Finding Calm Amid Chaos

A sudden invitation arrives the evening following that endless falling dream. Not a crisis this time, but something polished. The palace hosts a formal dinner. Guests gather under gilded ceilings for the arrival of envoys from Arcadia.

“It is not optional,” Mrs. Greyson informs me, laying out a gown of midnight blue velvet. “His Grace was explicit. You are to be a vision of serene loyalty.”

Quiet? Not even close. My insides are splintered, thin lines spreading from a breath too soft to name. Habit alone keeps me standing, piece glued to piece. That tale of Beatrice - her voice lingers. The dream creeps in after it. Together they’ve taken up space behind my eyes. Each blink brings her again - the woman, Lillian - mid-fall. There’s Noah, facing away, motionless. My eyes shut, it plays once more.

Liza lifts the fabric up, guiding it over my arms. Heavy, that dress, stitched with small silver dots along the collar and cuffs. Long sleeves hang down, close around the throat - like something meant to protect. She twists my hair tight, wraps it into a knot behind. On the surface, I appear exactly what they expect: dignified, distant, suited to stand beside someone powerful. Inside, though? Hollow. Draped in elegance, but pale, weightless - as if preparing to vanish.

Downstairs, Noah stands still in the wide entrance hall. When my foot hits the first step, he glances up. A slow look travels from head to toe - sharp, measured. The raw edge of yesterday’s clash has vanished. Not cold, not kind. Simply duty. The title settles back into his posture like weight returning.

His tone holds nothing. You seem right somehow, he tells her. An arm extends toward you.

My fingers settle on the dark fabric of his jacket, soft under my palm. Not one word passes between us inside the ride. Quiet stretches like ice across the space. Outside the glass, lights slide by, bright and distant, while his voice echoes behind my eyes. What an impossible man. Did Lillian ever stir that temper? Probably not.

Light leaps through the room, thrown back by glass and gilded things. Not silence here - voices roll beneath the ceiling, deep and steady, full of weight. Flame after flame burns high above, caught in hanging prisms that scatter brightness across walls. Foreign guests wear cloth bright as fruit skins, sharp against dark robes and quiet faces. Power lives in how sound moves, slow and thick, between stone and shoulder.

Heads swivel, one after another. A hush slips through the room - then chatter surges back, thick with wonder and judgment. Their stares prick at me, sharp as needles. Seen as an outsider. As someone unworthy who somehow caught the Duke's attention. My jaw stays high. Expression steady. Calm held in place because that is what he showed me.

His fingers close over my hand, lying there on his sleeve. Just acting, nothing more. Yet the pressure feels real, steady. Like something sure amid all the staring eyes. Wishing I did not lean into that warmth.

Over by the head of the table we sit, close enough to see the lines on King Nolen’s face. This man could be Noah’s elder twin - same piercing look, yet weighed down like he hasn’t slept in years. A small motion toward his sibling breaks the silence between them, brief but cold. His attention drifts my way next, courteous on the surface, empty behind the eyes, measuring every inch without speaking.

Food piles up, heavy and bland, across the table. Around it goes, pushed without eating. Beside me, Noah talks quietly, deep into talk with the minister from Arcadia. Quiet fear wraps around me like smoke. Stillness sits where words should be.

Up rises the King. Silence wraps around the room.

He raises his crystal goblet, his smile benevolent. “To our friends from Arcadia. May this new chapter of trade bring prosperity to both our great peoples.” A polite ripple of applause. He takes a sip, then continues, his gaze drifting, seemingly casual, over the high table. “And to the stability of our own great kingdom of Wisteria. A stability built on tradition, on duty, and on the wisdom to recognize… unpredictable elements.”

Shivers crawl up my spine. My gaze stays fixed on the food in front of me.

“We are blessed,” the King continues, his voice smooth as aged whiskey, “with institutions that have weathered centuries. And we are protected by those who understand that the strength of the whole sometimes requires… the careful management of its parts.” His eyes settle, just for a moment, on me. Then on Noah. “Even the most vibrant new bloom must be mindful of the garden it has entered. Lest its roots disrupt the careful design of those who came before.”

A work of art, really. Not just praise - there’s danger tucked inside. Soft on the surface, yet hard enough to cut through anything. Twists you can’t see coming. Plans kept tight. Origins that broke every rule. That description fits me. His words are aimed at Noah.

Clapping fills the room once more, nearly everyone missing the poison behind those polished lines. A wave of nausea hits me. I peek at Noah. Nothing shifts on his face. Slow claps keep time as he stares at his brother, seeing right through him, cold clarity in his gaze. The message landed. It was clear to him.

When the clapping fades and people start talking again, fear hits hard. Not just nervousness - full-body dread. My presence doesn’t fit. It causes issues. They’ll see me as something broken that needs fixing. Maybe they lock me away. Or punish Noah instead. Blame always finds a target. Around me, the room tightens. Sounds twist - the chatter, the plates, the forks - all turning sharp, like noise with teeth.

Beneath the wide drape of fabric, fingers curled in my palm start to shake.

His fingers touch my hand next.

Beneath the table instead. My skin feels his touch - slow, steady - as he slips between my shaky fingers. Eyes stay forward. He remains angled away, focused on the speaker from Arcadia, responding with a quiet dip of his head. Yet he holds on hard. Solid. This isn’t acting for anyone watching.

A whisper, but clear. Here I stand. His voice reached me as well. With you, always.

A small calm comes. The noise inside my head begins to fade. Not shaking anymore, my hands close around his, gripping like he's the one unmoving part of everything tipping sideways. His thumb moves over me, quiet and constant.

Later, everything floats by like smoke. When required, my lips lift into a grin. My head moves up and down at the right moments. Calm on the outside - like a figure carved from stillness. Beneath the heavy cloth, away from prying glances, fingers stay woven tight. Only his skin against mine holds any weight.

Footsteps fade behind us, bodies thinning into the distance. His fingers press against my sleeve, steady, pulling me along without asking. The cold wood of the carriage seat meets my legs. Silence sits between us when the latch clicks tight. Night fills the windows.

Off it goes, the carriage swaying forward. Maybe now he pulls away. Perhaps that cold distance returns, thoughts turning toward the King’s words, plans already forming in silence.

He doesn’t.

A soft sway fills the shadowed space where his fingers touch my hand once more. Not tangled together now - just lying there, skin on skin. Heat from his palm stays steady beside me. The fabric beneath us feels smooth, quiet under our arms.

Facing forward, the shadowed shape of the seat across pulls my gaze, while breath stutters in uneven bursts through my chest.

Out of the shadows, a whisper - “My brother,” it comes, soft, bare, “is afraid of things he can’t hold onto.”

His head shifts sideways. The weight of his eyes lands on my face, faint in the dark.

He turns to Paige. His voice is quiet, certain. There’s awe there, but it feels heavy. Almost afraid. She can’t be managed, that much is clear

His grip stays tight on my fingers. The whole way back, never once does he release it. Through quiet streets we move, paired by need rather than choice, danger pressing in from every side, the weight of a ruler’s words still echoing between us. Night wraps around everything, yet within that steady clasp - flesh against flesh - I find an odd near-peace. It's been longer than I can recall since anything felt like shelter.