5. The Pull

Moonlight glazed the black-marble courtyards of Castle Veilridge, turning the banners of Thornvale and Viremonthe into twin silver flames. The Grand Conclave had begun.

Leo Drazan adjusted the silver clasp of his cloak and scanned the ocean of nobles and guards flooding the courtyard. He hated spectacles. Tonight, his father’s eyes would measure every move, every breath. And Anna, always perfect, always watching - rested her manicured hand on his arm like a jeweled shackle.

“You look like a man walking to his own funeral,” she said lightly.

“Maybe I am,” Leo murmured.

Anna’s lips curved. “Then smile. The dead don’t frown in portraits.”

Before he could answer, the Conclave’s opening bell tolled - a deep, throbbing sound that rolled through the castle and out to the jagged cliffs beyond. Delegates began to move toward the Moonlit Bridge, the ceremonial span connecting Thornvale’s wing of the fortress to Viremonthe’s. Neutral ground. Sacred stone.

Leo’s pulse kicked. He didn’t know why until he saw him.

On the Viremonthe side, Cris Orven tugged at the collar of his dark coat and groaned. “If one more council elder tells me to stand straighter, I’m going to bite someone.”

Lori, sword strapped casually across her back, smirked. “Please do. It’d lighten up the evening.”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you? The heir causing a diplomatic incident?”

“I live for diplomatic incidents,” she said, giving him a wicked grin. “Besides, you’re heir to the throne. Who’s going to scold you? Your father? He’d just write another treaty.”

Cris chuckled, nerves easing a fraction. “You really are my favorite terrible influence.”

“I’m the only reason you haven’t died of boredom yet.” Lori’s amber eyes swept the Thornvale side. “Speaking of interesting things - check out the prince.”

Cris followed her gaze and nearly forgot how to breathe. Across the bridge, framed by silver banners, Leo Drazan stood like a shadow sculpted from moonlight.

“Careful,” Lori teased, voice low. “You’re staring like he’s dessert.”

“Maybe I’m hungry,” Cris said before he could stop himself.

“Wow. Didn’t know you swung royal.”

“I don’t,” he muttered.

“Sure,” Lori drawled. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Cris tore his eyes away, heart drumming, but the image of the dark-haired prince burned behind his lids.

They stepped onto the bridge. The river roared below, silver with moonlight. Every footfall echoed like a heartbeat.

When they met in the center, the formalities vanished. No courtesies, no titles, just two names waiting to be spoken.

Leo found his voice first. “You’re… Viremonthe’s heir.”

“Cris Orven,” he said, his accent smoke and steel. “And you’re Thornvale’s prince.”

“Unfortunately,” Leo replied, surprising himself.

Cris’s brows rose. “Not a proud son of the crown?”

“I wear the name. The crown wears me.” Leo tilted his head. “You?”

“Same cage, different bars.”

A laugh, low and dangerous, passed between them. The air thickened. For a moment neither moved.

Then a cough broke the spell. Anna’s, precise as a blade. “Prince,” she said, voice honeyed. “We should greet the High Council.”

Leo didn’t look at her. “In a moment.”

Cris’s lips curved. “Defying the queen already?”

“She isn’t queen yet.”

“Bold of you to assume she won’t be.”

“I don’t assume,” Leo said softly. “I choose.”

Something flickered in Cris’s eyes. Could it be recognition or memory? Then a Conclave herald called his name and Lori tugged his sleeve.

“Don’t get lost, Your Highness,” Lori teased. “We’d hate to start a war on the first night.”

“Too late,” Cris whispered, gaze still on Leo. “Something’s already burning.”

Later, when the feast spilled into midnight, Leo slipped from the hall. The music behind him was a roar of strings and drunken laughter. He found the northern parapet empty and cold.

“You left before dessert,” a voice said.

He turned. Cris leaned against the stone arch, arms crossed, eyes glinting. Moonlight haloed him in silver.

“Wasn’t hungry,” Leo said.

“Pity. The Thornvale kitchens bake a mean cherry tart.”

“Are you here to feed me?”

Cris smiled faintly. “No. I’m here because you left.”

They stood in silence, wind snapping their cloaks. Below, the river hissed like a warning.

Leo finally spoke. “Do you feel it?”

Cris’s expression sharpened. “Feel what?”

“This.” Leo gestured between them. “Like we’ve met before.”

Cris stepped closer. “I thought I was imagining it.”

“You’re not.”

The distance between them narrowed to a breath.

“Dangerous,” Cris murmured.

Leo’s voice dropped. “Everything worth wanting is.”

For a heartbeat it seemed inevitable - one step, one touch, and the world would change.

Then the Conclave bells clanged again, almost deafening and sudden. Footsteps approached down the corridor.

Cris pulled back, eyes dark. “Tomorrow maybe,” he said.

“Tomorrow,” Leo echoed.

Cris vanished into the shadowed hall.

Anna was waiting when Leo returned to the grand chamber. Alone now, she leaned against a marble column, her gown a slash of midnight. Candlelight gilded her face, making her look half-statue, half-predator.

“You disappeared,” she said lightly.

“I needed air.”

“Air,” she repeated, tasting the word. “Or a certain Viremonthe prince?”

Leo met her gaze. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I notice everything,” Anna replied, voice soft as silk. “And you, my careful, obedient prince don’t usually vanish during state banquets.”

She stepped closer until her perfume filled his head. “Whatever game you think you’re playing, remember this: Thornvale needs you steady. Not distracted.”

Leo said nothing. The moonlight beyond the windows bled faint fire across the bridge, and somewhere deep in his chest, a woman’s voice whispered through the night:

He found us.