Jacques carefully slipped Aubery’s portrait into his pack, the canvas whispering against his fingertips as he tucked it safely beneath layers of cloth. He lingered, hand pressed to her painted face, tracing the delicate lines of her likeness through the fabric. One day maybe, he thought, one day I’ll see you again. Today, he needed to prepare himself for some difficult goodbyes.

The thought made his heart race. He pictured Eastamere’s royal palace perched high on the hill as he’d read, a sentinel overlooking Palomia, dwarfed by the surrounding mountains that soared above. By decree of their first king, Gloveiro Paloma, no work of man could surpass the height of the mountains, lest they offend the Gods.

Jacques marvelled at the pictures in his head, only to pause. It wasn’t just in books where he’d heard that decree; it was Aubery. She had once murmured those words to him, her eyes dancing with a quiet awe as she spoke of it.

He remembered how he’d watched her, time and again, completely lost in the pages of a book. She never lifted her gaze until she’d reached the very last word, hating to be interrupted.

Jacques’ fingers tightened around the pack, as if grasping for reassurance.

Yet as memories of Aubery lingered, so too did the recollection of his brief encounter with Princess Sofia the night before. They’d exchanged only a few words, but her face stayed with him, her delicate features laced with fear and resignation. She’d tried to mask her discomfort through a steely gaze, but her mouth trembled, as though she were battling tears threatening to spill over at any moment. The timidity in her gestures—the way her hands twisted together when she met his gaze, or the nervous dart of her eyes. She’d seemed like a bird, trapped in a gilded cage, and she was staring at a wolf, ready to eat her.

Jacques could hardly blame her for the apprehension. She was about to marry a stranger, a man she knew only by his title, lineage and unfortunate reputation. Expected to spend her life as his wife, to share his bed, his home, to bear his children—all with a man she’d never truly know.

And yet, she’d never been engaged to anyone before him. That revelation had startled him. It were as if Geraldo had protected her purity and innocence all these years for this moment, waiting for the perfect moment to seize peace.

Her eyes lingered in his mind. Dark, deep with an intensity that surprised him, as if she were gazing not at him but into him, down into something only she could see, a glint of fascination—an expression he knew well, one he’d seen countless times in Aubery’s gaze as she watch him from across the room or study his sketches with quiet awe.

You bloody fool, Jacques thought, anger sprouting in his heart. You’ll just get yourself hurt again.

Sir Theon Balogun carefully folded Jacques' clothes, each garment smoothed with precision, his calloused hands moving with an odd tenderness for a man who’d spent decades wielding a blade. Despite having led the royal guard for over thirty years, The Silver Knight seemed to find a peculiar solace in returning to the tasks of his youth. Jacques simply watched as Sir Theon took his time, folding each piece as if it were a ritual, as if the fabric held memories he needed to preserve.

All morning, an expression of disquiet had marked the old knight’s face, a conflicted scowl creasing his brow, as though he wrestled with thoughts too tangled to unwind.

'Are you well, Theon?'

The knight’s head snapped up, startled as if pulled from some deep trance. 'I beg your pardon, Your Grace?'

'I asked if you were well,' Jacques repeated gently, watching Theon’s eyes closely.

Sir Theon grunted, his gaze returning to the neatly folded clothes before him, his hands still restless. 'It’s Owen,' he muttered, almost to himself, as he folded another shirt. 'He didn’t report for duty this morning.'

A flicker of surprise fluttered in Jacques’ chest. Owen Flagg, the formidable Northern Knight, the man who stood like a giant ice statue everywhere he went, was always known for his discipline and unwavering loyalty. For a Northern warrior, to fail even the smallest duty without reason was nearly unthinkable.

'Do you know why?' Jacques asked, his voice low, cautious.

Sir Theon’s mouth pressed into a hard line, the muscles in his jaw working as though he were biting back words. 'I’m sure he’s just… preoccupied, Your Grace,' he said, though his tone lacked conviction. 'Nothing for you to worry about.'

The silence between them stretched taut as Sir Theon placed the last piece of clothing in Jacques’ pack, his gloved hands lingering a moment longer than necessary. Then, as if reaching a decision, he straightened, the flicker of unease in his eyes replaced by a grim resolve. Taking a step forward, he extended his hand to Jacques.

'It has been an honour serving you,' he said, his voice softened by a rare tenderness, the formality tempered by something deeper, almost paternal.

Jacques hesitated, glancing down at the outstretched hand. In that small gesture, he saw the weight of Sir Theon’s unspoken burdens, the years of loyalty, and perhaps even the shadow of a permanent farewell.

Why does this feel like the end? Jacques thought, fear slipping icy fingers around his heart. Eastamere was just the neighbouring kingdom, not the edge of the world. And yet, as he looked around his chambers, a deep foreboding washed over him. When will I see these walls again? When will I be able to watch these clouds pass by my bedroom window?

Perhaps he never would.

The possibility settled heavily in his chest, a leaden weight that made his pulse thrum faster. Leaving meant more than crossing a border—it meant abandoning the life he’d always known, the comfort of Aubery’s memory, Rick’s smile, the rooms and corridors that whispered secrets of his childhood. He was running away from everything.

Here, he had always been the lesser son, an echo of his brother, a disappointment to his father and to the Rue name. In Eastamere, he could begin again, unburdened by past failures. Maybe that was what he needed—a chance to forge himself anew, from a sheepdog to a dove.

'Likewise,' he murmured, gripping Sir Theon’s hand, and shaking it with a warmth he didn’t entirely feel, wondering if the knight could sense the dread simmering beneath his calm exterior. Sir Theon’s eyes softened, and Jacques caught a glimpse of something like regret in them. Just as he was about to speak, a knock rattled the door.

'Enter,' Jacques said, his voice catching as if he hadn’t expected to sound so authoritative, so… kingly.

The door opened, and the echoing clank of armour filled the room as Sir Finn Alisser stepped forward. His sea-green eyes, as sharp and clear as northern waters, met Jacques’. His breath hitched, and the vision from his dream flashed before him once again—Finn, his hands tangled in Princess Sofia’s hair, his mouth pressing against hers in a moment drenched in sunlight.

'Your Grace,' Finn said, bowing his head. “the King has requested one of the royal guard accompany you on your journey east. I volunteered myself, if that pleases you.”

Jacques swallowed, a dryness pricking the back of his throat. 'There’s no need for you to trouble yourself, Finn,' he said, 'I’m sure I don’t need an escort.'

'I’m sorry, Your Grace,' Finn replied, 'But His Majesty insisted.'

The ship sitting in the harbour was called Sunrise, its sails catching the morning light as if ignited by the painted orange sun and golden dove of the Palomas. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries mingling with the rhythmic pulse of the waves against the hull, while a few brave birds perched along the mast, observing the frenzied activity below. Servants scurried across the deck and docks, their hurried steps and tense faces betraying the pressure of their tasks, as they loaded crate after crate, barrel after barrel, each one thudding heavily onto the ship’s creaking boards.

Standing on the deck was King Geraldo, watching over the preparations with a keen eye. His commands, crisp and unyielding, carried over the din, slicing through the clamour like a knife. With the king on board, even the captain seemed to take direction, standing by with rigid deference as if he, too, were just another servant. Geraldo’s children hovered around him—Sofia close by, her eyes shifting between the capital and the sea, her glances towards Jacques so fleeting they seemed almost accidental. She gave him a tentative smile when their gazes met, but her unease quickly pulled her back, her attention following her father’s every move like a shadow.

Jacques watched from the dock, the weight of his hesitation settling over him like a shroud. A single step forward would solidify the change, a step toward becoming something new, someone else—he would leave the Rue name behind, the life he’d known, the identity he’d once clung to. His heart thudded with the enormity of it. Inhaling, he filled his lungs with the sharp tang of salt and brine, letting it ground him as he gazed over the waters stretching far beyond the harbour, toward the unknown horizon.

Out there, beyond the sparkling blue expanse, lay mysteries he could only guess at. Sailors’ tales whispered of dangers and marvels hidden in those depths—of mermaids with siren songs, of krakens coiled beneath the waves, waiting. His hand tightened around the strap of his pack as he let his gaze linger on that deep blue line where sea met sky, a world full of potential colour and adventure where the past might just fade away.

Yet when he turned to look back at the capital, his home, everything looked drab, stripped of warmth and meaning in the shadow of his imminent departure. Brown stone, plain streets, busy voices—the mundane seemed magnified, its hold on him slipping. The bell on the Sunrise clanged, announcing that the last of the provisions were aboard.

This was it.

'I hope you don’t get seasick on the way there,' Rick said, his golden hair catching the light like threads of flame, his bright smile flashing. Standing behind him were three others: Sir Theon Balogun, Princess Mirielle, and Jacques’ father, their expressions a mix of pride, sorrow, and an urgency to get on with it.

Rick’s voice softened as he leaned closer, 'Do you remember when we sailed by the western shoreline?'

'I seem to recall falling into the water.' Jacques could still feel the sharp sting of the cold water, the way his breath had left him when he tumbled overboard. The chill had reached his bones, but Rick hadn’t hesitated for an instant—diving into the dark water and pulling him to safety, his strong grip like an anchor in a world gone numb.

Rick smiled, his gaze running over Jacques’ face with a lingering fondness, as if committing his features to memory. 'I’m going to miss you, little brother.' Before Jacques could respond, Rick’s arms spread wide, the strong shield of his armour glinting in the sun, inviting him into an embrace.

Jacques stepped forward, his hands gripping the cold, unyielding metal of Rick’s plate. His fingers pressed into it, holding onto something real, something solid in the tide of this uncertainty. He heard Rick’s heartbeat beneath the steel, steady and strong, a rhythm matching his own for this single moment. 'And I you,' Jacques whispered.

When they finally drew apart, Jacques noticed the glistening wetness on Rick’s cheeks. It was a strange sight, his unbreakable twin brother letting his tears fall so openly. Jacques raised an eyebrow, his gaze darting toward their father, who stood like a stone, unmoved and unmovable.

'Father is right there,' Jacques whispered.

Rick let out a shaky laugh, quickly brushing away his tears with the back of his hand. 'I know. I’m just sick of losing people.' he admitted, his voice a bare whisper.

Jacques studied the shadow of grief living in his brother’s eyes, his chest tightening. He placed a hand on Rick’s shoulder, feeling the tension, the silent weight his brother carried alone. 'Mother would be proud of you,' he said gently.

Rick shook his head, his gaze drifting, his lips pressed tightly together as if struggling to contain something. 'I wasn’t talking about her.'

Jacques’ heart wrenched, the pieces sliding into place. They stood in silence, the unspoken name lingering between them like an unfinished sentence, like a plea they could neither voice nor deny.

Before Jacques could say anything to his brother, a smile sprung to Rick’s face, a thin veil draping over his pain. 'Tell Prince Luis that next time we meet, I want to fight him again. Perhaps next time he’ll actually beat me.'

A hollow chuckle escaped Jacques as he forced a smile, trying to ease the heaviness pressing down on him. 'I doubt it.'

Rick gave a small nod, the faint gleam of his earlier tears now a fading memory as he straightened, the soldier within him reemerging, each movement crisp, deliberate.

Princess Mirielle approached next with the poise and elegance Jacques had always reluctantly admired from afar, her movements as fluid as a swan cutting through still water. The delicate golden buzzard necklace resting at her collarbone caught the light, glinting as though alive. Her warm smile was perfectly practised, though Jacques couldn’t help but notice a faint glimmer in her eyes, one that seemed less like hope and optimism and more like something unspoken, something buried.

'Good luck, Your Grace,' she murmured, her voice soft and lilting, a touch warmer than he expected. She held out her hand, pale and smooth. 'I will be thinking of you.'

Jacques took her hand, bowing his head as he brought her fingers to his lips. Yet as his mouth brushed against her skin, the strange, smooth texture struck him. The sensation was oddly reptilian, a velvety smoothness that felt almost… scaly. It left a chill spreading through him, an instinctive reaction he couldn’t shake. He tried to hide his unease, forcing himself to breathe evenly as he raised his gaze to meet hers.

'My lady,' he replied, bowing his head deeply, masking the sudden tightness in his chest.

Mirielle’s smile barely wavered, though her gaze seemed to linger on him, studying him with the same hidden disdain Jacques had seen countless before. With an elegant dip of her head, she returned the bow, a shimmering cascade of chestnut curls tumbling over her shoulder as she pivoted gracefully and took her place among the others.

Finally, Jacques’ father approached. Each of King Rickard’s deliberate footfalls against the wooden jetty rumbled like a distant storm, growing louder, more ominous, until the noise drowned out the bustle of the harbour. Though his father wasn’t much taller than him, the air around the king bristled with his intensity, his glare sharpening like a blade meant to cut. The familiar tension wound its way up Jacques’ spine, settling at the base of his neck.

They stood face-to-face, their shadows overlapping, and for a split second, Jacques dared to imagine a moment of warmth—a word of encouragement, a rare touch of pride from his father. Instead, the king extended his hand, his face locked in a stony expression, a single brow lifted in silent demand. Jacques’ heart faltered, his body taut with anticipation. He hesitated, feeling the weight of expectation pressing down on him like a boulder, forcing him to accept this small, pointed gesture.

Their fingers barely brushed before his father gripped his hand with startling force, pulling him close, the familiar scent of steel and ink sharp in his nostrils. Father’s whisper was low, soft enough for only Jacques to hear, yet it sliced through the chill morning air with a force that made Jacques’ blood run cold.

'Remember,' he murmured, his breath grazing Jacques’ ear, 'You may take the Paloma name, but you are still a Rue.'

Jacques’ heart fluttered at that comment, despite Father delivering it like a warning.

King Rickard’s gaze darkened, leaving only a cold command lingering in his tone. 'That means you carry a responsibility to our name, to our house. Conduct yourself as such. Do we have an understanding?'

Jacques’ hope died. It was a threat, he thought, his body deflating.

'Yes, Father.'

'I’ll be watching closely.'

The king released his grip abruptly, as though Jacques’ hand were something unpleasant to be discarded. The force of it made Jacques nearly stumble, but he caught himself, his pride the only thing keeping him upright. His father’s face remained a mask of cold resolve as he turned away without another glance, leaving Jacques rooted to the spot, the anger simmering just below the surface, each pulse a furious drumbeat in his veins.

As Sunrise slipped away from the harbour, its sails straining against the wind, Jacques felt a sudden ache tighten in his chest. He leaned heavily against the starboard rail, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the smooth wood. The wind whipped around him, tangling his white hair and bringing with it the sharp tang of salt and the faintest lingering scent of the city he’d called home for so long. It felt surreal, as though he were a ghost, a trapped soul finally granted the honour of ascending into the heavens.

He raised his hand to wave, struggling to keep his expression light, cheerful even, for Rick’s sake. His brother stood at the edge of the dock, his hand raised in an answering wave. Princess Mirielle gave a small, delicate wave beside him, her eyes soft with that signature bitter sweetness. Even Sir Theon nodded in his elegant, understated way, his eyes steady and warm—a hint of the fatherly approval Jacques had so rarely seen in his own father.

But it was King Rickard’s silhouette, stiff and unbending, that held Jacques’ gaze the longest. Jacques raised his hand for a final wave, hoping for something, anything—a gesture, a nod, an acknowledgement. But His Majesty stood unmoved, his figure a harsh line against the horizon. When Jacques’ wave went unanswered, his father turned without hesitation and strode away, his steps sharp and resolute.

You’ve finally got rid of you, you cunt. Jacques thought, bitterness surging up with a vengeance. He forced a hollow smile, even as his eyes burned, knowing Rick was watching. He kept up the charade until the city had shrunk to a cluster of fading shapes on the horizon, and his hand lowered slowly, his arm weighed down with the stones of his sadness.

'Goodbye, Rick,' Jacques murmured, his voice caught in the rising wind. He hoped it would carry his words across the waves, back to the dock, back to his brother, who had chosen to stay beside him all these years when he had every opportunity to leave Jacques behind.

Jacques moved to the port side, his eyes fixed on the open expanse of sea stretching endlessly before him. The now late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting its golden light across the waves and transforming them into liquid gold, an undulating sea of molten metal that shimmered and rippled with each gust of wind. He leaned over the rail, the scent of salt and freedom filling his lungs as he gazed southward along the coastline where they’d eventually reach the city of Nymerium, the jewel of the south.

Jacques had only visited once on a royal visit, their Lady Merida of House Nymer being in her sixties. Even then, she looked old and thin. Now, in her eighties, only the Gods knew how Lady Merida looked.

Steel connected with steel. Jacques whirled himself around as Prince Luis and Sir Aurelio Diae engaged in playful sparring along the deck, both of them trading their golden armour for simple white shirts and brown trousers. They danced across the deck, the quick footwork and lively rhythm reminding Jacques of his own youth. He used to sit in the royal palace courtyard, watching Rick clash against Sir Theon, the two moving in perfect harmony—the teacher patient, the student fierce but eager to learn.

Jacques had felt almost at ease in those quiet corners, sketching his brother’s stance and stance-breaks, capturing the arc of Rick’s sword mid-swing or the powerful angles of Sir Theon’s guard. Each stroke of his pencil had brought him closer to understanding the art of swordsmanship in his own way, even if he couldn’t bring himself open his mouth and ask Sir Theon if he could join in.

The memory came back, unbidden. He could still feel the burn of his father’s cold stare as it drifted over him from the shadows of the throne room’s open doors. King Rickard would watch Rick spar, his gaze sharp and evaluative, but when he noticed Jacques tucked away with his sketchbook, his mouth would twist with disdain. 'Wasting time, making a fool of my name,' he’d sneer, the accusation burning like an iron brand. Jacques would never stop drawing, yet each glance from his father was a reminder of what he could never become—the swordsman, the warrior, the dashing prince, the Rue worthy of the family name.

But today, there was King Geraldo, standing tall and laughing as he watched his son practice. His expression wasn’t steely or severe; he didn’t bear down on Prince Luis with demands or withering glances. Instead, his face softened with unmistakable pride, his smile a clear sign that he truly saw his son. Jacques blinked, almost as though he’d misread it, but the easy warmth in Geraldo’s face was undeniable.

With a grin, Geraldo strode forward, gripping his halberd with a practised hand. He called out a challenge to Luis; the prince hesitating for only a second before leaping forward with a youthful, enthusiastic swipe. Jacques’ heart lurched as he watched the two clash, steel ringing against steel in a harmonious beat. Geraldo’s movements were powerful, graceful, and precise; he spun his halberd with casual ease, like a master dancer leading his partner through a well-rehearsed routine. The crowd of servants and guards paused their work to watch, eyes wide as they murmured in admiration of the famous Devil’s Cobra.

Prince Luis made a bold move—a powerful strike with too much momentum. Jacques winced, half-expecting the prince to catch his father off guard. But before Luis’s sword could come close, Geraldo sidestepped and twisted his halberd with astonishing speed, hooking the prince’s leg and sending him sprawling to the deck in a single fluid motion.

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Jacques’s chest tightened as King Geraldo’s laughter echoed, loud and full of relief. 'Seems my form has never wavered!' Geraldo said, the pride in his voice ringing clear as he extended a hand to his son, hauling him back to his feet with a warm chuckle.

The two shared a long look, Geraldo’s hand cupping Luis’s head like a father treasuring a priceless heirloom, his eyes filled with a fierce, almost reverent pride. Jacques looked away, unable to keep his eyes on that intimate moment, his body aching with a familiar, hollow pain.

Jacques’s gaze drifted to the other side of the ship, where two figures stood close, the soft murmur of their conversation mingling with the rhythm of the waves lapping against the hull. Sofia’s white dress billowed gently in the breeze, the pink ribbon around her waist bright and warm against the stark, dark lines of Sir Finn’s black armour and crimson cloak. She laughed at something, tilting her head toward him, her laughter light and unguarded. Finn leaned closer, a trace of a smile on his usually stoic face. They looked so… comfortable together, as though they had known each other for years.

Jacques tore his eyes away, forcing himself to look back at the shimmering expanse of water stretching endlessly toward the horizon. It was just a dream, he reminded himself, his jaw clenched. Just a memory.

The echo of Aubery’s laughter lingered in his mind, the familiar warmth of her voice floating back to him, as if she’d only just left his side. He could still feel the way she had once looked at him, eyes full of mischief and light. She would tease him about his glowering demeanour, laugh at his impatience, and somehow always coax a reluctant smile from him, even when he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

'She is not Aubery,' Jacques reassured himself, barely above a whisper. The words were supposed to steady him, but they only made the ache sharper. That will never happen again.

As Sunrise glided past Nymerium, Jacques squinted as the city sprawled along the coast, its blue and white buildings glittering in the sun’s embrace, set against the endless green of surrounding farmland. The city was like something out of an artist’s dream—painted in pure, vivid strokes against the landscape. Farmlands stretched around it, rolling hills dotted with sheep and cows moving lazily through the lush grass, their wool and coats striking against the green backdrop. All Jacques could think was how little this place resembled home. It was as if he were looking at a completely different country.

He reached into his satchel, pulling out his notebook and a stub of charcoal. Jacques ran his thumb over the stick’s rough edge, letting the familiar texture steady him, then opened his book to a blank page and began sketching.

He sketched swiftly, as if afraid he might lose sight of the city’s details before he could get them down. The palace loomed at the centre of the page, with its towering spires and elegant, arching windows casting faint shadows. It sat at the heart of the city like a crown, Lady Merida’s domain. He paused to lift his head, narrowing his eyes as he tried to capture every angle of the palace’s white stonework, every glint of sunlight dancing off its walls.

The smaller houses seemed to huddle around the larger buildings, almost as if for protection, dark clouds of ink surrounding the more ornate lines of the buildings. He shaded them quickly, smudging the charcoal with his thumb to give the sense of their density, their closeness, all clustered within the city’s embrace.

As he turned to sketch the fields, his eyes flicked between the page and the shoreline, his brow furrowing as the ship’s gentle rocking distorted his lines. Each time the angle shifted, he would grunt in frustration, furiously erasing and redrawing. No, no, the hills are steeper… there’s that cluster of sheep again, just past the crest. He gritted his teeth, sketching them as shadowy figures against the green fields.

'I was told you like to draw.'

Like a spark in a dry field, irritation ignited in Jacques’ belly, spreading like wildfire to his chest. If there was one thing in this world he despised, perhaps even more than his father, it was being interrupted—especially when he was drawing. Clenching his jaw, he took a measured breath before lifting his head to see who had so intrusively broken his concentration.

Princess Sofia Paloma stood before him, her silhouette haloed by the pale afternoon light, her long black hair whipping in the wind. Her dark eyes, deep and curious, roamed over him with a slight, detached amusement, as though examining an odd specimen she’d found in the gardens.

'And you would be right,' Jacques replied, a touch of defiance in his voice. With a sweeping gesture, he spread his arms to the world around them. 'Look at this. If the Gods are real, they made all this,' he said, 'and what better way to honour them than by recording the creations of their children?'

Sofia shrugged with an indifference that pricked his irritation once again. 'I suppose. You’d probably get along with my friend, Fernando. He writes.'

Jacques’ brow lifted, curiosity momentarily displacing his annoyance. It was rare to find another who valued the arts as he did, rarer still to hear of someone a princess like Sofia found worthy of mentioning. 'What about?'

'Dragons, mostly,' she replied with a soft, secretive smile. 'He’s obsessed with them. Convinced they still exist, even. He swears he’ll find one someday.'

A hint of a smile tugged at Jacques' lips as he imagined the massive, ancient creatures sweeping over the land, their scaled bodies glinting in the light, great wings throwing shadows over towns before their fiery breath reduced them to smouldering ruins. 'Fascinating creatures, dragons. I remember when we cremated Sir Finn’s great-uncle, Sir Weiland Alisser, twenty years ago. I imagined the flames were dragon fire… and… and my father among them, screaming as he burned.'

The words slipped out unbidden, and at once, memories surged forward, vivid and chilling. He saw it clearly, as though the flames of the pyre had reappeared, flickering, hissing, casting shadows that twisted into mocking shapes. Amidst the blaze, he could almost see his father’s figure—the harsh lines of his face etched by pain, his voice swallowed by the roar of the fire, but the look in his eyes clear: a desperate realisation, a hollow regret, too late to save him.

Jacques blinked, his gaze sharpening once more on Sofia. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t looked away, but her expression had certainly shifted, her eyes widening just enough to reveal a flicker of discomfort that hadn’t been there before. Her cool demeanour had melted, if only for an instant, into something like horror—or perhaps fascination. She looked at him as though she were seeing a stranger, a shadowed, jagged part of him he rarely let slip.

Why did I say that? Jacques thought, bewildered, a cold shiver crawling up his spine. He’d never spoken of that day to anyone—not to Rick, not even to himself in the privacy of his mind. Yet somehow, the words had slipped out in front of her. A foreign surge of anger flared up again as he took in Princess Sofia’s shocked expression. She had no right to judge him, to peer into his darkest memories with her unblemished life as her shield. She had grown up beloved—her mother had once doted on her, her father had admired her, and her brother… her brother would lay down his life to protect her. What did she know of loss and hatred?

Who do I have now? Jacques thought bitterly, the prospect stinging him like poison. He was leaving everything behind, abandoning everyone he’d ever known, respected, or loved, all because he was cursed with the Rue name. The shadow of his father darkened every corner of his life, every ambition and dream. But did the mighty King Rickard care? Did he see Jacques’ sacrifice? No. He could march off to war, lay waste to his enemies, bleed for the family name, and the Border Mountain Range itself would sooner crumble than his father ever saying ‘thank you.’

The simmering bitterness roiled within him, threatening to consume him. Jacques could feel himself slipping, the flame of anger growing hotter, more venomous. He had to put it out, before it overwhelmed him, hollowing him out from the inside.

Jacques drew in a deep breath, to steady himself, to force the fire back down. 'My apologies…' he murmured. 'My father… he’s not like yours. He’s hated me my whole life.'

Sofia parted her lips, her brow furrowing as if she were on the edge of speaking.

'Because of what happened to your mother?'

The words made Jacques’ heart clench, and a sharp, icy flame ignited in his stomach. 'Who told you about that?' he demanded, his voice a thin blade, cutting through the space between them.

Sofia widened her eyes, her gaze one of genuine fear. Her question reopened an old, nearly forgotten wound, one Jacques had thought he’d buried along with his mother thirty-four years ago. It was rare his father spoke of her; the memories like whispered secrets in their cold, hollow halls. Whether it was grief, or some twisted pride that deemed her death a stain on the Rue family’s legacy, his father had let her memory fade, leaving only fragments.

Yet her painting of the king—the only trace of her left—still hung in his father’s bedchamber, hidden behind locked doors that Jacques would never see. He imagined her there sometimes, a trapped spectre forced to watch over the man who had all but erased her. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms.

'I wanted to say I understand,' Sofia said, her voice barely a murmur, softening as her gaze dropped. 'I lost my mother too.'

Jacques’ throat tightened as he remembered the whispered rumours of Queen Eloisa’s heart failure—an event his father had greeted not with solemnity but with scorn. The memory flashed vividly: his father’s sneering laughter, the cruel glint in his eye as he remarked, ‘Those doves have big hearts, too big it would seem.’ Jacques could never forget his disgust and bitterness at his father’s tone, but he’d kept that reaction hidden, like a chest buried deep within him. Now, seeing Sofia’s eyes begin to shimmer, he silently vowed to keep his father’s venomous words to himself.

'It would seem we have some common ground,' Jacques said, forcing a confidence into his words that he couldn’t truly feel.

He offered his hand to her, reaching his arm forward. Marriage could be an isolating affair, especially one built on formality and duty. If they were to spend a lifetime in each other’s company, perhaps it was time to put aside his pride, his resentment, and try to see Sofia beyond the crown and title that would one day fall on her head.

Sofia’s gaze flicked up, meeting his, and for an instant he saw a glimmer of surprise, softening into a faint, genuine warmth. She reached out, her hand slipping confidently into his. Her fingers felt delicate but steady, her grip firm with a confidence he hadn’t expected.

'I was speaking with Sir Finn Alisser,' she said, the earlier vulnerability in her voice now replaced by a bright, formal tone.

Jacques followed her gaze to where Finn stood, a short distance away. The knight was watching them, his expression unreadable, yet Jacques felt a chill as if a shadow had swept across his skin. 'Yes,' Jacques replied, 'I’d noticed you two were… acquainted.'

'My father has some wine we can drink. Care to join us?'

For a heartbeat, Jacques hesitated. The idea of spending the evening in strained conversation with Sofia, with Sir Finn’s stoic presence looming nearby, tugged at something wary inside him. Yet he saw the light in her eyes, a subtle plea, a desire to bridge the chasm between them, and it softened the resolve within him. Whatever reservations he harboured, whatever old wounds Aubery’s memory had reopened, they would not help him now. He knew that much.

With a practised smile, Jacques inclined his head. 'I would be honoured.'

The smoothness of Eastamerean wine slid down Jacques’ throat like liquid silk. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the rich flavour settle on his tongue, feeling the warmth unfurl in his chest. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth; he could have wept, it tasted so good. The sweetness was perfectly tempered, the texture so velvety it was almost sinful, each sip a small act of indulgence he didn’t think he deserved. In that moment, Galian wine seemed a poor imitation, a memory almost too embarrassing to recall.

'Oh, I have certainly been missing out,' Jacques murmured, his words spilling out as he placed his cup carefully on the low table beside him. His hand lingered on the cup for a moment, fingers tracing the smooth, cool rim, reluctant to let go. The burn in his throat was welcome—a rare, unfamiliar comfort.

They were gathered in Princess Sofia’s cramped cabin on the ship, its bare wooden walls illuminated by the warm flicker of a single lantern. Shadows danced across the grain, curling and twisting in rhythm with the gentle swaying of the vessel. The room was modest, furnished with little more than a narrow bed draped in a surprisingly elegant, embroidered blanket and the same sparse wooden furniture found in every cabin. In any other context, it would have felt oppressive, but tonight, with the wine flowing and the quiet laughter easing his tension, it was almost comforting.

Jacques leaned back, the beginnings of a satisfied smile crossing his face, when a loud, rumbling burp escaped his lips. The sound reverberated through the tiny room, and for a moment, he froze, an embarrassed laugh bubbling up in his throat as he glanced sheepishly at Sofia and Finn. The two of them burst into laughter, Sofia covering her mouth with a hand while Finn let out a deep, warm chuckle.

'Excuse me,' Jacques guffawed, covering his mouth, feigning a genteel apology for his loud burp. 'How rude of me to do that in the presence of a princess.'

'Don’t worry,' Sofia laughed, her eyes crinkling with genuine amusement, 'that’s not even the worst burp I’ve ever heard. I remember my friend Fernando once let out a burp so loud my brother heard it from outside the palace.'

Jacques raised an eyebrow, a hint of mischief blooming his heart. 'If you don’t mind me saying, Princess,' he said, 'you do seem to talk about this Fernando fellow quite often. Do you…?'

The lightness in Sofia’s eyes faded as her expression froze, comprehension dawning on her. Across from her, Finn’s posture stiffened, his face impassive yet somehow taut, his focus honed sharply on Sofia. Sofia’s cheek flushed.

'Absolutely not!' she replied, 'Fernando and I have been friends since we were children. He’s brilliant, yes, but I don’t think I could ever… well…' She trailed off, an embarrassed laugh slipping through her words.

Jacques chuckled softly, savouring the effect of his little jab. 'Forgive me. Simply curious, Princess.' He then turned his attention to Finn, the knight still stiff in his chair. 'And what about you, Alisser? Anyone you fancy the look of?'

Finn’s hand, resting on the arm of his chair, tightened ever so slightly. He froze, his stoic demeanour not faltering outwardly, though his eyes darted briefly toward Sofia. There was a hesitation, almost imperceptible, but Jacques caught it. The knight’s jaw clenched, the tension betraying his emotions despite the copious wine he’d downed.

'The royal guard is bound by oath to remain unmarried and childless, Your Grace,' Sir Finn explained stoically, 'That includes me as well.'

Jacques couldn’t help but crack a wry smile at that. Those vows didn’t seem to stop you from dancing with a princess, did it? 'I know your lord father, Lord Weymar Alisser. A good man. A bit rough around the edges, maybe, but a good man. And I believe you have a younger brother. Am I right in saying Neville is his name?'

At the mention of Neville, Finn’s mask slipped for a moment, and a flicker of something dark crossed his handsome face. A memory, perhaps, or a pang of regret, leaving his eyes hooded with a sullen glare. Jacques knew the look; it was the kind that came from years of discipline and buried grief.

'You want me to tell that story, don’t you?'

Jacques shrugged, tempering his smile to avoid looking too amused.

'What story?' Sofia asked, her voice soft yet insistent, her eyes searching Finn’s face for any hint of an answer.

Sir Finn shook his head. 'I don’t like talking about it.'

'Please,' Sofia said, leaning closer as she stared at Finn with her shiny brown eyes, 'For me.'

They held each other’s gaze for an eternity, neither one willing to break first. 'Very well,' Sir Finn said. 'For you.'

The knight took a deep breath out.

'My brother always wanted to be a knight, like me. He’s ten years younger, you see, and looked up to me in that way only little brothers can. I’d spend hours with him in my father’s courtyards, sparring with sword, mace—anything he fancied. He was getting good… so good that I thought it wouldn’t be long before he could submit himself for royal guard training.' Finn’s voice softened, his pride laced with a hint of something darker, a shadow just beneath the surface.

'Then one day, while we were sparring, he clutched his chest and fell to the ground.'

A silence settled over them, thick and suffocating, wrapping around the cabin like a fog. Finn’s jaw tensed, and he seemed to grow smaller in his seat, his body folding in on itself under the weight of the memory. Sofia’s hand reached toward him, but she stopped short, as if afraid to intrude on his grief.

'I did all I thought I could do,' Finn continued, 'I started pressing on his chest. I did it over, and over, getting more and more desperate. I was… crying, I was shouting, and I kept telling him to stop being a stubborn little cunt and wake up. I didn’t care if I broke his ribs. I didn’t care if I’d ruined his chances of becoming a knight. I just wanted my brother back.' He paused, his breathing laboured, as though reliving each agonising second. 'I was ready to give up… until my brother’s eyes shot open and he swallowed the air around us. I cradled him in my arms, holding him until my parents returned, and I told them what happened. Neville… wasn’t quite the same after that.'

Finn’s gaze drifted off into the shadows, his face hollow and haunted by ghosts only he could see. The whole room felt heavy, as if the past itself hung above them, bringing with it every unhealed wound and unspoken regret. Jacques felt the weight of it, the inescapable ache that clung to each word, pressing down on him. And he felt like the worst human being in the world.

'Well, enough of that,' Finn said, his voice tight but feigning lightness. 'I believe it’s your turn now, Your Grace.' He pointed his glass at Jacques, eyes glinting with a challenge bordering on mockery.

Turning to Sofia, he added, 'I’ll leave it to you, Princess. What is it you’d like to know about your future husband?'

Jacques felt his throat tighten, a pang of something he couldn’t quite name twisting in his chest. Sofia’s gaze slid to him, thoughtful, her lip caught between her teeth as she weighed her options, her own small smile, carefully controlled. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she saw more than he wanted her to.

'Very well,' Jacques managed, forcing an unsteady grin. 'Try me. I am an open book.'

A flicker of amusement crossed Sofia’s face, though her eyes held something sharper, deeper. The atmosphere, heavy with Finn’s confessions, lingered like an uninvited ghost, making Jacques feel more vulnerable than he had expected, as though he were atoning for his sins. He lifted his glass, his hand steadier than he felt. He took a long sip, bracing himself for whatever question Sofia was about to unleash.

'Have you ever loved anyone before?'

Jacques tried not to freeze in his seat as Aubery’s face flashed through his mind. The question hung in the air, and for a moment, Jacques felt as though he’d been struck, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. The wounds, though hidden well beneath years of wit and humour, were still fresh. Fifteen years. It felt like another lifetime—and yet; it didn’t feel long enough.

Am I ready to talk about her?

Jacques shook his head. 'No.'

'Lie.' Finn’s finger wobbled, pointing at him with that drunken certainty that made it somehow sting all the more. 'You were in love with an innkeeper’s daughter.'

The words felt like bitter revenge, the heat of humiliation rising in Jacques’ chest, anger mixing with the painful tenderness of memory. Jacques levelled a narrow, guarded gaze at Finn, his jaw tightening. 'And where exactly did you hear that?'

'The Hawk Knight,' Finn said with a grin that could only belong to a man who knew he had struck a nerve. The knight leaned back, arms crossed, as though savouring his small triumph, a smug, mischievous glint in his eye.

It stung. But he couldn’t fault him for it.

Jacques drew a long breath, the bitterness of the past mixing with the wine on his tongue. His gaze settled on Princess Sofia, who was watching him intently, her eyes wide and earnest, the curiosity in her expression softened by something more—a gentle understanding, perhaps. A silent invitation to lay his own burdens bare, even if only for a moment.

'I warn you,' he said, feeling the words tighten in his throat, 'it isn’t a very pleasant story.'

'We all appear to have something to share,' Sofia said, 'It’s your turn now.'

Jacques exhaled, feeling the room grow smaller, the walls closing in as two pairs of eyes fixed upon him. There was no escaping it; both Finn’s taunts and Sofia’s quiet, determined curiosity had already drawn in him.

With a reluctant huff, he leaned back, cradling his wine cup and stealing a quick, bracing sip.

'I was nineteen years old,' he began, the mere mention of his youth a bittersweet echo. 'My brother and I were out riding somewhere outside the city, probably a day out, when we were attacked by some bandits, five in all. We weren’t exactly hiding our identities, so they knew how rich the pair of us were. However, what they did not predict was my brother’s skill with a sword. While I cowered in the mud, my brother killed four of the bandits.'

Jacques’ fingers curled to grip his wine goblet, remembering the taste of dirt and blood as he watched Rick cut down man after man, as if he were simply sparring in the courtyard with Sir Theon. 'The fifth, however, was much more skilled than the rest. Despite eventually dying on the tip of Rick’s sword, he’d wounded my brother so badly he couldn’t walk. I remember the blood pouring down his leg, staining everything. I tried to stop it, pressed my hands against the wound as hard as I could, but it just… it just kept coming. Rick kept laughing, though, told me he’d be fine, that I was overreacting as always. But I knew. I knew he wasn’t fine. I managed to get him onto his horse, slumped over like a rag doll. I was so desperate to find help, to do something, but everywhere we went… nothing. Just empty fields, mile after mile. It felt like an eternity until we finally stumbled upon a small inn on the road called ‘The Stoat’.'

Jacques hesitated, the ache of the memory raw in his throat. 'And that’s when I saw her. Aubery. She looked like she’d stepped out of a dream.' He took a shaky breath, the fondness creeping into his voice. 'Golden hair, eyes that seemed to know too much… she was only a year older than me, but she felt wiser, somehow, like she carried secrets the world had yet to reveal to the rest of us.'

He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling her presence in his mind. 'While her father treated Rick, she took me to her library—this tiny nook filled with dusty books. She’d speak to me, telling me stories she’d read, make me laugh. In her presence, I felt… safe, in a way I had never felt in the capital. For the first time, I wasn’t a prince, or the lesser brother. I was just…'

Jacques let out a heavy sigh, his hand rubbing across his tired face, wondering how, after all these years, Aubery could still make him cry.

'Eventually, my father sent a search party for us, led by Sir Theon Balogun, the old knight telling me my father wanted us back to the royal palace immediately.'

Sofia leaned in, her gaze intent. 'So that was the end?' she asked softly.

Jacques shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. 'That was only the beginning. I knew, as I was riding away, that I couldn’t leave her behind. I thought of all the excuses, all the ways I could convince her to come back with me, though I didn’t think she’d ever actually say yes. She agreed without a second thought, her face lighting up, as if she were hoping I’d come back.'

He paused, glancing down into his wine, the shimmering smoothness crying out the answer to his problems. 'I don’t think I’d ever been so nervous as the day we arrived back at the palace, Aubery and me riding in like some sneaky conspirators. I remember how she’d wandered the palace grounds, eyes wide, taking in every detail. I made up some elaborate excuse for her to be there and from then on, she worked as a kitchen maid. I’d see her all the time, and with her wages she’d buy a new book every week and she’d tell me all about it.'

Jacques could hear her laughter, even now, echoing in his ears just as it had fifteen years ago. Each note reverberated through him like a haunting melody, pulling at the frayed edges of his heart. The memory pierced sharply, and a shudder passed through him, as though he were standing on the brink of madness.

'But about a year into her time at the palace,' he continued, forcing the words from a throat constricted, 'I noticed something shifting. I caught glimpses of her talking to someone else—my brother, Rick. He hadn’t seen her during the time he was being treated at the inn, but suddenly, he seemed captivated by her.' A bitter laugh escaped him, filled with a mix of disbelief and pain. 'He’d be there, making her laugh, asking her about the books she was reading, all the little things I used to do. I thought maybe I was imagining it at first. It wasn’t the first time I was jealous of my brother, and jealousy has a way of driving people mad. That was until Aubery came to me crying one night…'

Sofia widened her eyes, leaning in closer. Jacques wanted to claw the words back into his mouth, but his memories had taken over, propelling him forward.

'I asked her the matter, that whatever it was, we could sort it out. That’s when she told me our relationship couldn’t continue.'

The words hung heavily in the air, thick with the weight of a thousand unshed tears. Jacques could almost hear the empty praise, how it wasn’t because of him that she was leaving.

'It took me a while to process it,' Jacques said, 'and when I asked why, she told me she desired another, but when I asked her who it was, she would not say. It didn’t matter. I knew who it was. She told me she was sorry and left me there. Just like that. I never saw her again.'

The alcohol blurred Jacques’ vision, but the tears remained, stubborn, threatening to spill over. He cleared his throat, but the sound was pitiful, a small noise that only heightened the silence enveloping them. Jacques locked eyes with Sofia, the weight of his confession lingering in the space between them.

'Do you know where she is now?' Sofia asked softly, her voice a somewhat soothing balm against the sharp edges of his pain.

Jacques shook his head, staring at the wooden planks beneath his feet. 'I’d been telling myself for years that my brother and I weren’t as different as I’d like to imagine. That day, I learned a simple truth. Rick and I are worlds apart. That’s the way it has been, and that’s the way it will always be. He’s the golden prince. I’m just…'

The monster nobody wants, he thought miserably, but he held his tongue, the shame clinging to him like a shroud.

Jacques had paid his debt. He had poured out his soul in the dim light, and despite the tears streaming down his face, a weight had lifted from his shoulders. The catharsis felt foreign yet necessary, as if he had exorcised a ghost that had haunted him for far too long. He glanced toward Finn, who sat in stunned silence, his expression a mix of sympathy and disbelief.

Jacques remembered how Finn and Sofia had shared lighthearted banter on deck earlier that day, the laughter that had felt so pure and unburdened. It reminded him so much of he and Aubery, where every shared smile was a promise. But that dream, that flicker of hope for happiness, faded as quickly as it had sparked. It couldn’t come true, not now. Rick had taken the love of his life from him, and in the process, he had taken away any chance Jacques had at a future.

The silence resumed its reign, and Jacques could hear the relentless thrashing of the ocean waves outside. He yawned, strategically placing his hand so he could wipe away the last of his tears.

'I think it’s time for some sleep,' he said, rising to his feet, his knees slightly wobbly, 'Come, good sir. We’ll leave the Princess to her beauty sleep.'

He moved towards the door, towards escaping the discomfort as Finn rose to his feet and marched alongside him. The knight opened the door for Jacques to enter the hall.

'Wait,' Sofia called out just before Finn could shut the door, her voice fluttering through the air and freezing Jacques in place. He turned back to her, the intensity of her gaze catching him off guard. 'Back home, in Eastamere, my friends and I have organised a trip exploring the continent. You should join us. The pair of you.'

The entire continent. He had never seen the entire continent, especially Eastamere. It was said that many of the ancient burial sites of the elves lay there, places of breathtaking beauty and serenity. He imagined vibrant landscapes filled with lush greenery and shimmering waters—so different from the brown, mundane capital he had known all his life. Out there was where the colour was, where he could perhaps finally find peace.

'You honour me… wife,' Jacques chuckled, suppressing his surprise as he threw Sofia a playful wink for good measure.

Sofia smirked. 'Husband.'

Jacques bowed in her direction, his spirit lifting slightly, before strolling into the hall. The sound of his footsteps rang out as Finn shut the door behind him, a soft thud that seemed to echo through the night.

But as he wandered the dimly lit halls toward his room, the tears he had tried to suppress threatened to return. He rubbed his eyes, willing Aubery’s face to leave his mind, but it was no use. Her laughter rang in his ears like a haunting melody, and he couldn’t let go.