Chapter Twenty Five - Silent Throne Cold Windows
KIERAN
The chamber was quiet, save for the gentle rustling of curtains brushing against the tall windows. The light of late afternoon bled through in warm streaks, golden and fading, casting long shadows across the floor of my private study.
The sky hung heavy with storm clouds, casting a steel-gray hue over the towering windows of my study. Thunder murmured distantly, echoing over the mountains, a reminder of the storm yet to break—inside and outside the castle walls.
I sat alone in a high-backed chair, one leg crossed over the other, a silver goblet untouched beside me on the table. In my hand, I held the folded invitation to the upcoming Spring Bloom Ball—reborn in tradition, the same festival that had haunted me since childhood.
My fingers gripped the parchment tighter.
It had been years—but the memory felt fresh, like a thorn buried under the skin that never quite healed. The elegant handwriting, the wax seal with the king’s crest… all of it reminded him.
The golden ballroom.
The laughter that had excluded me.
Alistair’s mocking voice echoing through the years.
A cursed stain.
I shut my eyes.
I could still hear the music.
I saw myself—nine years old—standing with trembling hands and hope in my chest, thinking if I just tried hard enough, someone would look at me and see me. Not the rumors. Not the battle mark. Not the boy punished for his mother's sin.
But no one did.
And when Alistair and the others had mocked me, when the nobles turned their gazes or smiled politely and walked away… It carved something hollow inside me. Something cold. Something that no amount of rank or power could ever quite fill.
The heavy doors opened with a firm push.
Alistair strode in.
He didn’t wait to be invited. Royalty didn’t ask permission.
His steps echoed sharply against the marble, his posture tense beneath his royal doublet of dark red and gold, the sigil of the House of Draven embossed at his chest like a brand. Dressed like a soldier instead of a prince.
He thinks he would be feared.
“You’ve been avoiding the war council meetings,” Alistair said, voice clipped. “Again.”
I didn’t respond. My eyes never left the window.
Alistair inhaled sharply and began to pace, a predator confined to a gilded cage. “You might think your station gives you leeway, but the council is growing impatient with your absence. There’s unrest along the Northern Pass, and the emissaries from Soldera are growing... bold.”
I blinked slowly, as if I hadn’t heard a word.
Alistair’s jaw clenched.
“They want the trade rights across the mountain roads,” he pressed. “And Father will not yield to their arrogance. You know this. A war may be coming—”
"What am I going to do about it?" I said, my voice quiet but cutting. My tone was smooth, like ice forming over deep water. “Let them come.”
Alistair stopped pacing.
The silence between us thickened, heavy with old wounds and unsaid words. Alistair’s fists clenched at his sides.
“You’re reckless,” he hissed. “Your obsession with shadows and solitude makes you a liability. You think the crown protects you, but one day it won’t be enough. Father—”
I finally turned my head, just slightly, enough to cast a cold, sideward glance at my brother.
“Is this where you lecture me about duty again, brother?” My voice was silk wrapped around a blade. “Or is it about legacy this time?”
Alistair took a breath, trying to rein in his rising temper. He strode closer, pausing just behind my chair, his voice lowering.
“There’s going to be a ball. A show of unity before the lords. A necessary charade.” He spat the word like it tasted foul. “You’ll be there.”
"When was the last time you saw me there?" he sighed, looking away.
I leaned back against the chair, one arm lazily draped across the rest. My smirk was barely visible, shadowed by my dark hair and the stormlight.
“I wasn’t planning to attend. Until recently.”
Alistair narrowed his eyes. “And what changed?”
A beat passed.
My reply came slow and measured, a low hum beneath my breath. “Something… worth showing up for.”
My gaze returned to the window, dismissive, as if Alistair had already left.
The insinuation wasn’t subtle. It didn’t need to be.
Alistair’s nostrils flared.
“Do not think she will save you,” he bit out. “A girl with a soft voice and questions in her eyes won’t change what you are.”
I didn’t flinch. “You sound afraid.”
Alistair stormed forward, placing both palms on the table near me with a hard slam. “She’s a distraction. And when war comes, there won’t be room for distractions.”
I slowly rose to my feet, calm and composed like a man already used to fire.
I towered slightly over Alistair, and yet I didn’t raise my voice.
"Whose plan was it?" He arched his brow. "What are you talking about?"
"The marriage?" I smirked. "It was all your father's plan for me to be distracted." His expression darkened. "You're getting it wrong, Kieran."
"Don't care. Just pray,” I said quietly, “that war doesn’t come.”
Our eyes locked for a tense second—Alistair’s burning with resentment, mine glacial and unreadable.
Without another word, Alistair turned sharply on his heel and stormed out of the study, the door slamming behind him.
I remained standing, the echo still ringing in my ears.
I looked again to the window. The storm was closer now. Rain began to tap against the glass.
Something worth showing up for.
My thoughts wandered—not to the ball, not to war, but to her. Liora.
Her voice.
Her defiance.
Her eyes—afraid, curious, and something else... something unspoken.
And despite everything, I found my lips turning into the faintest, unexpected smile.
The kind born from memory.
Or hope.