Before Thane can answer, Garrick chokes mid-sip and spraysale across the table.
He coughs once, then bursts into laughter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Gods, please don’t encourage him.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Garrick,” Jarek mutters, grabbing his now ale-soaked napkin and utensils.
Lyra yelps and lifts her plate like it’s contagious. “Seriously?” she says, tipping it sideways as amber liquid drips from the edge.
Garrick is grinning like he just won a duel. “That was brilliant.”
Valen sighs and flicks his fingers. A small gust of air sweeps the worst of it clean.
Thane just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as he slides a clean cloth across the table toward me. “No, that’s not how we do things here. I only sit at the head when I have to.”
Garrick bursts into laughter. “Yeah—like when he’s got to impress nobles at fancy balls.” He clasps his hands dramatically. “And this, dear friends, is where we toast to treaties with overpriced wine and pretend to like each other.”
Lyra laughs, clutching her dripping plate. Jarek grins, clearly proud of the chaos his brother has stirred. Rian rolls his eyes, but a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
I should laugh, but it sticks in my throat. Like I’m watching it all from just outside myself—close enough to see it, too far to feel it.
A moment later, the door creaks open and a young server steps inside, eyes wide, clearly having heard the ruckus.
“Everything okay, Lord Caelum?” he asks, gaze darting toward the mess in front of Garrick.
“Three new place settings,” Thane says calmly, gesturing toward Garrick, Jarek, and Lyra. “Please.”
The server nods and quickly retreats.
Garrick lifts his ale in salute, still grinning. Jarek shrugs witha casual flick of his fingers. Lyra offers a polite smile, wiping the last of the spilled ale from her hands and straightening like she’s trying to reclaim some shred of dignity.
As the laughter fades and the mess is half-heartedly cleaned, I sit back in my chair and take it all in.
The easy rhythm. The banter. The way no one seems surprised by Garrick’s chaos—or particularly bothered by it. Jarek’s dry smirk. Rian’s quiet eye-roll. Lyra, trying to look composed even as her plate drips onto the table. Thane, calm beside me, like he’s seen this exact moment unfold a hundred times.
It’s nothing like what I imagined when I thought of warlords and their command. No stiff formality or masks. Just . . . warmth and familiarity.Realness.
I’m not part of it though—not really. But for the first time since my world shattered, I think . . . maybe I could be. Eventually.
The door creaks open again. The young server returns, arms full, balancing a stack of clean plates and fresh utensils. He sets them down quickly at the seats for Garrick, Jarek, and Lyra—each murmuring some version of thanks—then clears out the ones that were sprayed with ale.
Behind him, a small procession of servers follows—each carrying heaping bowls and steaming trays. The air floods with the rich scent of roasted meat, seasoned root vegetables, fresh bread still warm from the oven, and something sweet—spiced fruit, maybe.
The table shifts into motion—hands reaching to help pass dishes, spoons clinking against serving bowls, quiet thanks and murmurs of appreciation exchanged between bites of food.
As the sounds of serving and conversation fill the space, I feel a soft touch against my back. I glance to my left.
Lyra offers me a warm smile and a small, encouraging nod—wordless, but clear.Go on. Eat. Join in.
I haven’t had much of an appetite lately. Grief clings to everything, even hunger. But I know what she’s saying, what she’s trying to give me. A moment of normalcy and belonging.
I manage a small smile—just enough to let her know I’m trying. Then reach for the nearest bowl and begin to fill my plate. Not because I’m hungry, but because I want to try for her.
I spoon a small portion of roasted meat onto my plate, the rich scent of herbs and smoke rising. Then the root vegetables—golden and crisp at the edges, glistening with oil. The aroma does nothing to stir my appetite.
I don’t say much at first. Just listen. The conversation drifts around me—not of war or strategy or politics like I expected. No sharp orders or talk of borders or battle plans. But rather, the kind of talk that exists between people who’ve shared years, not just duties.
Inside jokes. Half-told stories. Garrick poking fun at Jarek for falling off a training platform last week. Rian offering a single dry comment that makes the whole table laugh. Even Valen joins in, amused and knowing, like he’s seen them all grow up.
It doesn’t feel like a court—it feels like family.
