The week following Elethea’s arrival was one of constant, unceasing, and unyielding frustration for Arcturus — and more than a little amount of embarrassment.
The very first morning of her stay, he’d awoken and taken a shower to refresh himself; barely prepared to start the day due to troubling dreams, and had left the bathroom toweling his head only to find Elethea waiting for him in the most form-flattering gold-banded white lingerie likely available to women anywhere.
Not only had he been naked, but being a virile young man and liking what he was seeing, he had been reactive to her bold gesture.
His hoarse shriek of “Elethea!” had not done much to convince her to leave, either.
In the end, it had been a mix of arguing, pleading, and him summoning his armour that had finally forced her to relent: Though not before the heart stoppingly-beautiful heiress had given him a lascivious wink and walked away knowing exactly how to show off the curve of her lower half.
Arcturus had dismissed his armour and immediately jumped into an ice cold shower the moment she’d gone, cursing her the entire time he suffered under the water.
After that the first day had been more tolerable, with Elethea even setting aside her mission to seduce in order to join Danica, Adam, Andy, Caeara, and a very suspicious Arcturus in sparring within the Rubastra simulacrum chamber. Despite his misgivings, he learned quickly not to doubt the Highblade scion when she declared battle was sacred; as her performance as both a teammate and opponent lended a balancing and exciting new factor to the training the five of them had previously undertaken.
With an Archon added for balance, they had finally been able to do somewhat equitable team versus team combat — something that Arcturus’ prodigious attribute and skill growth had been hindering more and more as he steadily caught up to his hard-working companions.
When they had finished the training for the day, Adam had even complimented Elethea on her leadership and coordination, while Danica and Caeara had seemingly taken to the impassioned noble like she was just another one of their team. By the end, the three women had been chatting in low voices and shooting Arcturus, Andy, and Adam looks that none of the three males approved of at all.
Especially not Arcturus, who felt particularly hunted by Elethea’s heated looks.
On the second morning, Elethea had not made an appearance — and had instead roped Tiberius in on her scheme, much to the Patriarch’s apparent delight. Upon waking, Arcturus had been given time to shower and dress before being informed he was expected by the Lord of the Estate.
Upon arriving at the small artificial lake at the rear of the Villa as instructed, he’d instead found Elethea waiting for him; drinks in each hand and a bikini top and bottom that, aside from showing off every curve and the faintly muscled, flat plane of her tanned stomach; he suspected very heavily had Danica’s handiwork in how they had been designed — down to the white fabric extending from one side of the bottom to blow in the breeze.
Tiberius had ordered him to wait there for him, however, and so Arcturus had had no choice but to stay with Elethea for the duration of the morning while she tried every tactic she could to not only get him to touch her, but to join her in a state of partial undress for a swim in the lake.
In the end, he’d relented to the swim only because the day was unnaturally hot, and he’d desperately wanted a way to cool down while he waited for Tiberius — whom he suspected never intended to actually show up.
By time the afternoon had rolled around, it was an aggrieved Tylariel who showed up to inform him she was furious he’d missed his training; only to hear his explanation of the situation and purse her lips so tightly he thought she might actually swallow them.
The afternoon of the second day had been spent doing one-on-one sparring with his companions — now seemingly inclusive of Elethea — under Tylariel’s merciless instruction. By the time evening had come and the Archon called a halt, everyone had been exhausted; and Arcturus hadn’t even had the energy to protest when Elethea had flopped against him to use his armoured form as a suitably stable rest post when they’d all sat down together to debrief among themselves.
When dinner had been concluded and everyone dispersed for much-desired rest, and Arcturus had concluded a shower to wash away the day’s exertions; he had responded carefully to a knock on his securely locked door and been surprised to find a freshly showered Elethea in completely normal silk pyjamas. They had still been stunning on her, but more out of simple impossibility to not be. Compared to what she’d previously worn, they could almost be called baggy in how they hung over her wrists and covered her feet in pooling material.
Arcturus had consented to let her in after she agreed to a ‘truce’, and they’d spent a surprisingly quiet and pleasant evening just talking and learning about each other. Arcturus had avoided giving too many details, while his levelled up Charisma had let him ply her with questions and leading comments; allowing Elethea to factor in the most content to their conversation. Before either of them realised, they had talked into the late hours of the night. So tired they both were, that Arcturus hadn’t noticed Elethea had fallen asleep on his bed until he heard her steady, quiet breathing.
Not having the heart to wake her up, he’d instead gently shifted the presumably unconscious Archon to a better position and covered her with his blankets. When she’d caught his hand as he finished, her eyes had opened in the half-awake manner of someone in a previously deep sleep, and some silent agreement had passed between them as she squeezed his fingers.
Arcturus had left her in the bed and taken his luxurious sofa for himself, immune to the subtle chill thanks in large part to his enhanced Vitality stat. As he’d lay there on the soft L-shape of the lounge, he’d found himself smiling as he watched the slow and steady rise and fall of Elethea’s silhouette in the moonlight. It had only been a night and two days, but something about her spirit and, more importantly, her intellect had endeared itself to him. He found himself looking at her like a kindred spirit, especially given the core motivation of her attempts to seduce him: Control of her own Fate.
He’d fallen asleep peacefully that night.
The third day had been a gruelling training session, and he’d found himself paired increasingly against Elethea alongside Adam and Andy, while Danica and Caeara supported the Highblade heiress.
Despite the apparent war of the sexes, Arcturus understood it was deeper than that: Adam and Andy, Tylariel had told him during one of his many training sessions, would likely evolve into his right and left hands. One for his political and strategic counsel, the other his knife in the dark and intelligence officer. She had emphasized increasing their synergy so they could fight together more fluidly.
Against Danica, Caeara, and Elethea; that developing synergy had been harshly tested.
Many times, it had been found wanting.
The following night had brought with it its own surprises, including an inebriated Vivienne slipping into Arcturus’ room.
The entire encounter had been a mess of awkwardness for Arcturus and extremely uncharacteristic overt sexual aggression on the part of Vivienne, and in the end Arcturus had been forced to trap her in his bathroom until she agreed to calm down. When he’d let her out, the usually unflappable and meticulous Estate Mistress had been a mess of tears and smeared lipstick, and had given him an agonised look before all but fleeing from his room. Arcturus had not reported it, and the following morning’s lack of change in her demeanour — aside from a subtle aloofness — had told him she was intent on not mentioning it either.
The distance that had come between them after that had pained him, but he had neither the experience nor the insight to try to fix it.
The fourth day of Elethea’s stay began with a surprise over the breakfast that followed his morning encounter with Vivienne, wherein his assertive presumptive-affianced announced happily that her father Beowulf would be visiting them during the week’s end. What followed was a sudden and frantic mess of activity across the Villa as Vivienne corralled the house staff to prepare for the arrival of a Valarian High Lord.
The mansion morphed into a flurry of cleaning and redesign as gifts given by House Highblade over the years were shifted to display in more prominent positions, and tapestries or banners celebrating the two Houses’ relationship were hung or rehung across the interior. Arcturus and the others learned quickly to stay out of the Maids’ way during the day, and secluded themselves with Elethea, Tylariel, and even Tiberius in the simulacrum chamber. As a rare treat, the elder Archon agreed to give them a round of tutelage — though what had been an exciting opportunity quickly devolved into a horror story.
Where Tylariel was strict, Tiberius was a tyrant. He pushed them harder, faster, and to more extreme levels than anything Arcturus had previously conceived of. Where Tylariel had worn them down to the bone, Tiberius did the same and then more still. Multiple times the sound of someone retching filled the chamber, and after a very brief reprieve, they were all but thrown back in with the others to continue the training.
By the end of the day, the entire group was sprawled in various levels of complete destruction across the floor of the chamber, the Nephilim pushed beyond even what their System-enhanced Vitality could support — and Tylariel was watching them with smug satisfaction as her father reviewed and debriefed their progress and capabilities.
That night, after an exhaustion-quieted dinner, Arcturus soothed his trembling body with a hot shower and was about to crawl into bed when a soft knock sounded on his door. Upon dragging himself over to open it, he’d found Elethea leaning tiredly against the doorway, looking as tired as him but also somewhat nervous. When he’d asked her, she’d simply said that she was feeling lonely, and Arcturus had found himself believing her.
By unspoken agreement, she joined him with another truce, and this time Arcturus stayed in the bed with her.
Within moments, they had fallen asleep.
Arcturus had awoken later than usual the following morning, and found himself looking down at Elethea’s sleeping form, before realising with a sudden flush of nerves that she was wrapped in his arms, with her back against his chest. He had frozen initially, unsure of what to do, say, or how to act — and more than a little bewildered by the situation. Tension had been prevalent, certainly, but it had also been strangely… comfortable. Elethea had stopped being a kind of irritating spike in his foot, and he’d even come to enjoy and look forward to her company in the days she’d been at the Estate. Spending the better part of fifteen hours a day together, after all, tended to erode distance and breed familiarity.
His first instinct in that moment had been to release her, and then he’d paused. Thoughts of Vivienne, and more pressingly of Amélie, had drifted unbidden through his mind. As it always did, Amélie’s face brought a plethora of emotions to the fore; from happiness, to pain, to heartache, to jealousy, and even rage. Yet, he had come to realise an immutable truth the more he lingered on thoughts of her: For him, it had been barely two months. For her, it had been nearly two years.
That was a very, very long time. Especially in a world like Terra.
He had been putting off thinking about it, truthfully, until that moment: Putting off considering the reality of his situation, and what seeing Amélie again actually meant. In his head, he had almost convinced himself it would be some joyous or heart-warming reunion, rife with tears and sweet kisses… but truthfully, that was a boy’s fantasy. A desperate attempt at spinning what his pragmatic and rational mind had been whispering to him for weeks.
Adam’s words had returned to him as he lay there, arms wrapped around a woman who seemed to trust him completely: “Amélie is our enemy.”
Until that morning, he’d never truly put stock into his friend’s warning. He’d assumed it had been a way to psyche him up, or to prepare him to confront her in order to ‘rescue’ her, and yet he’d never considered that perhaps his childhood sweetheart, the girl he’d first transfixed on and for so long; no longer truly existed. As Arcturus had gone through a chrysalis of rebirth in True Oblivion, he had reflected, so too had his friends gone through a crucible on Terra. Amélie had sought sanctuary in faith to handle her grief, so he’d thought and Adam had confirmed... but that was an entitled and selfish reasoning.
More likely, she’s sought Faith to rationalise and stabilise her fear at her new circumstance. She’d sought, along with Alanna, a structure that could support and reassure her; a means to give her life and its new burdens definition and purpose. It had never been about him. In truth, no matter how badly she took his death, her choice had always been for her.
Finally, he’d realised what Adam’s warning truly was: An attempt to spare Arcturus grief as he realised that Amélie had, when all was laid out on the table, moved on. She had moved on, and he had remained stuck in a past that no longer held any true relevance for either of them, beyond fond memories of a simpler and more innocent life.
Arcturus had closed his eyes and buried his face into Elethea’s hair as he listened to his vivacious, unrelenting new companion sleep; and had been silent as he let some of his emotion go at last. He hadn’t realised he’d been holding on so tightly, so desperately, to the chord of what had been — not until he’d truly held someone else, and felt what it was like to experience warmth, and comfort, and intimacy that didn’t feel… juvenile or inauthentic. The irony was that Elethea had succeeded in her mission by doing absolutely nothing at all.
In that moment, he’d realised she’d wormed her way into his heart.
It wasn’t love, or infatuation, or any kind of puppy affection… It was comfort, and ease, and the slow burn of a magnetism that he had been unaware had been developing. He wasn’t ready to take any more steps, but lying there with the Highblade heiress sleeping contentedly as she sheltered in his arms, he’d come to a decision: He’d let her try. He wouldn’t try to force himself, nor would he allow her to force him… but if she wanted more, he’d let her try.
Time would decide the rest.
The thought had given his heart some modicum of peace, and in that moment, he knew he’d made healthy progress towards closure over Amélie. Perhaps not as fully as others might have liked, but he had accepted what was, and had to some degree let go of what had been. He would focus on what was in-front of him, and when their reunion arrived, he would deal with what came.
Half an hour later, when Elethea had roused from her slumber with a quiet noise of contentment, Arcturus had lay there unmoving as she realised her situation and slowly turned around with endearing caution, as if she were scared of waking him. When her gold-flecked eyes had met his, there had been a silent question in them; and he had simply answered with a smile.
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Her response had been a kiss, slow and hesitant and even a little fearful; nothing like the aggression she’d shown earlier. The contact had been investigative, and nervous, and filled with the fragility of a girl far more unsure of her heart and situation than she let on. Her fingers had tightened and twisted in the fabric of his black nightshirt, and she melted against him when he drew her closed and bent into the contact, rising to bear her just-slightly down and into the satin pillow covers.
When they’d broken apart, Elethea’s cheeks had been flushed with colour, and she’d been breathing hard. The vulnerability in her eyes at that moment had solidified what Arcturus had started to suspect, and he’d rewarded her trust in him with another soft kiss, which she quickly ramped up into a passionate exchange that ended with her straddling him and running her hands over his chest, the buttons of his shirt torn free in her enthusiasm.
“Arcturus, I…” Her voice had been soft and hesitant, unsure of what to say as she contemplated the implication of their new position.
“It’s enough.” He had replied calmly, having reached up to brush her hair from her eyes, and slide the sleeve of her pyjama top up to cover her exposed shoulder. “We have time.”
“Okay.” She’d responded with a blush, and her smile had been like the sun emerging from a cloud cover as they pulled together in a chaste embrace thereafter; her balayage hair like the different colours of the dawn as it fell across his exposed chest.
The days after that morning had been a typhoon of activity, from lessons in lordly conduct and proper behaviour in Tylariel’s presence, to preparation for the inevitability of Beowulf recognising Arcturus for who he was when he arrived. The unexpected visit that the High Lord had elected to undertake had everything to do with ‘Lord Voltaire’ and his daughter, and Tiberius had been utterly direct when he’d told Arcturus that lying to the Highblade Patriarch would be impossible. Beowulf had been as close to Titus as anyone, and the moment he saw Arcturus, Tiberius was certain that the powerful Archon would know.
When the topic of Elethea was raised, Tiberius had been contemplative.
“Have you shared a bed?” He’d asked directly, after a few moments’ thought.
“We’ve slept in the same bed, but we haven’t done anything overly intimate.”
“Overly intimate?” Tiberius probed.
“...We’ve been kissing.” Arcturus said, feeling like a child as he did. “A lot.”
Tiberius’ smile had been warm, and his laugh merry.
“Ah, I forget you are far more innocent than the noble boys raised here.”
“My mother taught me that intimacy should be special.”
“And mine taught me the importance of a harem.” Tiberius had responded unabashedly. “So you might understand the disconnect, though I daresay young Elethea must be pleasantly surprised. She’d likely expected you to rip off her clothes and ravish her the first night. Innocence of your kind is rare among the high-blooded members of Terran society.”
Arcturus had left the discussion an hour later red from his ears to his jawline in embarrassment, and had refused to tell anyone else what he and Tiberius had talked about — though based on the sympathetic looks his friends had given him, he’d had a feeling they had somehow found out. Between intense training, stolen kisses with Elethea, and the frosty looks Vivienne continued to give him; the days progressed strangely for Arcturus as the date of Beowulf’s arrival drew near.
Preparation in both conduct and expectation had been drilled into all of the Nephilim, and even Caeara had received lessons on how to act.
When the day of Beowulf’s arrival finally came, Arcturus felt like his head was damn-near stuffed with new information and as he stood in the entrance foyer on Tylariel’s right in the traditional position of an Apprentice, he could feel his heart hammering in his chest.
“Announcing the arrival of His Excellency, Beowulf Solarius Highblade; Patriarch of House Highblade, Lord Commander of the Valarian Legions, Lord-Protector of Luxanium, Duke of the Silver Valley, and Lord in perpetuity of the Fortress-City of Aquitaine.”
The massive doors to the entrance hall opened, and in walked one of the largest men Arcturus had ever seen.
Beowulf stood as tall or taller than Luthaire, with shoulders as wide as a mountain and arms damn-near the size of tree trunks. His legs were as thick at their largest point as Arcturus’ chest, and his hands looked large enough to crush a man’s skull in their grip. He was adorned in a magnificent suit of silvery armour, with golden chainmail not unlike Elethea’s own glinting between the gaps. His pauldrons were massive, bearing the likeness of two winged swords, and the mantle of his white cloak was made of the albino fur of what Arcturus assumed to be some monstrously huge bear.
And you want to nail his daughter? Good luck.
On Beowulf’s right hip was a colossal sword hilt big enough that Arcturus could wield it with both hands and have plenty of room to spare. Like his daughter, the Highblade Patriarch’s cross-guard was endowed with flared angelic wings.
When he approached their lineup, eyes sweeping over them in assessment, his gaze fell on Arcturus. Beowulf’s white eyes, so similar to Elethea’s, widened fractionally as they met Arcturus’ red ones and he knew immediately that the High Lord had dispelled any belief that ‘Voltaire’ was his surname. The intensity of the older man’s eyes, and his encroaching presence, was nearly suffocating — but Arcturus weathered both without flinching. When at last Beowulf looked away, the pressure ceased and Arcturus found himself releasing a shaky breath.
That, he reflected, had been the pressure of an Archon at their apex.
A mere look had almost put him on his knees.
In that moment, Arcturus understood how the Empire had maintained dominance.
“Beowulf!” Tiberius greeted the other man warmly, stepping forwards to meet him when he crossed the appropriate ten metre distance to the waiting group.
“Tiberius!” The other man rumbled, his voice a growl that would be at home on the bear he bore around his shoulders. “You look older.”
“And you look fatter.”
Both men laughed good-naturedly as they clasped forearms, and Tiberius turned back — while looking comically short — to the waiting line of people. At his cue, Tylariel walked forwards and offered the towering man a haughty lift of her chin, and then squeaked when Beowulf reached out and crushed her in a fraternal hug. The rest of the line boggled in surprise at the interaction, watching as Tylariel hit Beowulf’s shoulder until her released her and then readjusted her coat and blouse with murderous mutterings.
“You look at lovely as ever, Tylly.”
Tylly?!
“Shut up Beowulf.” Tylariel groused, reaching up to feel at her bun of hair. “You’re still a brute.”
“How you wound me.” The mountainous man rumbled with a deep-chested laugh, before looking past both Rubastras towards his daughter, who broke from the line to run over and slam into her titanic father with a hug and squeal of “Daddy!” that banished any thoughts of ‘proper’ conduct between the two of them.
Beowulf picked his daughter up like she weighed nothing, and spun her around with paternal love. “Elly, you look good. Has your week here been fruitful?”
“I’ve improved my sword technique.” She confirmed happily as he set her down. “And made new friends.”
“Your Knights are morose in your absence.”
“They’ll survive.” She responded coolly. “Besides, they gave insult to my betrothed. They can cool their heels without me a while longer.”
Beowulf’s eyed slid past her towards Arcturus at that, and then returned to his daughter. “I see.” He said simply, watching his daughter with a father’s careful examination before he turned to the rest of the line-up. “Who have you got here for me, Tiberius?”
The Rubastra Patriarch took Beowulf’s gruff manner in stride, accompanying the massive Archon as he approached the line-up of Nephilim and Terrans with the steady gait of a master swordsman.
“Firstly we have Mistress Vivienne Dubois, the Estate Mistress and Head of the Household Staff.”
“Mistress Dubois.”
“Patriarch.” Vivienne greeted properly, curtsying low to Beowulf. “My maids and I are at your disposal.”
Beowulf simply nodded and seemed to dismiss her from notice after that, turning his attention to Andy, who was staring up at him in naked shock.
“Who’s this runt?”
“A Nephilim.” Tiberius answered jovially. “Andy Kailas. He’s on the path of the Mageslayer.”
“Mageslayer, eh? Knives or Swords, boy?”
“Wh-whatever gets the job done.” Andy said as he swallowed.
“Ha!” Beowulf boomed. “Good answer.”
Andy grinned a little more confidently at the approval, and the two of them had a quick exchange about different ways to garrote or disembowel someone, before Beowulf seemed to nod in approval and moved on to Caeara, standing far too stiffly next to Andy. The girl’s eyes slowly ascended as Beowulf stepped in front of her, and she paled slightly.
“Am I that scary, girl?” The man asked with raised eyebrows.
“I—”
“Of course you are, you giant idiot.” Tylariel said loudly. “Stop tormenting her.”
Beowulf rumbled another laugh and Caeara seemed to relax marginally, glancing furtively at Tylariel in thanks.
“You’re Terran, then?” Beowulf asked.
“Y-yes my lord. Valarian. Caeara Lithiria is my name.”
Beowulf grinned. “Good. I can see from your swords you like to get your hands dirty, too.”
“Yes, my lord. I’m an Adventurer currently, but I wanted to become a Legion Outrider in the future.”
“Oho? The Intelligence Corps?” Beowulf enquired with interest.
“Yes, my lord.” Caeara said more confidently.
“We’ll see about that.” The towering man said with a tone that was both a promise and a threat. “I take a special interest in my Outriders. I’ll speak with you more about that at length later.”
“Yes my lord!” Caeara said with a sudden smile. “Thank you, my lord!”
Beowulf nodded to her and moved along the line, leaving Caeara sagging in relief and smiling gratefully at Tylariel as the Highblade Patriarch turned his attention on Adam.
Tiberius smiled. “Adam Warman, Nephilim.”
“Battlemage, I’m guessing.” Beowulf asked as much as stated.
“Yes, my Lord.” Adam said calmly, looking up at Beowulf without fear.
“You have intelligent eyes.” The High Lord said after a moment of meeting Adam’s gaze. “Dangerous eyes. You’re going to be formidable, one day, I think. Very formidable.”
“Your faith in me is humbling, Lord Commander.”
“Humble and polite to boot. Yes, you’ll do just fine here.” Beowulf said with a nod of recognition. “You’ll be right at home with Valarian intrigues, too, judging by the steadiness in your eyes. You could probably even make it in Regalia, stinking cesspool of squabbling cowards that it is.”
“My lord is too kind.” Adam said simply in response, and earned himself a grin in reward.
“Unflappable. I like that. I’ll be keeping an eye on your progress, boy. Mark my words.”
“I am flattered, my lord.”
“You aren’t, but I like that about you.” Beowulf said with a chortle. “You wouldn’t happen to be looking to pledge to a House, would you?”
“Apologies, my lord, but I already have.”
“Is that so…?” Beowulf asked, trailing off as he turned at last towards Arcturus, and the tension in the air seemed to ratchet up by a factor of ten.
Beowulf stepped over to look at him properly, and Arcturus met his eyes without fear. The big man narrowed his gaze, and Arcturus felt pressure pressing down on him; the instinct to kneel, to grovel, to beg with servility for his life… And yet, he found he could resist it the moment he recognised it for what it was. Something about it felt… awkward. Forced. There was a strange kind of hollowness to the pressure that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but despite seeing his friends’ shoulders bunching up in discomfort in his periphery, Arcturus had already started to dismiss the feeling.
It was different from the first time their eyes had met. Then, it had simply been Beowulf’s existence. The weight of his power and aetherial pressure as an Archon.
This… this was something else. Something both more powerful, and somehow less effective against Arcturus. It felt like intent, but it seemed to just… wash over him.
Almost without realising it, he arched an eyebrow at the big man in question.
Beowulf finally broke eye contact after that, and turned from Arcturus back to his friends, and then to Tiberius. “How long have you known?”
“Alyerial found him a little over a month ago.”
“Found him?”
“He wandered into her shop.”
Beowulf snorted, then turned back to Arcturus. “It’s uncanny.”
“I know.” Tiberius agreed.
“You were right.” The Highblade Patriarch growled. “And I was a fool for doubting you.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“I should have.”
“But you had a duty to the stability of the Kingdom.”
“This will change everything.” Beowulf said heavily. “Everything.”
“That is our hope.”
“And Titus?”
“Ask his son.” Tiberius said with finality, and Beowulf at last returned his full attention to Arcturus.
“Is your father alive, son?”
“Very much so.” Arcturus said firmly.
“Then I owe you, and him, an apology for ever doubting it.”
“You couldn’t have known.” Arcturus said carefully, unsure of how to react to suddenly finding himself speaking so casually to one of the most powerful men in Valaria.
“I grew up with Titus, son. We were companions from birth. I should have known, and my faithlessness will haunt me until my dying day.” The pronouncement was heavy, and Arcturus felt it like an oath; a dedication to remorse that was far more than simply words. Beowulf spoke, and his Aether enforced his words, binding them to him.
“What…”
“It isn’t anything you need worry about, lad.” Beowulf said quietly. He turned to his daughter then, and so did Arcturus, realising he’d forgotten about Elethea due to the intensity of her father. When he looked at her, he expected shock and disbelief — perhaps even anger, or conflict on her beautiful features. What he saw, instead, was pride; and a clear sense of smug satisfaction.
“How long have you known?” Beowulf asked.
“Since the first day of my arrival at the Estate. One of the maids slipped up.” She said calmly. “But I had an inkling when we first met in the arena, and he offered me my surrender. I used to watch those memory shards of you and Prince Titus dueling all the time, father. I recognised his stance, his posture, even the tilt of his head, the heft of his jaw, and the way his red eyes seemed to hold the weight of a war god in their depths. So much can be gleaned from the smallest things. My betrothed is every inch his father’s son.”
“Then you knew what it was you were doing.” Beowulf said.
“I wasn’t thinking about that at the time, actually, no.”
Beowulf raised an eyebrow. “Then why?”
“He was kind.” She said simply. “When he thrashed me, beat me, put me down like a wretch that had spat at a King… He was kind. His eyes were kind. I knew he’d die before he let anyone he loved be harmed.”
“That’s a lot to take away from a pair of eyes.” Beowulf grumbled.
“Trust a man not to understand.” Tylariel snorted.
“What do you think of my daughter, boy?” Beowulf asked Arcturus directly.
“I think she’s a ferocious combatant.” Arcturus said immediately. “I think she’s smart, insightful, funny, and far more vulnerable than she’d ever want anyone to know.”
“Do you love her?” Beowulf asked.
“I barely know what love is.” Arcturus responded. “Only what I think it might be, and in that case, no I don’t. I care for her, and I know she cares for me—” a glance at Elethea showed her smiling at him in approval, and blushing faintly in embarrassment “—as well, but what that means for us in the future… I honestly can’t say, my lord.”
Beowulf grunted. “Titus would never let me hear the end of this.”
“He would be crowing in victory, yes.” Tiberius agreed with a chortle.
“Very well, boy, you have my support.”
Arcturus looked up at Beowulf warily. “Thank you, my lord, but Elethea and I have agreed to take things slowly, and—”
“I didn’t mean the betrothal. I was referring to the Throne.”
“I…”
“You were my King the day you were born, boy. That’s how it works for the Gilded Aegis.”
Arcturus’ cheeks flared with heat, and he sighed shakily as another layer of responsibility settled onto him. It just seemed to keep piling up. First his friends, then Luthaire, now Beowulf… There was no sense of an oathbond from the massive Archon, but Arcturus felt the truth in his words and in his mein. His eyes turned to Elethea again, and he saw her smiling at him brilliantly. Had she only wanted him because she suspected he was a Prince?
He thought back to the tenderness of their first kiss, and her abashed hesitation at the implication of more.
No, he decided firmly. He would not cast that aspersion against her.
Not after he’d seen how vulnerable she truly was.
“When is his debut?” Beowulf asked, turning to Tiberius.
“The Masquerade.”
“Then Elethea will need to be on his arm, in case Selucia—”
“We already planned for that.” Tylariel interjected. “You’re slow, as usual.”
Beowulf laughed.
“Well then, what are we waiting for? Summon your cooks and prepare a feast, Tiberius!” The massive High Lord’s voice thundered within the entrance hall. “We have a Succession to plan!”
"And if it doesn't go as smoothly as you think?" Tylariel enquired.
"Well then," Beowulf said with a savage grin, "I've always wanted a chance to mount Fortunis' head on a spike."