The Throne Hall of Scales had never looked softer.
Lanterns floated like tame stars under the ribbed crystal ceiling. The dragonbone arches threw back a warm glow. Along the outer walls, names scrolled in steady lines—warders, medics, fence crews, unit leads—each one catching applause as the camera feed highlighted a face in the crowd. The orchestra tested a gentle chord. Drones drifted at approved heights like curious birds.
We’d made it through the hard part. Lyralei’s opening had landed clean. Marcus spoke for the Line with a soldier’s plain truth. We took the moment of silence early, like Tiamat asked; the quiet was full and honest. Ian read names with the two choir elders—steady cadence, pauses where the room needed them. Luna closed the honors with thanks to the healers and the people who held the fence when it wanted to break. No drama. Just weight and gratitude.
Now the floor belonged to the living.
"Daddy," Stella whispered from my side, tugging my sleeve. She’d installed herself as my handler after the honors, slate in hand, braid already slipping from all the motion. "Stick to the plan, okay?"
"What plan?" I asked, to make her roll her eyes.
"The dance plan," she said, tapping the slate. "Order matters. Also hydrate between partners."
"Yes, ma’am," I said, and took the offered glass just in time.
Reika stood two steps behind us, half in shadow, half in silk. Palace security had inspected her twice and then quietly asked her to watch the inspectors, which amused both of us. She met my eyes once. The message was simple: I’m here. Also—don’t drift too far from our ring.
The palace announcer’s voice carried cleanly over the hall. "Presenting the Mount Hua delegation, led by Her Highness, Princess Seraphina."
Heads turned. The Mount Hua contingent swept in like a winter breeze. Seraphina walked at their head in pale blue, lines clean, the understated grace only she could turn into a kind of armor. Silver hair braided and pinned with a single jade comb. Ice-blue eyes cool and steady until they found me; then a small warmth thawed their center.
She reached me as the orchestra settled on the first waltz. Protocol would have had me offer my hand. Seraphina cut past protocol, as always, and offered hers first.
"Arthur," she said, voice low enough for me alone. "May I have this dance?"
We moved to the floor. The crowd gave us space without being told. Seraphina’s frame was precise. No wasted motion. No showy spins. She liked a clean line and a partner who knew where his feet belonged.
"I saw your edit," she murmured as we turned, referring to the basilisk fight without dragging it onto the floor. "Violet Mist made of Grey. Not ours. Not anyone’s. It fit you."
"It worked," I said. "And it looked nice."
"It did," she said, a hint of amusement in the corner of her mouth. "Beautiful, if we are allowed to use that word for something designed to kill."
"Sometimes the world listens better when the truth is said beautifully," I said.
Her hand tightened a fraction in mine. "You sound like my grandmother," she said. "It suits you less than the Grey."
We moved through the last bars. Seraphina’s steps feathered just enough to satisfy the watching Mount Hua elders who judge form like they judge battle stances. At the end she dipped her head, a small bow both personal and formal. "You did well," she said softly. "Rest when this ends. Even if the Grey says you do not need to."
"I’ll try," I said. She knew trying was the honest promise.
We cleared the floor. Stella was there before anyone else, swapping a tiny wooden token from one pocket to another. "One down," she said. "Breathe."
"Princess Rachel," she said, and bit her lip like she was trying not to smile too widely. "She’s waiting by the choir seats."
I knew before I turned. The music around her felt lighter.
Rachel stood near the choir rail, talking with two warders in that way she had—fully, without making them feel like they were taking up a princess’s time. White dress, simple lines, hair down in a soft fall that caught the hall’s gold. When she looked over, deep blue eyes met mine, and that thin ring of gold in them caught the light.
"Arthur," she said, and her voice did the thing it always did—slipped past my head and spoke directly to everything I keep locked tight. It wasn’t magic. It felt like truth in a key the body recognizes before the mind does.
"Rachel," I said, and reached for her hand because anything else would have been a lie.
We stepped in. The orchestra shifted into something gentle and open, as if the hall itself wanted to make room for her tone. Rachel didn’t lead or follow; she met you halfway and made the rest easy.
"You’re all right?" she asked. It should have been a simple question. In her mouth, it was a promise to help carry the answer.
"I’m all right," I said, and then, because lying to that voice is a kind of sin, I added, "Tired underneath. The kind that will show up tomorrow if I’m not careful tonight."
"I’ll be careful for you," she said, and if anyone else had said that I would have bristled. From her, it landed like a cool hand over a fever. "Promise me one thing."
"When the music ends and the speeches stop and people start pulling you in ten directions, let me steal you for five minutes to breathe."
We turned once more. She laughed at something a child did by the dessert tables, and the sound lifted a cluster of shoulders around us. She didn’t know she did that. Or maybe she did and chose it on purpose. Either way, the hall felt kinder for it.
We finished. Rachel squeezed my hand and drifted back to her warders. A cheer rose from the kids’ corner as the dragon documentary switched to baby drakes. Stella clapped once in time with them, then pointed past my shoulder.
"Rose," she whispered, like a weather alert.