The Duty that binds Us

CHAPTER 2: “MIDNIGHT FEAST”

Once every decade, Tirrocks hosted the Festivals of the Gods — a multi-day celebration honouring the divine pantheon believed to watch over the kingdom: Elarion the Flamebearer, Maeryn the Sea Mother, Kael the Silent Judge, and others whose names echoed through ancient stone and whispered prayers. Offerings were made. Dances performed. Prophecies read aloud from scrolls older than the kingdom itself but behind the rituals, behind the golden masks and holy incense, there was always politics.

The high lords and ladies did not come to pray. They came to posture — to be seen, to whisper, to plot.

This year’s festival carried an extra weight—Lord Falco Hagen had returned.

His arrival during the Festival was no accident. It was a statement — bold, silent, and deliberate. The gods were watching, after all. What better time to remind the court that the Hagen's has always been favoured by the gods.

When Lord Falco entered the sacred courtyard of the castle, the entire gathering paused — as if the gods themselves had gone silent. The air grew still, the flames in the braziers flickering unnaturally low.

Raven, in her deep violet gown, moved with quiet grace beside her father. Her presence did not beg for attention. It commanded it.

Children of war. Heirs of shadow. The return of the Hagen's was the kingdom's most whispered prayer — or perhaps, its most feared omen.

And as the ceremonial horn sounded and the offerings to the gods began, eyes turned not to the shrines, but to the black-cloaked man and his storm-eyed daughter.

Why now? What does he want? What is his game?

In another wing of the castle, away from the clamour, Prince Theron stood in a marbled hallway lit by sunlight streaming through stained-glass windows. His peace was interrupted by the sound of fast-approaching footsteps.

A figure swept towards him like a storm barely held at bay, her green robes trailing behind her like flames, it was his step-mother Queen Glenda.

“You will not insert yourself into this,” she hissed, voice sharp as a blade. “The throne is not yours to chase, Theron. You were born of a woman long gone. The crown belongs to my son — Dorian — and I will see it placed upon his head if I have to burn every obstacle in his path.”

Theron said nothing. His posture remained calm, unshaken. He simply looked at her and looked away, the weight of her hatred sliding off him like rain off armour.

She took a step closer. “If you try anything… if you embarrass this family… I will make sure your name is erased from every book, every song, every wall in this castle.”

Still, he didn’t speak.

She spun on her heel to leave — but was stopped by a servant rushing toward her, breathless.

“Your Majesty,” he said with a bow. “Your advisor… he’s arrived. He waits in your chambers.”

Her eyes narrowed. She gave Theron one last withering glance, then stormed down the hall, skirts snapping behind her like banners in battle.

Theron remained still for a moment longer, watching her go. Only when she was gone did his lips curl, ever so slightly.

The chamber was dimly lit, the curtains drawn tight to keep out the festival lights. Only a single lamp flickered on the carved oak desk where scrolls lay scattered like fallen leaves. The scent of myrrh and lavender did little to mask the tension in the room.

Queen Glenda sat stiffly on the edge of her seat, her emerald robes now unfastened at the throat, a sign of the weariness she refused to show in public. Her face was still painted, but the cracks in her calm were beginning to show beneath the gold dust and rouge.

Lord Riverine stood across from her, hands clasped behind his back. His robes were simple — a far cry from his influence. His eyes, sharp and cold, were watching her closely.

“Well?” he asked, voice low and even. “Has the king spoken of it yet? Has he named Prince Dorian as his heir?”

Glenda’s lips pressed into a thin line. “No. He says the tradition must stand. That only a prince who has produced a male heir can be named successor. He is still of sound mind, Riverine… and far too stubborn.”

The advisor’s gaze did not waver. “Then he is a fool. And you know what happens to fools who ignore the tides of politics — they are swept away.”

Glenda looked down at her hands. They trembled slightly before she clasped them together to still them.

“You’re frightened,” Riverine said quietly.

“I am not,” she snapped — too quickly. Then, softer, “I am cautious. The dreams… they come in warnings, we must act and fast.”

Riverine stepped closer, his voice now little more than a whisper. “You must show strength, the walls have ears, the enemies can see through the cracks but do not worry my queen, I am here and will aid you.”

Her silence was the confirmation he needed.

He leaned forward. “What we must be is steadfast, Your Majesty — if Prince Dorian is not named heir, we are dead. Not disgraced. Not exiled. Dead. Heads on pikes. Names scrubbed from history.”

Glenda inhaled slowly, then stood. Her composure returned like armour snapping into place.

“Then we will make sure Dorian is named,” she said. “With or without a son.”

“Even if it means defying tradition?” Riverine asked, brows raised.

She met his gaze with cold certainty. “I’ve defied worse.”

He gave a slow nod, then changed the subject with precision. “Lord Falco is here, with his children.”

That brought a shadow to her face. “what do they want?” she asked.

“That’s the question on everyone’s, Your Majesty. What does Falco gain by returning now, during the Festivals of the Gods, no less? His children I hear are…quite grown and behind their father in all his deeds. What in the gods name are they playing at?”

Glenda’s eyes narrowed. “If it is a power play, then we must counter it but for I do not see a threat. I will speak to the king again. I married him when no one thought I could. I will get his ear.”

Riverine stepped back. “And what of the girl?”

“The lowborn?” Glenda asked. “Yes… that mission still stands. We must find someone Dorian will be drawn to. She will be sweet, loyal… and most importantly, without ambition. She will be our insurance. If she bears him a son, we’ll name the child — not her — as prince. The throne will still be his. Ours.”

Riverine gave a satisfied nod. “Then I shall see it done.”

As he bowed and turned to leave, Glenda walked to the window with a glass of wine in her hand. She pulled the curtain back slightly, just enough to glimpse the fires from the courtyard below — the sacred bonfires lit in the gods’ names, while staring fiercely, she gulps the entire content of the cup.

Her reflection stared back at her in the glass — regal, poised… and terrified.

The corridor was quiet — the kind of silence that hummed beneath the surface of grand castles, where secrets lived in the tapestries and the stone itself remembered names long buried.

Raven wasn’t supposed to be there. Not on this floor. Not at that hour. She had only meant to slip past, unnoticed, toward the west balcony to clear her mind. But fate — or perhaps something crueller — had other plans.

Rounding the corner, she nearly collided into him. For a moment, they both stopped. The air around them seemed to freeze, the torches on the walls casting flickering shadows across their faces.

He had grown. No longer the sharp-tongued, wiry boy who used to spar with her brother in the training yards — all bruised knuckles and pride. The man before her now stood tall and poised, with a composure carved from restraint. His grey tunic fit like armour, simple yet regal, and his eyes — still that cool, unreadable steel — were watching her with the same intensity she remembered from years ago.

Raven found her voice before her courage.

“You’ve grown,” she said softly. “No longer the boy always getting into trouble... or fighting my brother.” Quickly she realised who she was talking to, not a boy but a prince. “I mean, greetings my Lord” and she gave a curtsy.

A faint smile touched Theron’s lips — a rare expression, more thought than warmth.

“And you,” he replied, his voice low and calm, “are no longer the girl who used to drag me out of those fights before the masters saw.”

She couldn’t help but smile, despite herself. “I don’t think you ever thanked me for that.”

“I don’t think I did,” he said. “But then again... I don’t remember ever saying goodbye either.”

A silence followed — not awkward, but weighted. There were things between them still unsaid, memories tucked behind careful glances. She shifted slightly, unsure whether to linger or to walk away.

Theron took a half-step forward. “You didn’t come here by accident, did you?”

“I could ask you the same,” she answered, tilting her head. “The palace is full of hallways. And yet… here we are.”

A pause.

He studied her — really studied her — as if trying to piece together who she had become, and if she was still the girl from the quiet room, the one with storm in her voice and fire in her gaze.

Then he said quietly, “You haven’t changed. But somehow… you have.”

Raven held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than was proper.

And then, as if remembering where they stood — who they were now — she looked away first.

“I should go back to the party,” she murmured.

“Yes,” he agreed. But neither of them moved.

The air between them shifted — heavier now, like a storm waiting to break.

Theron’s voice came low, just above a whisper, edged with both mischief and intent.“Tell me,” he said, eyes tracing hers, “did you dress specially for me tonight… or is there someone else you're hoping to catch the eye of?”

Raven blinked, caught off guard, but not unarmed.

“And what if there is someone?” she replied, coolly, but with a flicker of amusement in her tone. “It’s none of your business.”

He exhaled, half a chuckle, half a sigh. “So you still see me as the boy who wasn’t worth your time. Still make it clear that you're older, wiser, above it all.”

A smirk played on her lips. “Well, I am older, Theron. You’ve always been quick, but never quite fast enough to catch me.”

His gaze didn’t waver. In fact, it deepened, softened.

“Do you remember,” he said, his voice lowering again and finding her ears to whisper into, “what I told you that day in the library?”

Raven felt her breath catch in her throat. She remembered.

Of course, she remembered.

Before she could respond, he took a step closer — close enough that she could feel the warmth of him. His hand reached out, tentative at first, then confident as it settled gently at her waist.

She didn’t move. Didn’t stop him. Didn’t even flinch.

He leaned in, his lips barely a whisper from her ear.

“I said,” he breathed, “I will defy you… and make you mine.”

The words sent a current through her, sharp and sure.

Her eyes met his — fierce, stormy, questioning. They were close now, so close she could feel the beat of his heart thrumming against her chest. She could smell the sandalwood on his skin, feel the brush of his breath on her neck.

But she didn’t step away.

And neither did he.

The hallway stretched silent around them, as if even the stone dared not interrupt. For a moment — a dangerous, suspended moment — time belonged to no one but them. Raven and Prince Theron stood frozen in the dimly lit hallway, their eyes locked in a moment thick with unspoken emotions. The noise of approaching footsteps broke the spell. Flushed with embarrassment, Raven hastily disentangled herself from his grasp, her cheeks burning with a deep blush. Her wide eyes flickered with shock before she turned and fled down the corridor, her skirts whispering behind her.

Prince Theron watched her go, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips.

Laughter and music filled the grand hall, where nobles mingled under the glittering chandeliers. In a quieter corner, Lord Falco and his cousin, Lord Martin, spoke in hushed tones, their conversation concealed from the curious eyes around them.

As they exchanged a few guarded words, Lord Hilly approached with his usual practiced smile. Bowing slightly, he addressed them.

"My Lords," Hilly said smoothly, "might I have a word with Lord Falco in private?"

Lord Martin gave a curt nod, and with a conspiratorial glance, he drifted back into the crowd. Hilly led Falco a few paces away, their conversation shielded by the din of the revelry.

"I come with a proposal," Hilly began, voice low. "It would serve both our houses well if your daughter, Lady Raven, were to be wed to Prince Theron. The prince must marry swiftly to secure his claim, and such a union would greatly benefit your house’s standing."

As Hilly spoke, a flicker of memory crossed Falco’s mind: a shadowed room, a desperate aide of Hilly’s cornered and sweating under Falco’s ruthless persuasion. The memory played out vividly — Lord Falco, smirking coldly, forcing the trembling man to ensure Raven’s name would be submitted among the eligible candidates for the prince's bride.

The memory faded, and Lord Falco masked his satisfaction behind a performance of feigned surprise.

"This is most unexpected," Falco murmured, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “We just arrived and Raven is still trying to adapt to the environment, the kingdom…I understand Lord Falco, Advisor Hilly cuts in— she is your ward and you can make her understand, prepare her for what is to come. This alliance will serve us all well. “I shall, consider your proposal carefully, my lord."

Hilly bowed once more and departed, melting back into the festivities.

Left alone, Falco allowed himself a small, victorious smile.

Lord Martin soon reappeared, holding two goblets of wine. He offered one to Falco, raising his in a silent toast.

“It seems everything is falling into place, cousin,” Martin said with a sly grin.

Falco clinked his goblet against Martin's. “Indeed, cousin. Indeed, fetch my children let us return home, our job here is done.”