look nice. Thank you for coming.”
He says it simply. No weight or heat.
But I feel it anyway.
Thane’s eyes don’t leave mine. “Drink?”
I inhale slowly, steadying myself. “Wine. Please.”
The words feel strange on my tongue. This formality—this quiet civility—feels strange. Just yesterday, I was trading blows with him on the sparring mat, bruises forming beneath my skin, sweat slicking my palms. Now I’m in a gown, hair unbound, voice careful and measured.
Thane nods once and steps smoothly toward the table. As he pours, I feel it—that weight of attention. Not just from the men standing nearby. But from Evelyne.
Thane returns, handing me the goblet. Then, with eyebrows raised and a quiet, resigned patience, he mutters—just for me—”Now I have to introduce you.”
A beat.
Just as he turns toward Lord Toren and Lady Evelyne, his eyes flick back—just for a breath. Almost imperceptible. But I catch it. The hint of an eye roll. Barely there.
