#radiant tempests

"Just because he's the prince of Hiberia," Lando said, as calmly as he could while the near-constant buzzing just beneath his skin receded, "doesn't mean he's earned the right to be called the Rising Sun. I mean, the man looks like he's about to pass out from exhaustion!"

"They say he spends most of his nights in training," Alex offered semi-distractedly. He was etching his sword with protective arcana, the swooping pentagrams beset with runic and sacred symbols. "He takes nightly excursions throughout Hiberia, with only one or two trusted friends accompanying him."

Lando's eyes widened. "The king would allow that?" Lando gasped. "He's second in line to the throne! Why would he risk-?"

George shot a knowing look at Lando,who flushed and looked away. He knew all too well how easily the spare might be required to become the heir. "In any case," Lando mumbled, "it feels irresponsible. It feels Hiberian."

"Goddess, but you're a xenophobe sometimes," George muttered, and just as Lando took up his tankard to smack George atop the head for casting such aspersions, three things happened:

First, in his haste to get away from Lando, George jostled Alex, whose thumb grazed the sharp edge of his sword. Alex squawked in dismay, "No, my arcana-!"

Then Lando, George, and Alex stared in horror as the pentagram greedily drank the singular, bright red drop of blood, and activated.

Then, his Grace, the Lord Provost Button of the Fort Silverstone School of Knight Enchanters glided towards them, the hirsute Prince Sir Carlos of Hiberia in tow, and said, "Hail, lads, I wanted to charge you-"

And that was when Alex's sword decided to leap from his hand and jam itself in the rafters.

...or rather, that was what was supposed to happen. There were no splinters falling snowflake-like atop the table. There were no yelps of surprise. There was only one man, one foot planted firmly right beside Lando's thigh, the other right in front of Lando, and in his hand—held aloft like a trophy—was Alex's upstart sword.

Lando stared at him. George stared at him. Alex stared at him. The Lord Provost stared at him.

Prince Sir Carlos looked at the sword in his hand, as if surprised it was there, and then cleared his throat. "Er," he offered apologetically, and George squeaked, "How did you get there so fast?"

"Training," the prince said quickly, and, most surprising of all, his gaze locked with Lando's. Lando's breath hitched: hirsute might have been the first impression, but this man was handsome, more handsome than he had ever seen before: his hair shaggy, eyes golden-brown and wide, lips full, cheeks high, jaw sharp. He looked like a caricature of Hiberian looks, but there was something in his eyes, something different, that brought his looks down to earth. "My apologies," he said to Lando, and Lando's throat worked as he sought to say something, anything. But then the prince cleared his throat against and said, "I-I stepped...stepped in your stew."

Lando looked in front of him. Indeed, the prince's fine leather boot was in his stew. Or, rather, might have been had the bowl not broken beneath his weight.

"Oh," Lando said, and he felt really quite dizzy. "Oh."

Then he scowled up at the prince, his crackling back in full force, and growled, "I was hungry."

What followed was silence: deep and mortified from George; dismayed and distracted from Alex; and- something from the Hiberian prince, but not anger, not offense, not even surprise, just...

Curiosity. Pleasant excitement.

...why was that so obvious to Lando?

"Goddess preserve me," the Lord Provost sighed. "It's going to be a long year."