#adiran

Deep down, Adiran knew that the King and Queen would hunt for them. Try to spin their escape as some kind of kidnapping; anything not to lose face in the spiteful eye of the court. But there was more to it than that. A missing prince warranted a bitter, desperate search - one that wouldn’t raise any suspicions. The fact that they were actually after Riin didn’t matter. All Talvera would see were two panicked parents. Not monsters chasing what he had stolen from them. 

No. 

The thought - that single word - arrived so hard and so bitter that Adiran could taste it on his tongue. No. He hadn’t stolen a damn thing. They had no contract. No claim. No right to Riin, as man or soldier or prisoner. No one did. 

I should have seen him off. I should have insisted. Made sure he...

Guilt, like a restless snake, twisted inside Adiran, hollowing out a pit in his stomach. Divider, he’d let a full season pass in a self-absorbed haze, barely looking up from his own loneliness. If he’d just been paying attention, he might have realised something wasn’t right. He might have been able to...

A soft groan, lower than the protests of the ship’s aging wood, pulled Adiran from his thoughts. He looked up, heart stammering to a near-halt as he leaned over the makeshift bed. Hope, like baited breath, knotted at the back of his throat. 

“Riin?”

The Kyriin’s brow was tense; a furrowed echo of a deeper pain. Agony was etched in every line of his face; every clenched muscle. In any other moment, Adiran might have taken him for having a bad dream. A true, burning nightmare. 

Maybe he was. Certainly no one would blame him. 

“Hey…” Adiran hated the way he sounded. Hated the way his voice felt so hollow. Uncertain. Afraid. Weak. But instead of flinching from it like a hand from a flame, he forced himself to move closer. To reach out and rest his hand over Riin’s. “Can you hear me?”

Adiran knew it was a long-shot. Even before, back in the palace undercroft, Riin’s lucidity had been a short-lived, flickering thing, erratic as a candle on a windowsill. Divider, Adiran would never forget the way Riin had looked at him, when he’d forced his way through the cell door. His eyes, framed by dark circles and bled half-way black, had seared into him like hot iron. Thick blood, dark as pitch, was dried in layers on his skin; had soaked into his ruined clothes. It was impossible to tell how long it had been there. 

Adiran wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, when he hit the bottom of those uneven stairs. All he knew for certain was that, after that heart-stopping moment of recognition, Riin had hated him. 

And he’d had every reason to.

Sitting there, his hand a feeble warmth against Riin’s icy skin, a new fear slowly crawled its way up from the bottom of Adiran’s chest. In the frantic mess of unlocking chains and checking wounds, Riin had clearly set aside any mistrust for a chance at freedom, no matter how slim. Even if came at the hands of someone he despised. The entire time, he’d barely spoken to Adiran. But the first words he’d said had been a knife to the gut. 

So, it was all true. He’d gave a bitter laugh. Or was it broken? I wondered how long it would take for them to send you here.

He should have said something. Thinking back, he needed to have said something. But he hadn’t. In the moment, he’d been too focused on escape. Too terrified that Lirea would betray him, and the palace guard would come flooding in like rats to a carcass. There hadn’t been time for reassurances, or the truth, or---

“You’re... hurt...”

Adiran jolted, nearly losing his balance between the narrow crate and the uncertain sway of the ship. Riin’s voice was raw, ragged from screaming his pain and fury to unfeeling stone. The words were barely able to cross the narrow distance between them. He was awake, watching him feverishly, one eye a clear amber, the other drenched in shadow. A dark stain, like spilled ink, spread from the inner corner to the furthest edge of his iris.

There he was, with one foot in the grave, worrying about everyone but himself.

“What? Are you s---” To Adiran’s surprise, his voice hitched. Once the shock had passed, he cleared his throat sharply. “Are you serious? Fuck how I am. I’m nothing. I’m fine. I’m…” Slowly, he realised that Riin’s eyes had drifted down to where their hands were resting, one atop the other. Without intending to, Adiran’s fingers had somehow managed to avoid the ruined skin ringing Riin’s wrist. In a rush, he realised he’d never actually seen Riin bruise before, yet alone bleed. It was childish - sheer foolishness - but he hadn’t actually thought it was possible. Even after eight years of sparring together - eight years of swords and sand - he had been convinced Riin was untouchable. Invincible.

But in the wrong hands - hands willing to scrape and grind - even the strongest stone would eventually break.

Riin’s breathing was shallow. Worryingly so. Still, he forced himself to speak, the words limping from his lips. “N-No... you’re not f---.”

---“Stop.” Adiran barely recognised his own voice, pleading and pathetic. All of a sudden, he was a child again, curled in the corner of his room, his first bruise blossoming on his upper arm. “Damn it, Riin - don’t. Don’t make this about me. Not now. You… you’re…”

He couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t say them. What could he possibly say? You’re hurt? You’re shaking? You’re terrifying me?

“You’re crying.”

Adiran froze. His awareness, weaponised over the past hours like an out-turned blade, faltered at Riin’s words. Then, slowly, it angled inward. In that hanging silence, his sense of self slipped back beneath his skin, and Adiran finally realised that yes. He was.

“I’m not... it’s nothing.” Roughly, he pressed the heel of his free hand to both eyes, swiping away the offending tears. There was too much to say. Too many emotions pushing against this skull, ravaging his chest, crowding his throat. “I’m just… I...” Like betrayal, a sob broke past his defenses, weak from exhaustion. Weak from relief. “I’m sorry. Riin, I’m so f-fucking sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t even think...”

The shame was too much. Adiran cracked. Curved forward. Buried his face in his hand and just cried. It was all too much, but at the same time nowhere near enough, as though he was deep inside his body and outside and around it all at once. He knew he had to stop. That this wasn’t the time. His guilt wouldn’t help anyone, yet alone Riin. It was just another burden; a capstone atop the torture he had already endured. Divider, Adiran didn’t even know what he had been through. The extent of the pain he was in. How deep those wounds truly ran. But he knew what he should have said, back when he had first laid eyes on his friend in that dark cell. When he’d first seen the blood, smelled the sour sweat, tasted the rot on the back of his tongue. An apology was not enough. He knew that. No words could ever undo what had been done. But Divider, that didn’t make it any less of the truth. 

If Riin let him, he’d spend the rest of his life proving it. It was the least he could do for the only man he’d ever called friend.

Suddenly, Adiran felt a pressure on top of his hand. Heavy, but without force. Without roughness. Part of him knew that, if Riin had the strength, he would have squeezed. Maybe in reassurance. Maybe in forgiveness. Maybe just in tribute to the bond they had shared; one that had surely been severed, now. But, when Adiran finally looked up, only one thing had truly changed. Riin’s gaze was resting on him. Quiet. Pained. Feverish. Relieved.

But the hate, seared so clearly and so terribly into Adiran’s memory, was gone.

“I knew,” Riin breathed. “I knew y---AH!” Suddenly, he cried out, arching, gritting his teeth as his upper body spasmed. Maybe it was a fit. Maybe it was pieces of bone snapping back into place beneath his skin. Regardless, all Adiran could do was look on, horrified, and hold his hand through it, wishing feverishly that he knew how to make it stop. It passed in seconds that felt like minutes. It left Riin gasping, shaking, tangled in his thin blanket, skin soaked with sweat. Just as Adiran was about to scramble to his feet and call for help, Riin’s weak voice reached out from the bed, like a hand snagging the corner of his shirt.

“I-I knew you couldn’t have… they said... so many things. But I didn’t...”

Adiran just nodded, not quite understanding. almost afraid to. Just thinking about what Riin might have been told - things to make him break - turned Adiran’s stomach. Cheeks damp, throat tight, Adiran just shifted closer instead, his thumb stroking the back of Riin’s hand in a feeble attempt to smooth away the pain. “Whatever those bastards told you, they were lying,” he said, because he desperately needed him to hear it. To know it the way Adiran knew every line of Riin’s face. Every scar on his hands. “I swear on my life, Riin, if I’d known…”

Slowly, Adiran trailed off. Partly because he didn’t know how to finish the sentence. If he’d known… then what? How would he have stopped it? Would he have challenged the King and Queen - his own family? Would he have kicked and screamed and threatened his way into his own set of shackles?

He didn’t know what would have happened. Maybe they would have both found themselves in chains, Inquisitors cutting bored slices from their skin. Just the thought of it was enough to turn Adiran’s stomach. If he’d been there - if he’d been forced to watch... Divider, he would have told them anything. Anything to make them stop.

Would Riin have broken his oath and done the same?

Luckily, there was no immediate pressure for Adiran to finish his hanging sentence. At some point in the silence, Riin’s breathing had slowed its pace into something halfway resembling sleep. His hand lay limp in Adiran’s, but somehow, he just couldn’t bring himself to untangle their fingers. Not just yet.

Instead, Adiran hesitated, then leaned forward until their faces were just inches apart. Slowly, tiredly, he closed his eyes, exhaled, and gently rested his forehead against Riin’s. Their lashes brushed, their breath mingled, and just for a moment, he let himself feel it. Really feel it. Just for long enough to remind him that the man he cared for more than anyone else was really, truly there. Beaten and bruised. Alive and wonderful.

“I missed you,” Adiran breathed. The confession fell from his lips more easily than his own name. And, for the first time, he didn’t care if anyone heard him say it.

They would get through this. 

It was just a casual match. The challenger, Dusett, had come down from the northern provinces with his father to pay respects to the royal family. From what Riin could tell, he and Adiran got along well enough. The moment formalities ended, they had stolen away to the training ground, like a pair of lovers taking flight at the end of a gala. Riin had watched them go, an amused smile on his face, until Adiran glanced back. Locked eyes with him. Delivered his well, are you coming or what? look that Riin now knew was the closest thing to an invitation.

Of course, nothing happened in the castle without ten sets of eyes making note of it. Now, a small crowd had gathered at the training arena. Most were off-duty house staff and guards, but a few of the more prestigious guests had also caught wind and wandered down from their quarters. Even without eyes, the clashing of dulled steel would be enough to alert anyone in the nearby buildings that there was free entertainment to be had.

Adiran was breathing hard, but not as hard as his opponent. Dusett stood about a head taller than the prince, his dark hair tied back in a short tail near the base of his neck - the latest fashion in Talvera’s north. They had been at it for a while now; long enough for Riin to give up his seat to one of the older kitchen hands, whose back was curved from years of huddling over a stove. Instead, he ambled down to the sands, joining some of the soldiers along the perimeter. Typically, training would continue despite Adiran’s presence. In fact, he insisted on it. But with two noblemen on the field, well… it was better for everyone to just give them whatever space they needed.

Adiran had pivoted around, using his speed to dodge Dusett’s swing and slap the flat of his blade against the man’s back. With a grunt, Dusett staggered forward a few steps, then whirled back, his easy-going smile turning brittle as the audience gasped and murmured its approval. There was a moment of perfect stillness - of two duelists sizing up one another. Of matching breaths and beating hearts. Of silver sicets quietly changing hands among the wealthy in the stands.

Then, Dusett and Adiran lunged for each other, and their blades met again in a clash of ringing steel.

Leaning against one of the arena’s outer pillars, Riin just watched, arms folded loosely across his chest, as the pair sparred. He watched as Adiran spun and wove his way around Dusett, more relaxed with a blade and an opponent than with a partner at a ball. He watched as Dusett, skilled in his own way, began to pick up on Adiran’s tactics, swinging to meet him with greater certainty, the sound of a parry punctuating the steps of their dance. 

Above Riin, some of the palace servants, bustling about in the stands, began to still. Sank down on the long benches. Leaned their cheeks on their palms and gazed almost wistfully not only at Dusett, but at Adiran, the young man they typically avoided in the hallways. Riin couldn’t help it - he smiled at the sight. Just quietly. Just to himself.

Adiran deserved to be seen like this. Comfortable and bold and unapologetically alive. 

Sweat mingled with sand as the fight continued, both duelists beginning to flag now that the rush of combat had melted into a more defined pattern. That was the problem, when everyone received the same Talveran training. It made competition more predictable. Of course, skill still played an important role - Riin would never suggest otherwise. But when everyone knew what strike required what parry; what moves left a person open to what kind of riposte; it took away some of the unpredictability of a real fight. It left some duels feeling as scripted as one of Adiran’s plays.

But, as it turned out, Adiran had not received traditional training. Not for the last year and a half, at least.

The pair broke apart for a moment, staggering backwards, sucking in lungfuls of air as a smattering of applause and a few modest cheers rose from the crowd. In the brief reprieve, Adiran’s blue eyes scanned the stands, before dipping to the arena’s edge and finding Riin. Still smiling, sensing the unspoken question, he gave Adiran a single, slow nod. Go on. Show them.

Frowning, hand automatically dropping to where his sword would have been, Adiran slowly made his way towards the Valcretian windows. Designed to help circulate air in the humid Rosemarsh climate, they had two large ornate panels that swing outward, latched at the centre by a gilded hook. The royal palace simply used the design because it was foreign, and therefore expensive and desirable. Despite their beauty, Adiran’s were almost always covered by a thick blue curtain, designed to block both light and prying eyes. He kept them drawn so often he could actually see a fine layer of dust gathered on the dark material. The house staff would have a fit, if they were ever permitted inside his chambers.

Three sharp taps again, more insistent this time. A muffled sound accompanied them as well; a single - rather colourful - word in a voice that was entirely too familiar.

Heart squeezing, Adiran ripped the curtain aside to find Sylda crouching on a branch of the towering Ashewood just outside his window. Let me in, asshole, she mouthed, pointing exasperatedly at the latch. Still at a loss for words, Adiran unhooked it and shoved open one of the panels. The thief, all elbows and knees, spilled into his room like a toppled pitcher. “Ugh - finally,” she said, picking herself up off the carpet and dusting the bark and leaves off her clothes. “Thought I’d have to spit on a guard just to get some attention around here.”

“I… what… how…?” Adiran just gaped as Sylda shook out her gangly limbs, snapped the curtains shut again, and proceeded with cat-like curiosity to poke around his room.

“Who, what, when?” she teased, dropping her voice in imitation of his own. Distracted, she gave a low whistle as she prodded his duvet. “Divider’s Own - I reckon your bed’s as big as my entire room!”

“What— I—” Adiran caught himself mid-stammer, partly because the look Sylda gave him made it clear she would not hold back a second time. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? How the fuck did you get in here?”

“Window.”

“That’s not what I—” Adrian cringed and lowered his voice. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

She just grinned, spun around, and flopped bodily onto his rumpled bed. “And you know that’s a secret. A trick of the trade, as they say. I can’t just go telling anyone how to sneak in here.” Sighing, she seemed to all but melt into the soft mattress. “It’d be bad for business. And for you, probably. Wouldn’t want any unsavory sorts climbing in through your window at all hours of the day.”

“Yes. That would be terrible.”

“Right?”

Judging by Sylda’s tone, the finer details of just how many people might actually know how to sneak onto palace grounds was, evidently, a matter for another day. Running an agitated hand down his face, Adiran double-checked the window before turning back to confront his latest problem. “Can you at least tell me what you’re doing here?” 

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Sitting up, legs crossed, her boots leaving dirty streaks on his covers, Sylda swung her battered satchel around until it was resting square in her lap. “Hadn’t seen you around in a while. Figured you might’ve caught something nasty last time you were out mingling with us low-folk. So…”

Before Adiran could even muster an indignant response, she pulled out a bottle of something painfully familiar. “You didn’t,” was all he said, aghast, before a wicked grin lit up her face. 

“Didn’t… what? Bring you some medicine, like the kind and thoughtful friend I am?” Her smile widened as she held the bottle aloft, swaying it enticingly. “Damn right I did. Now, you got cups in this fancy palace of yours, or are we swigging?”

Adiran was still trying to process what was happening. Taking his silence as some kind of response, Sylda shrugged and tugged the cork out with her teeth, barely managing to catch a stray droplet on her outstretched palm before it stained his sheets. 

“Wait... you... you seriously broke in here just to torture me with Palmaros Red?” Adiran had had a rough time, after his introduction to that particularly deceptive breed of swill. It was just sweet enough that you could comfortably polish off a whole bottle before the suffering kicked in. Despite his hesitation, Adiran found himself sliding onto the bed beside Sylda, doing everything in his power not to dwell on the suspicious brown streaks left by her boots. “Do you hate me or something?”

Rolling her eyes, Sylda took a long, deep pull of the wine, throat bobbing as she swallowed it with a belligerence that bordered on terrifying. Veteran though she was, even she winced at the after-burn as it went down. “Smooth as gravel,” she rasped, then turned her attention back to Adiran. “And do you really reckon I’d come all this way for someone I hate?” Before he could reply, she shoved the bottle at his chest. “Just drink up, princeling. It’s been quiet without you around to talk shit with me.”

Wrapping a hand obediently around the bottle, Adiran regarded it with pure disdain, almost wishing Sylda had just left him entirely alone. But, of course, that thought drained away when he glanced up to find her watching him fondly, lips twisted in amusement, dark brows raised expectantly, mouth tinged a tell-tale red. That strange pressure in his chest suddenly returned, almost making it hard to breathe.

What could he have possibly done, to make someone go to all this trouble just to drink utter piss with him? 

In truth, he didn’t know. He felt like he barely knew anything, these days. Not where other people were involved. But despite his own self-doubts... there she was. Sitting in the last place he ever expected to see her. A surprisingly welcome sight, even in the one place he dared to call his own.

“Fuck!” Adiran threw his weapon aside and hunched over himself, flexing and clenching his traitorous hands. They ached despite his gloves - despite everything they were doing. Damn it - that couldn’t happen! The tournament was in the middle of Vigil; the season just before Hoarfrost. It might not be the coldest, but the weather could still turn frigid with a single gust of wind. If his grip slipped in the arena, or he couldn’t make a proper hold...

“Easy, Adiran. Are you alright?”

Seething, Adiran sucked in a lungful of air and somehow focused it into a glare as Riin crouched down in front of him. “Fantastic, Riin. As soon as the snowfall starts in the north, I stop being able to hold a damn weapon. How could I possibly be better?” He clenched his hands so tightly that his knuckles must have bled to white beneath the thin leather. “Some fucking soldier I am.”

If Riin where a crueler man, he’d shrug call him what he was. Pathetic. But instead, he just shook his head and reached out, taking Adiran’s sword-hand and uncurling his fingers with practiced ease. “I know you think the world sees you as its centre, but you’re not the first soldier to have trouble keeping his grip in the cold.” His hands worked diligently as he spoke, pressing along the softer parts of Adiran’s palm, rubbing small circles into the aching muscle. Even in the cold morning air, Riin somehow radiated heat. It was like sitting next to a campfire, forgotten and left to smoulder gently into late-morning.

Adiran’s eyes lingered on Riin’s hand - on his own, nestled inside it - and for a time, he simply sat in silence, allowing his friend to work. Sure, pride dictated that he should pull away and stalk off somewhere to brood over his shortcomings, but that whole affair was becoming less and less satisfying of late. No - he was more comfortable now. Even when he probably shouldn’t be.

“You always do that.”

Riin stirred, apparently lost in his own thoughts as well. “Hm..?” He glanced up. “Do what?”

“This. That.” Adiran made a slight movement with his hand. Not enough to disturb Riin’s attentions. “You always warm me up.”

This time, an almost self-conscious chuckle rolled from Riin’s chest. “Well, I don’t know about that.” He didn’t stop what he was doing - only let go briefly, so Adiran could tug off his glove. “I have it on good authority that you’re icy in every season. ‘Wind, hail, or swelter’ I think is what they said.”

“Yeah?” There was no point feigning indignation. Not over such an obvious statement of fact. “Who's been saying that?”

“Well... anyone lucky enough to cross paths with you during a soiree. Or a dinner. Or on the palace grounds. Or in the sparring---”

---”Alright, alright. Point taken. Shut up.”

Riin grinned, and it was suddenly hard for Adiran to remember how he’d felt the first time the man had been assigned to him. Back then, he’d just been another set of eyes, ordered by his parents to track him like a bird of prey. There had been nothing but resentment between them for over a year - Divider knows Adiran had never been shy about making his feelings painfully clear. And Riin had just taken it. Sure, he’d avoided him like a plague-rat the moment his duty was over, but otherwise he’d just let Adiran resent him. If he hated Adiran back, he did it quietly.

Sometimes, a cruel thought crept up on him, when they were alone together. Sitting. Talking. Even when they were laughing. It was the thought that maybe he’d done too much damage, back then. That maybe Riin still hated him. Quietly.

“Riin?”

“Hm?”

“You know you don’t have to, right?”

Riin hummed as he worked. “Mm. Cryptic. Have to what?”

“Shut up.”

“You’re the one who asked---”

---”No! I mean, you don’t always have to. When I tell you to. I’m not... it’s not an order or anything.”

Releasing Adiran’s hand and sitting back on his heels, Riin regarded him for a moment, an amused tilt to his lips. “Of course it isn’t. You don’t give me orders, princeling. Never have.”

“But then---”

---”So why do I do it?”

A little mollified by his own predictability, Adiran closed his mouth and nodded. Apparently it was the right response, because Riin’s amused smile suddenly blossomed into a grin.

“Because you always break. Quickly, too, might I add. Most times, I barely even notice the silence.” He laughed, motioning for Adiran’s other hand. “And you know what else? You always get my attention the same way.”

“I... do?” Frowning, Adiran gave Riin his other hand without even thinking, so distracted by the conversation that the other man had to pull of his glove. Despite wracking his brain for a pattern, he couldn’t come up with anything. “How, then?” he demanded eventually, frustrated.

The answer, it seemed, was almost absurdly simple.

“You say my name.” Beginning anew, Riin let his gaze drift down to their hands, the warmth of his fingers soothing against Adiran’s skin. Like an afterthought, the smile on his lips remained. “I’ll never get over hearing you say my name.”

Despite the cold, Adiran felt heat rush up his neck. He would have pulled away, stammering some absurd excuse about having to go, but then that would just make his embarrassment more obvious. So he forced himself to stay almost painfully still, sitting across from Riin on the sandy ground.

That was, at least, until Riin glanced up, a smirk dancing across his lips. “Warmer now?”

The satisfied gleam in his eye only made matters worse for Adiran, who might have actually been sweating a little under his training gear. That sneaky bastard! He was about to snap a scathing reply when Riin hit a particularly sore spot at the base of Adiran’s thumb, eliciting a sharp gasp instead.

“Still giving you trouble, isn’t it?” Amusement draining away, Riin pressed the spot again, gentler this time, working in slow circles around it. “You should see the physicker, Adiran. It might be part of the problem, along with the cold. The longer you leave it the worse it could get. Stretch for me.”

Eternally grateful for the change of subject, Adiran cleared his throat roughly. “Yeah. Maybe.” At Riin’s instruction, he flexed his hand, the muscle tugging uncomfortably as Riin started to work on it again. “I’ll go tomorrow or something.”

Riin sighed and dug his finger in again, earning a yelp as Adiran tried and failed to pull away. “No,” Riin said, “you’ll go now. And by you I mean we, because I can’t trust you not to slink back to your quarters and take a hot bath instead.”

“Oh come on, I wouldn’t...” Under the full weight of Riin’s unimpressed stare, Adiran huffed and abandoned the lie halfway. “Fine. You win. Help me up.”

Riin raised his brows. “Last I checked your legs still worked.”

“Yeah? Well last I checked, my feet were frozen inside my boots.”

Another mouthful. Another weary swallow of something half as strong as it needed to be. Honestly, he’d almost rather be swallowing sand. At least that meant he’d be in the arena, getting his ass kicked practicing for something that mattered, instead of wasting his time decorating the wall. Divider’s Own, Lorvain was meant to have arrived by the third day! Adiran might have been able to slip away if he had been around to soak up the attentions of the lords and ladies. But no. The beloved Crown Prince had probably stopped to fawn over milkmaids and shepherds at every town between here and Morgate. Really, they should have accounted for that before throwing such a ridiculous event...

 A prince should want to know his people, Adiran. I thought you understood that?

Threading paths expertly between the nobility were almost three dozen servers dressed in vibrant Volise green. Silver trays were held aloft on the pads of their gloved fingers as they moved in rehearsed patterns around the room, making sure every hand that sought a glass found a delicate stem. It was a different sort of dance; the kind that typically went unnoticed, the same way a clock’s hands are appreciated more than the mechanism behind the face. They knew the position of every crack in the stone; every rivulet.

None of them ever looked down.

Speaking of timing, the only reason Adiran paid the servers any heed was to make sure he got his right. On cue, he finished his wine with a grimace and thrust it towards a well-groomed young woman, her dark hair braided and pinned neatly around her head. Without so much as an errant blink, she bobbed carefully at the knees, accepted the glass, and replaced it with a new one from her tray. 

“Careful not to drop that,” Adiran said, taking the drink and giving it an experimental sniff. Sweeter. Thank the Divider for that.

The server hesitated. They always did. Every night. “Your Highness?” she asked, and her lilt was perfection. Just the right amount of simpering, blended with polite curiosity. Someone had taken her training seriously.

“Am I slurring already? What I’m saying is that if the Crown Prince finally shows up and you’re in the middle of mopping a puddle, the King will have your hide for saddle leather. So...” He extended one bored finger towards the tray, a smirk curling the corner of his lips. “Tread lightly.”

The server’s mouth opened, and for a moment no sound followed. For just one blissful, fleeting second, Adiran thought he’d finally done it. He’d finally won. 

Then, like underappreciated clockwork, her lips shaped themselves into a beatific smile, and she dipped into a curtsy. The tray never even wobbled. “Thank you for your concern, Your Highness. On my word, I will remain diligent. I would not dare bring shame on our King’s house.”

Damn it. The smile Adiran flashed back - half a sneer - could cut glass. But the server had already completed her parting bob and returned to her dance, weaving and gliding among the gaggle of silver-bloods with her tray of weak wine. Expression turning brittle, Adiran huffed and leaned back against one of the massive marble pillars - just one of fifteen lining the room. He’d claimed it on the first evening, like a hound staking its territory. Most people knew better than to bother him once he’d found his haunt, but the serving staff simply didn’t have that luxury. He supposed it was probably unkind, to force them to speak to him. But Divider, he was just so bored...

Scowling, he took a long swallow of his new drink, the chilled, sweet liquid a welcome enough sensation as it ran down the back of his throat.

So he was unkind. So what?

“Are you finished losing to the servers for tonight, or should I come back later?”

A familiar voice, and right on time. Adiran gave no indication of surprise, barely even turning to acknowledge the man. After all, this was just another ritual for them; a way to take a knife to long hours of affluent, barely drunk loitering. “Yeah, I’m done. An earthquake couldn’t shake them.” His gaze finally cut across, delivering what he hoped was a scathing look as Riin settled against the pillar beside him. “Took you long enough. Get distracted by all the pretty gowns and pouting lips?”

Folding his arms across his broad chest, Riin chuckled softly, utterly immune to Adiran’s glare. “Could you blame me if I was? Everyone looks appealing under this light.”

“That’s generous of you.” Sniffing, Adiran glanced up. Even with the smoke-glass covers encasing each glowing orb, he still had to squint against the brightness of the weavelights. “Guess it could be worse. We looked more like corpses before the covers were put on.”

“Really? I’m glad I missed it.”

“Yeah. Being dead inside is more than enough.”

Riin laughed, and a faint smile curved Adiran’s lips. He quickly hid it behind his glass. Truthfully, the entire ‘weavelight saga’ had been ridiculous. The King and Queen had commissioned hundreds of them from Tel Shival, purely because no one else had ever done it. Even the wealthiest families only ever had a few per household, usually kept in a lantern or a sconce in the most frequented rooms. After two seasons of painstaking arrangement that nearly killed two of their staff, the Silver Font soon found itself bathed in a thematically violent silver light. It had been an exciting novelty, at first; nobility flooded in from all over Talvera just to bask in the glow of thousands of wasted sicets. But then they quickly realised that colours didn’t behave the same way. Their favourite jewellery didn’t catch the eye. Their skin didn’t appear as youthful and rosy. Instead, every flaw - every stray hair or unpolished button - was placed on stark display for the vultures to pick at.

The weavelights were as bleak and clinical as a physicker’s ward. They sucked the warmth out of everything they touched.

In Adiran’s mind, the wash of corpse-light over each soiree was a perfectly fitting thing. But, as was typical, no one else agreed. So, they decided to encase each of the weavelights in honey-tinted glass and returned the room to almost exactly how it looked before. Back when it was lit by oil and flame.

That was how things were in Talvera. Decisions were made, sicets were spent, and then everyone just wanted to go back to how things used to be. Like nothing had ever happened.

GLOSSARY

Weavelight - spheres of crystal or glass, with a light-bearing glyphstring engraved by a thaumist specialising in Weaving. Maintains a bright, steady silver light. Cannot be dimmed or turned off at will. Thaumist - a well-trained practitioner of the thaumic arts, capable of manipulating thaumic essence. Turn - ten days. Tel Shival - An independent, famously insular city dedicated to the training and cultivation of thaumists and thaumaturgical study. Sicet - Currency used in the Allied Kingdoms.

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