Aerion arched a brow at her reflection in the mirror. “How quaint.” His lips curled into a smirk. “What joy in watching peasants drink themselves stupid and trip over each other’s feet?”
Liora laughed, undeterred, the sound soft as the comb slipping through his hair. “Joy enough for them, my lord. And for me.”
Aerion tilted his head, feigning disdain. “You? You’d lower yourself to such antics?”
She bit her lip, a blush rising to her cheeks as she twisted another golden lock into place. “After my duties are finished, yes. My cousins will be waiting. We’ve promised to dance until our shoes fall apart.”
For a moment, Aerion said nothing. His sapphire eyes, sharp and mocking only a heartbeat before, lingered on her reflection—on the flush in her cheeks, the eager sparkle in her eyes. There was something disarming about it, that kind of simple, unashamed excitement. Something he could neither name nor permit himself to feel.
So he laughed instead, a short, cutting sound. “Gods preserve us. Liora, destroyer of slippers. What a terror you’ll be.”
But as she bent close to fasten a final pin, Aerion’s gaze drifted away from the mirror, out toward the distant horizon framed by the window. The faint sound of hammering floated up from the square below, where the stalls and garlands were being set.
His smirk lingered, but there was a crack in it now.
He was thoughtful.
Aerion dismissed her with a languid wave of his hand. “Go and play at ribbons and honey-cakes if it pleases you. I’ve no taste for rabble amusements.”
Liora bowed, quick and fond, her smile betraying the fact that she didn’t believe him. She slipped from the chamber, leaving behind the faint scent of lavender and the quiet hum of excitement that seemed to follow her everywhere.
The chamber was silent again.
Aerion leaned back in his chair, eyes falling to his reflection in the tall mirror propped against the wall. Golden hair pinned into perfection. Robe spilling rich velvet. Sapphire rings winking on slender fingers. A peacock, poised for court, every feather plucked and gilded until the bird beneath was hidden.
His smile faltered.
He remembered.
When he was younger—small enough still to slip through the halls unnoticed—he would press his face to the cold glass of those same windows on festival nights. The town below became something otherworldly, lanterns bobbing in every alley like fallen stars, laughter carried upward with the wind, the distant music so faint it seemed spun from a dream.
He had begged once, to be allowed to go. Only once.
He still remembered the way his father’s hand had closed over his small shoulder, heavy and steady. Not cruel and dismissive, but firm. The Archduke’s voice had been stern, yes, but Aerion had heard the undercurrent of worry in it even as a child.
“No, Aerion. It isn’t for you. Too many people, too many hands that might mean you harm. A son of Valemont must be kept safe.”
The words had landed sharp at the time, feeling like a denial of freedom, of joy. Aerion hadn’t heard the love behind them then; only the door closing. Only the reminder that he was different, set apart by blood and title.
So, he had stayed.
Year after year, he watched the lights flicker from behind stone walls while his father stood at his side, hand resting on his shoulder, never loosening. He listened to the music fading into the night while guards paced outside his chamber. He imagined the taste of sugar-dusted cakes, the thrill of dance, the careless joy of laughter that wasn’t weighed down by duty.
Until even imagining grew too heavy.
He stopped asking. Stopped wishing. Stopped dreaming.
And when the ache grew too sharp, he learned to sneer at it. To dress his longing in mockery. To laugh at what he could not touch. Better to call ribbons and honey-cakes foolish than to admit he wanted them with a hunger that never dimmed.
It was easier that way.
His gaze caught his reflection again. Taller now. Sharper. A lord in his own right. The keep bent to his word more than his father’s these days. He was no longer a boy at the window.
The thought settled in his chest like a spark catching tinder.
Abruptly, Aerion stood, striding toward the wardrobe with sudden, restless energy. He flung it open, ignoring the rich velvets, the jewelled clasps, the embroidered coats that gleamed like caged sunlight.
“Bring me something simple,” he called to no one in particular, his voice carrying into the antechamber where a servant always lingered. “Dark. Modest. Something that won’t draw every eye in town.”
