Chapter 22 - Festival of Sol

  Ryn sat stiffly in a place he’d never seen before, high up in one of the palace towers. The table between them was small, elegant, and entirely out of place for him. Beyond it, the view stretched over the whole of Solvara, rooftops, banners, and the bustle of the festival far below.

  Lilia, on the other hand, looked perfectly at home. She sipped her tea, a plate of food already neatly arranged in front of her.

  Ryn eyed the spread, then looked at her, then gazed out at the dizzying view. “…So,” he muttered, resting his elbows on his knees, “what’s this about?”

  Lilia chuckled, setting her cup down with a soft clink. “R-Ryn… you make it sound like I only ever talk to you when I’ve got some scheme in mind.”

  She tilted her head, silver hair swaying as she added, half-teasing, half-earnest, “Am I not allowed to just… check on a friend?”

  Ryn prodded at his food, his gaze fixed on the plate instead of her. “…I guess,” he muttered, the word carrying more resignation than agreement.

  “Shouldn’t you be helping Ariel prepare?” Ryn asked, still looking down at his food as he ate.

  “I was,” Lilia said, sitting a bit straighter. “Since morning, actually. But they’ve moved on to her hair, and I… well, I’d only get in the way. The other maids are better at that sort of thing.” She lifted her teacup, eyes flicking to him. “So we decided it was safer if we checked on you instead. Make sure a noble hasn’t… I don’t know, challenged you to a duel already.”

  Ryn frowned. “We?”

  “Ariel and I,” she said quickly, setting the cup down. “Though it seems we were worried for nothing. You’re doing fine. More than fine, really, some of the nobles practically faint when you walk past.”

  Her lips twitched, betraying the smallest smirk.

  “…That’s not the compliment you think it is,” Ryn muttered.

  Lilia let out a quick, breathless giggle, covering it with her cup.

  They ate in silence for a while, the only sounds the faint clink of cutlery and the wind brushing past the tower. Then Lilia set her fork down, her gaze drifting outward.

  Below them, the city sprawled alive, streets bursting with color and motion, masked dancers twirling between stalls, laughter carrying on the breeze. Cheers rose from the crowds, mingling with the distant music of flutes and drums.

  For a long moment, she simply watched, eyes reflecting the festival below.

  “Ariel and I used to come up to this tower a lot,” Lilia said softly, her fingers curling around her teacup.

  Her eyes stayed fixed on the city below, as though she were watching something only she could see. “Back then… she’d always brag about how she was going to make everyone in the city happy. That she’d protect them all, just like her mother did.”

  “I can’t help but feel like… after all of this,” Lilia murmured, her silver lashes dipping as she exhaled. Then, almost as if admitting a secret, she added, “She’s succeeded.”

  Ryn’s gaze lingered on the city below, the cheers and colors carrying faintly up to them. His jaw tightened, but his voice was quiet, almost thoughtful.

  “…She has,” he said. “Even if it cost her more than anyone should have to give.”

  With those words, the crowd outside erupted into cheers as a performance came to an end, the sound echoing faintly even this high up. The two of them sat in silence for a while longer, finishing their meals at an easy pace.

  At last, Lilia pushed back her chair, smoothing her skirt as she stood. “I-I should… probably get back to Ariel,” she said. Then, softening, she gave Ryn a shy but genuine smile. “It was… really nice talking with you, Ryn.”

  He didn’t know how to respond to her smile. He nodded.

  She hesitated for half a beat before waving quickly, cheeks a touch pink. “I’ll tell Ariel you’re doing well!”

  And with that, she hurried off, silver hair bouncing as she all but skipped down the stairwell.

  With that, Ryn let out a low sigh and made his way back toward the nobles’ waiting room. The halls were alive with frantic movement, servants rushing past with armfuls of fabrics, polished silver, crates of wine, every step a part of the palace’s frantic preparation.

  But one servant broke from the stream, nearly stumbling as he skidded to a stop before Ryn. His forehead gleamed with sweat, his breath uneven as though he’d been running all morning and noon.

  “A–are you… Sir Ryn?” the servant asked, forcing his voice into something resembling composure as his eyes flicked over Ryn’s polished appearance.

  Ryn gave a simple nod.

  The servant straightened, though his hands still trembled slightly. “Th-the King requests your presence. At his chambers.”

  His chambers?

  Ryn trailed behind the servant, weaving through the silver white parts of the palace he had never seen; corridors lit by tall braziers, their flames throwing long shadows across stone walls. Eventually, they came to a stretch of hallway that seemed to go on forever, ending at the largest set of doors Ryn had ever seen.

  Two guards stood at either side, their armor marked with the insignia of the Royal Vanguard. Their eyes flicked to him, seemingly recognizing him for a second, but whatever doubts they had vanished as they noticed his attire; they bowed without question as he approached.

  The servant hurried forward, pushing the heavy doors open with both hands, then stepped inside with Ryn at his heels. The chamber was vast and dimly lit, the air heavier here, as though the walls themselves bore witness to secrets never meant to be spoken aloud.

  The servant cleared his throat, voice trembling faintly as it echoed across the room.

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  “Your Majesty, I’ve brought Sir Ryn of the Golden Hawks' family… as you requested. It, ah, took some time. Your descriptions were… harder to match than expected.”

  From behind the vast white curtain, a voice rumbled, low and measured.

  “I see.”

  The faint silhouettes of servants and maids shifted in the fabric, their movements twisting and overlapping like restless shadows.

  “All of you. Leave us.”

  The words carried no anger, no urgency, only command, and that was enough. The chamber fell still. One by one, the attendants bowed, then filed quietly out the great doors. Even the servant who had guided Ryn here slipped away without a word.

  The heavy doors closed with a muted thud, leaving Ryn alone in the cavernous room, the silence pressing in as he faced only the curtain and the unseen presence beyond it.

  A voice from behind the white curtain cut the quiet like a blade.

  “...What are you, boy?”

  The words weren’t loud, but they carried through the chamber as though the stones themselves whispered them.

  Ryn’s brow twitched. What kind of question is that?

  “I am a knight of Solvara. Sworn to Princess Ariel.”

  The King’s laugh spread low and cold, crawling under Ryn’s skin.

  “You will obey any order she gives. You will lay down your life for her?”

  “Without question,” Ryn said.

  “Why?”

  “Because that is my duty.”

  The reply came automatic, almost mechanical. As if even entertaining the question was beneath him.

  The laugh deepened, darker, stretching into the corners of the chamber.

  “Ha. You truly are something else.”

  The silence that followed grew thick. Heavy. Oppressive.

  Ryn shifted faintly on his feet. His instincts screamed that something was wrong. Why am I here? Why is he asking me this? He had braced for commands, an inspection, anything. Not riddles whispered like accusations.

  Then the voice cut again, sharper, colder.

  “But you have not yet answered my question, Ryn. I did not ask who you are. I asked what you are.”

  Ryn froze. His mouth went dry. What… I am?

  The King’s tone slipped clinical, like a surgeon peeling skin from bone.

  “They say you were dragged in, half-dead from the bridge. Blood crusted in your hair. Teeth bared like a wolf’s—a child with an unnatural hand for the blade.”

  Each word landed like a hammer.

  The bridge? How does he—

  “People do not stumble into Solvara, boy. Our peaks keep the world out. Either you came with intent… or fate has a peculiar sense of humor.”

  Ryn’s pulse thudded against his throat. He wanted to speak, to deny it, but the weight of the King’s voice pressed the air from his chest. What is he suggesting? I was a survivor. Nothing more.

  “At first, I thought it simple: a child with a sword. Another ember for the crown’s forge. But now I wonder…”

  A finger tapped wood, slow, deliberate. Each beat like a clock counting down.

  “Tell me, Ryn…” The King’s voice dropped lower, colder. “…have you worn your mask so high, held it so tight, that even you have forgotten what lies beneath it? A face buried under pretense, duty, and survival. Do you even recognize what you are anymore? Or is there nothing left but the mask itself?”

  Ryn’s throat clenched. His jaw locked until it hurt.

  The King let the silence bleed out, then murmured, almost pitying:

  “How troubling.”

  Ryn’s stomach knotted. He forced his eyes forward, but his heart was hammering.

  “But no matter,” the King said. “They tell me you are no threat.”

  Ryn’s brow twitched. They?

  The unseen gaze from behind the curtain sharpened, a blade pressing close enough to draw blood.

  “But yet… my curiosity remains.”

  The voice dipped lower, slow and surgical.

  “You. A mere human, slaying an aberration of that rank, alone.”

  The silence that followed clawed at Ryn’s nerves. He felt his fingers twitch against empty air, searching instinctively for a hilt that wasn’t there.

  Then, colder still:

  “You. The one who appeared nine months after her death.”

  The words hit like a fall through ice.

  Ryn’s thoughts stuttered. What? Whose death? What does he— His chest clenched. The words were ice water in his veins. He fought to keep his face steady, his body still. Only his hand betrayed him, brushing the silks at his side where his sword should have been. The emptiness made his stomach drop.

  Another pause. Endless. Crushing.

  Then, softer than a whisper, heavier than a verdict:

  “What are you?”

  Ryn’s mind was a blur of questions, panic clawing at the edge of his thoughts. What does he know? What does he see in me? The silence pressed until it felt like he would choke.

  His answer slipped out flat, automatic, the only shield he had left.

  “A knight, Your Majesty.”

  The shadow behind the curtain shifted, stretching unnaturally long across the floor. A hand rose. One finger pointed straight at him, steady, merciless.

  The chamber itself seemed to hold its breath.

  Then the word fell, sharp as a guillotine.

  “Liar.”

  ***

  In the hours he’d spent waiting, the palace had transformed. Solvaran banners draped from every arch, chandeliers burned high, and the air carried the hum of perfume and music.

  When the attendants finally called, Ryn rose with the others, following them through the endless halls. Torches flared against polished stone, shadows bending long across the floor. Nobles glided easily, their chatter light, laughter unbothered. For Ryn, every step only made the collar at his throat bite deeper, the weight of his attire drag heavier.

  The doors opened. Light spilled out in waves of gold and silver. The ballroom stretched vast before him, chandeliers glittering, voices rising like a tide, the sweep of gowns and polished shoes gliding across the marble.

  Only Ryn stood apart.

  Both Ariel and Lilia are still not here, he thought.

  The music swelled, strings and lutes weaving a bright, regal harmony, as though all of Solvara’s pride was captured in those notes. Robes whispered, goblets clinked, painted smiles locked in place, the moment poised and perfect. Yet beneath the glow, Ryn felt it, something ending, something inevitable pressing closer with every beat of the drum.

  And then the harmony faltered.

  A trumpet cut the air, sharp and final.

  The herald’s voice rang clear:

  “Now introducing the royal and noble families of Varghelm—”

  The doors groaned open, spilling light across the floor. Every eye in the hall fixed forward as the shadow of Varghelm’s banners fell inside