"Oh, Lord Philia, you look absolutely radiant. Truly, like a star brought down to earth. I daresay the Crown Prince will fall even deeper for you the moment lays eyes on you in this."

Philia tilted his head, watching his reflection in the towering mirror as the royal tailor made a final, minute adjustment to the embroidery along his waist. The fabric was a masterpiece of fine silk and silver threading, catching the afternoon light in a way that made him appear almost ethereal. It was a suit designed for a celebration, specifically, the grand party to celebrate the success of the Northern subjugation.

As the tailor fussed over the hem, a sharp memory pierced through Philia’s satisfaction. He remembered that day, not so long ago, when he had caught a glimpse of Cherion doing a fitting of his own. It had been a much humbler affair, yet something about the way the light had hit Cherion’s face had stayed with him like a splinter. He shook the thought away, a tight, cold smile touching his lips. He wouldn’t lose to Cherion. Not in the North, and certainly not here in the heart of the Empire where the hierarchy was written in stone.

"It will do," Philia said, his voice smooth and practiced. He offered a shallow, graceful nod to the tailor. "Thank you for your hard work. Ensure it is delivered to my chambers by sunset tomorrow."

"Of course, My Lord! It is an honor!"

Stepping out of the fitting room, Philia began the long walk back toward the central wing of the palace. The building was a hive of frantic activity.

Everywhere he looked, servants were scurrying with ladders, bundles of exotic flora, and massive silk banners bearing the Imperial crest. The air smelled of beeswax, fresh-cut lilies, and the faint warmth of enchanted lights being tested for the party. It was the kind of opulence that usually made Philia feel at peace, a reminder that he was exactly where he belonged, at the very top of the social food chain.

Yet, despite the grandeur, a persistent irritation gnawed at him. He realized with a jolt of annoyance that he hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of Yerel in days. Whenever he asked, the response was always the same: He’s busy with the knights, My Lord. He’s occupied with the border reports, My Lord.

Yerel had always been a man of duty, but this was different. He had been distant, his eyes perpetually focused on something far beyond the palace walls. He was quieter, more prone to long silences that even Philia’s sharpest barbs couldn’t break.

Philia tried to tell himself it was just the stress of his work or the fallout from the subjugation, but a cold instinct told him there was something else, something Yerel was keeping locked behind that stoic, knightly mask.

"My Lord Philia? You seem miles away." 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑛𝘰𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝒸𝑜𝘮

Philia blinked, coming to a halt as a familiar figure stepped out from the shadow of a marble pillar. It was Valen, his personal attendant.

"Valen," Philia said, his expression softening into the "gracious master" mask he wore for his staff. "I was just admiring the decorations. They’re certainly pulling out all the stops to welcome the Duke."

Valen bowed low. "The Capital has missed the Duke’s presence, My Lord. But I couldn’t help but notice the frown on your face. Does something trouble you?"

Philia sighed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. "Nothing of consequence. I was just reminiscing about my time in the North. Seeing everyone prepare for a subjugation party makes the memory of that place feel even more distant."

Valen’s expression shifted into one of profound apology. "Speaking of the North, My Lord... once again, I must offer my humblest apologies for asking for those days off. Had I known you would be forced to go to that rugged wilderness alone to accompany Lord Cherion, I never would have left your side."

Philia waved a hand dismissively, though his eyes remained sharp. "Again, Valen, there is no need to apologize. You had a genuine emergency at home. I am not so cruel a master that I would deny you your family in their time of need. Besides, I managed. It was... enlightening to see how they live."

"You are too kind, My Lord," Valen replied with a small, grateful smile. "I am simply glad to be back in your service. The palace feels right again with you at its center."

"Indeed," Philia murmured, though his mind was already drifting back to Yerel. "Valen, remind me, who is currently in the South Garden? I believe I was supposed to meet with other nobles."

"The Countess and her circle are already waiting for you, My Lord. They were quite anxious to hear your thoughts on the new lace imports from the coast."

Philia nodded and set off toward the gardens, Valen trailing a respectful three paces behind. When he arrived, the air was filled with the tinkling of silver spoons against porcelain and the high-pitched chirping of noble gossip.

"Philia! At last!" one of the women cried, fluttering her fan. "We were beginning to think the tailors had kidnapped you."

"My apologies, ladies and gentlemen," Philia said as he gracefully took his seat. "The fitting took a bit longer than anticipated. When one is dressing for the return of a war hero, one cannot afford a single loose thread."

The conversation flowed easily after that, a shallow, glittering stream of talk about silk weights, jewel cuts, and who would likely be disgraced at the upcoming dance. Philia navigated it effortlessly, laughing at the right moments and offering just enough stinging wit to keep his status unchallenged. But beneath the surface, he felt restless. Every time the wind rustled the leaves, he found himself looking toward the path that led back to the knight’s barracks.

After an hour of mindless chatter, Philia excused himself, claiming a headache brought on by the strong floral scents of the garden. He began the trek back into the palace, his footsteps echoing on the polished stone. As he passed through the grand gallery, something caught his eye, a movement on one of the high, arched balconies that overlooked the main courtyard and the road leading to the city gates.

He stopped, squinting against the glare of the setting sun.

Isn’t that... Cherion’s old room?

The tall windows there were usually dark by this hour, the chambers left untouched ever since Cherion had been sent away to the North. Most servants avoided that corridor entirely these days, whispering about old tempers and shattered vases as though the room itself carried bad luck.

Yet now, against the golden haze of the setting sun, Philia could swear he saw a figure standing near the window.

Just a silhouette.

For one fleeting second, his mind dismissed it as a servant or a guard making rounds. But then the figure shifted slightly, and something about the posture sent a sharp chill racing down his spine.

No. That looked painfully familiar.

Philia’s eyes narrowed. Isn’t that... Yerel?

The thought struck him so suddenly that he instinctively looked away. But a heartbeat later, unease twisted tighter in his chest, forcing his gaze back toward the balcony.

The window was empty.