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The two girls stepped out of the room and into the corridor, where the distant hum of voices from the banquet hall swelled, rising and falling like the rhythm of an incoming tide. The faint scent of spices and roasting meats wafted toward them, mingling with the sharper chill of the evening air that crept through the stone halls.

Alara's gaze flicked toward the banquet hall, catching glimpses through the grand doorway. The glittering opulence beyond was almost overwhelming. Tall candelabras flickered like silent sentinels, their golden light spilling over marble floors polished to a mirror's gleam. Intricately embroidered tapestries representing noble houses draped along the walls, their artistry both mesmerizing and suffocating, a testament to the power and control her father wielded over this gathering.

Before they could step closer, a man moved into their path, his posture rigid and practiced. Alara recognized him immediately—her father's herald, a man whose presence always preceded heavy expectations.

"Good evening, my lady," the herald said, nodding to Alara before his gaze shifted briefly to Rasa. "What is the name of your companion?"

"Rasa Hoshino," Rasa answered firmly before Alara could speak. Her tone was steady, her chin held high, and Alara had to bite back a laugh at her friend's unwavering confidence.

The herald nodded, his expression unreadable. "And what title would you like me to call for you?"

Alara's smile faltered. She shook her head quickly. "Nothing, please."

The herald raised an eyebrow, his face barely masking his disapproval. "Your father would—"

"Please," she cut in, her voice quiet but insistent. "No."

For a moment, he hesitated, but eventually, he inclined his head in reluctant agreement. "You may go ahead," he said, stepping aside with a bow that carried just enough tension to betray his dissatisfaction.

Alara exhaled softly, casting a grateful glance at Rasa as they moved toward the glittering hall beyond.

Behind them, the herald's voice rang out, clear and commanding: "Lady Alara Markarian and Rasa Hoshino."

Alara cringed at the title, her stomach twisting as the words echoed through the hall. She supposed "Lady" was better than any of the more formal alternatives her father might have preferred, but she wished the herald had said nothing at all. The whispers began immediately, soft murmurs rippling through the crowd as dozens of eyes turned toward her. Their stares pressed down on her, making her steps feel heavier with every moment.

Her grip tightened on Rasa's arm, and she clung to her friend as though she were the only thing keeping her upright. Alara forced a polite smile, her cheeks straining with the effort.

"Breathe," Rasa murmured, her voice low and steady, a grounding force in the chaos. Beside her, Rasa's gaze swept over the glittering hall with razor-sharp precision, calm and unflinching. She carried herself as if she feared no one, her presence radiating quiet strength. "You're fine, Alara. We're fine."

Alara nodded faintly, though her heartbeat thundered in her ears, refusing to slow. She drew in a shaky breath, willing herself to borrow even a fraction of Rasa's composure.

Alara let her gaze drift across the room, scanning the sea of unfamiliar faces. The hum of conversation blended with bursts of polite, practiced laughter. Her eyes finally landed on her father, King Mikayel Markarian, who stood at the head of the hall. He lifted his goblet toward her, his smile perfectly composed, every inch the image of a confident ruler.

But Alara saw past the facade. The subtle tension in his jaw, the sharp precision in the way his eyes darted over the crowd—it was clear to her. He wasn't just hosting a banquet; he was surveying a battlefield, taking stock of every potential threat or ally. The realization sent a chill down her spine.

"Perhaps we should go greet my father," she said softly to Rasa, her voice tinged with unease. "I think something may be wrong."

Rasa's gaze followed Alara's, her sharp eyes taking in King Mikayel's demeanor before she nodded. "Let's head that direction."

They began making their way through the crowd. Despite the press of bodies, the task was more manageable than one might expect—people naturally stepped aside, their gazes following Alara with quiet curiosity, content to watch rather than speak. Occasionally, someone greeted her, prompting a brief nod or polite smile before she moved on.

They were halfway down the hall when a familiar voice rang out, stopping Alara in her tracks.

"Where are you rushing off to?" The voice was rich with affection and unmistakable mischief.

"Davian? Davian!" Alara turned sharply, a broad smile breaking across her face as she threw her arms around her younger brother.

Davian laughed and lifted her off her feet, spinning her effortlessly before setting her back down. Her blue dress fanned out in the air before settling as she steadied herself, holding him at arm's length to take him in.

His brown eyes sparkled with mirth, his black hair gleamed under the light, and his green suit was tailored to perfection, a white sash draped across his chest. Yet what struck her most was his height—he now stood taller than her, a change that shouldn't have been so surprising but left her blinking in disbelief. The last time she'd seen him was five years ago, on his thirteenth name day when he had yet to show any sign of a growth spurt.

"I didn't know you had returned from Stormhold," she said, her voice full of joy.

"Oh, Uncle Caldric could not wait to be rid of me," Davian replied with a laugh. "He often told me he wished to send me back so I could remove as many years from Father's life as I stole from his."

"I see he taught you nothing about candor," Alara said, rolling her eyes.

"Ah, it seems you've caught me, dear sister," he replied, raising his hands in mock surrender. "In truth, I've returned only for a visit—an impromptu one at that. Uncle is hosting Asterian diplomats in Vesperia and thought it best for me to leave the country while the meetings take place. As you know, Emeresia and Asteria still have… lingering tensions from the war."

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Alara nodded thoughtfully. Her understanding of Marino's politics—the intricate web binding Emeresia, Asteria, and Vesperia on their shared island—was limited, but what he said made sense.

"Well, I'm sure Alara's happy to see you all the same," Rasa interjected with a small smile.

Davian turned to her, his grin widening. "Ah, and this must be your lovely companion. Rasa, wasn't it?"

Rasa inclined her head, her expression a flicker of amused approval. "Prince Davian. I've heard much about you."

"All good things, I hope," Davian replied, taking Rasa's hand with a courtly flourish. His grin was playful, his tone full of mischief. "Though I suspect Alara may have exaggerated my flaws."

"You don't need my help to expose those," Alara shot back, crossing her arms and fixing him with a pointed look.

Davian laughed, a warm, effortless sound that seemed to lighten the space around them. His gaze lingered on Rasa, his expression softening. "A pleasure to meet you, truly. If Alara trusts you, then you must be remarkable indeed."

Alara glanced at Rasa out of the corner of her eye, a flicker of curiosity crossing her face. Is he flirting with her? she wondered, trying to gauge Rasa's reaction. Does she notice?

Rasa's expression remained poised, her lips curling into a polite smile, though Alara thought she caught a brief glimmer of amusement in her eyes. If Rasa noticed, she chose to let it slide—for now.

"We were actually on our way to talk to Father," Alara said, gesturing toward the head of the hall. "If you'd care to join us."

"Of course," Davian replied, though his gaze lingered on Rasa for a moment longer before reluctantly shifting back to Alara. "He's been looking for you, actually."

"Looking for me?" Alara's brow arched in surprise. Though her father always expected her presence at events like these, he rarely went out of his way to speak with her directly. On numerous occasions, she'd gone through an entire banquet without exchanging a single word with him, which never seemed to bother him. He was always preoccupied—always surrounded by other business, other people.

If he had specifically sought her out tonight, something must truly be wrong. The realization sent a chill creeping down her spine, making her breath catch. Her mind raced as she pieced together the fragments of unease that had been building all day. Sister Halene's fearful expression. Elias's cryptic warning about storms beyond the hills. Rasa's mention of bandits and unrest in the border towns.

Could it all be connected? The thought settled heavily in her chest, a weight that only deepened her dread. If her father wanted to speak to her now, it wasn't just coincidence—it was a sign that whatever loomed on the horizon had already begun to stir.

"Alara?" Rasa's voice cut through the fog of Alara's thoughts. She blinked, glancing at their concerned faces, and realized they must have been speaking to her.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, forcing a smile. "I just got a little lost in thought. Should we go?"

Davian nodded, his easy smile suggesting the excuse was enough for him, but Rasa's brow remained furrowed, her concern lingering. Before Rasa could press further, Alara stepped between them, slipping her arms through theirs with a playful flourish.

"Let's go, my two great protectors," she said with a faint grin. "Guide me through the waves that prevent us from reaching our goal." Her tone was light, but the half-heartedness of the joke betrayed her unease.

Rasa rolled her eyes, her lips quirking into a reluctant smirk. "Spoken like a true princess," she teased.

Davian laughed, the sound warm and comforting as they began to make their way through the crowd. "Careful, Alara, or you might get used to having an entourage."

Together, they moved forward, their united presence cutting an effortless path through the sea of murmuring guests.

As they ascended the stairs toward where her father stood overlooking the room, Alara noticed a short line of noblemen lingering at the top, no doubt waiting to sing his praises or ask for favors. Thankfully, they stepped aside without complaint as Alara, Rasa, and Davian approached. A bald lord in a bright orange tunic bowed deeply as if departing when they reached the top.

At least we won't have to wait, Alara thought, though part of her almost wished they would.

Her father turned toward them, his long black hair lying heavily against his shoulders, slicked into place. His brown eyes—identical to Davian's—met hers briefly before surveying the group. Alara thought again how much her father and brother resembled each other; they could have been twins if not for the years etched into her father's face, the deep lines of stress and time carving across his features. He had tried to mask them in recent years with a neatly trimmed gray-and-black beard, but the effort couldn't hide the weight he carried.

"Ah. My children," he said with a polite smile as they approached. "It's been a long time since we've all been together in one place, has it not?" His gaze shifted to Rasa. "And the friend is here too."

Rasa bowed respectfully. "Your Highness."

Alara suppressed the flicker of irritation the greeting sparked in her. This wasn't the first time Rasa had met her father, yet he always seemed to avoid addressing her by name.

"Davian says you wanted to speak to me," Alara said quickly, eager to get to the point and be done with it.

Her father nodded, his expression unreadable. "Let Davian get to know your friend for a moment. I'd like to speak to you in private." He gestured toward a tall window behind them, its draped curtains barely swaying in the evening breeze.

Alara hesitated, glancing back at Rasa, reluctant to let her go. Rasa caught the look and gave her a slight nod of understanding, her eyes steady and reassuring, as if silently saying, I'll be here if you need me.

Davian, oblivious to the tension, smiled brightly. "I would love the opportunity to get to know the woman you care so much for, sister."

Alara swallowed the urge to roll her eyes. "I'll be back in a moment," she said, her tone clipped, before turning and walking with her father toward the window.

The anxiety bubbling in her chest rose with each step, her heart pounding in rhythm with the hum of conversation behind her. Please, don't let it be as bad as it seems, she thought, willing herself to keep calm.

When they reached the window, her father turned to face her, his expression unreadable. "Has Davian told you why he has returned?"

Alara blinked, caught off guard by the question. "He said Uncle Caldric is meeting with some Asterian diplomats."

King Mikayel nodded, his gaze drifting to the gardens below, the moonlight casting long shadows across the manicured hedges. "Caldric is in a position we are not," he said, his tone measured. "He can broker peace with Tiberian while the man refuses to even acknowledge our correspondence."

Alara shifted her weight uncomfortably, her unease growing. What does this have to do with me?

"Reports of attacks on our borders are becoming more frequent," he continued, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. "Soon, war may very well be upon our doorstep."

The knot of anxiety in Alara's chest tightened. Her thoughts raced, the weight of his words pressing down on her. Before she could stop herself, the question spilled from her lips: "What do you need from me?"

Her father turned to her fully, his eyes sharp. "I want you to go back with Davian," he said bluntly. "I cannot assure your safety unless you are out of harm's way."

"Go back with Davian? To Stormhold?" Alara's voice rose, sharper and louder than she'd intended. She caught herself, lowering her tone, but her frustration remained. "That's not possible. I have to be here, at the temple. That's my place. It's been my place for the last fifteen years."

"And what has become of it?" he shot back, his voice cutting through her protests like a blade. "Do you have the ability to call on the goddess to save our people if soldiers arrive at their doorsteps? Do you even have the ability to ask her to save yourself?"

Alara froze, her breath catching in her throat. His words struck deeper than she wanted to admit. Her thoughts flickered to the fountain that morning, to the still water and the moment Rasa believed could be the sign they'd been waiting for.

But what if it wasn't enough? What if this was Aedre reaching out to her, but her voice remained silent when it truly mattered? What if, as blood and fire rained down on Eldralore, all she could do was cry out to a goddess who couldn't hear her—or worse, refused to listen?

"I know we haven't been close in recent years," her father said gently, his tone softening as he placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "But do this old man a favor and put yourself first. The goddess can reach out to you in Vesperia just as easily as she can in this old stone building."

Alara looked up at him, her vision blurred with tears she hadn't realized were forming. She didn't know how to respond—didn't have the words—but the fear in his eyes struck her deeply. It was raw, unguarded, and entirely unfamiliar. For all his sternness and command, she had rarely seen him so vulnerable, so human.

Before she could speak, the herald's voice rang out, sharp and commanding, cutting through the moment like a knife.

"Lady Seraphine Ilvaris and Ambassador Kael Viran of Asteria!"

Her father's head turned sharply toward the announcement, the fear in his eyes replaced with a steely focus. Alara followed his gaze, her unease twisting into something heavier as she braced herself for what would come next.