Aveline observed him carefully. The shadows around his face twisted and shifted as he debated whether to tell her the truth. For a moment, she could almost see the argument happening inside his mind.

Then the colors settled.

Aveline tilted her head.

"So?" she asked.

Aelion let out a breath.

"Tales of heroes and saviors are always plentiful when people suffer," he said. "Every generation creates legends. Every generation resurrects old ones."

"And what kind of legend do you think I am?" Aveline asked.

"The kind that stands beside the people against those who oppress them." His expression grew serious.

"The kind blessed by Goddess Lioraen, the Veiled Mother of the Vulnerable."

Aveline raised an eyebrow. "Isn’t that a bit much?"

Being compared to a goddess’s chosen champion seemed absurd enough. She had nearly fallen out of a dormitory window this morning.

A soft laugh escaped her as she shook her head and continued walking.

Aelion watched her for a moment before speaking again. "You have incredible control over shadows."

Aveline slowed.

That immediately caught her attention.

"The first level is using carved runes," Aelion explained. "Then trace runes. After that comes bending through proper stances. Like what you did with Lucien’s fire earlier and what I do."

Aveline glanced at him.

"And the most advanced level?"

"The savant level."

His voice became quieter.

"Bending without stances. Without runes. Without conscious effort. Just thought."

Aveline stopped.

Aelion met her gaze. "You do that."

She stared.

"I noticed it during your fight with my half-brothers. You weren’t thinking about the shadows. You simply willed them to move."

Aveline frowned.

"So how many people can do that?"

Aelion thought for a moment.

"Currently?"

He shrugged.

"The King, perhaps. He was considered a savant from a young age. And... maybe Lucien."

Then he shook his head. "But even then, I doubt he’s as natural as you."

Aveline looked away.

She had offered a stone to the goddess once, and that was all. She had never truly prayed to Lioraen. She had certainly never imagined herself being blessed by her. The whole thing felt too convenient, too neat. Was Aelion trying to flatter her? Or was he setting her up for something she had not yet seen?

It sounded ridiculous.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Greenvale is rich," she said. "Luxurious. Prosperous."

She gestured toward the city beyond.

"What need would people have for a hero?"

A bitter laugh escaped Aelion.

"You’ve seen Eryndale." His voice hardened. "Greenvale is much larger than Eryndale."

The bitterness in his tone surprised her.

"Travel beyond the capital, and you’ll find villages crushed by taxes. Farmers who work land they will never own. Families who spend generations paying debts they never created."

His jaw tightened.

"Nobles who hunt for sport while their tenants starve."

Aveline blinked.

Aelion rarely spoke about himself. Yet whenever he spoke about ordinary people, something fierce emerged in him. Something honest. Something impossible to fake.

"I hate the nobility," he admitted.

There was no hesitation in the statement. No embarrassment. No attempt to soften it.

"I know."

Aveline had known that for a while.

Aelion looked ahead. "They call it order." His voice turned quiet. "I call it cruelty with better manners."

Aveline watched him as he spoke. Watched the conviction in his eyes, the anger, the frustration, and the helplessness.

And suddenly she understood something.

Until now, she had thought his hatred of nobles was the source of everything. But that wasn’t true.

His hatred was merely the consequence.

The source was something else.

Love.

Love for people he could not protect. Love for people he thought had been abandoned.

For the first time, Aveline saw the reason behind all his ambitions.

Aelion did not dream of power because he wanted to rule. He dreamed of power because he wanted to change something.

And perhaps that was far more dangerous.

-----

The great balcony doors opened, and the crowd below erupted into renewed cheers. Edric stepped aside and merged with the shadows.

The King stepped out first, his posture tall and composed, the ceremonial cloak falling in perfect dark folds around him as though even the fabric knew better than to betray a single imperfection.

The sunlight caught on the gold at his throat and the polished edge of his insignia, and for one brief moment he looked exactly as the kingdom expected him to look: untouchable, unshaken, made for the weight of a crown.

The noise from the square below swelled into a roaring tide.

Then, with all the deliberate grace of a man aware that the smallest gesture could become a declaration, he extended his hand.

Not to the crowd.

To the Queen.

She appeared beside him a breath later, calm and radiant in the way only someone born to survive court could be. The cheers beneath them grew louder, turning almost feverish, and the Queen placed her hand into his without hesitation. The gesture was smooth, practiced, and perfect enough to silence even the most critical eyes.

The royal couple stood together.

Then the King turned slightly and held out his other hand.

Theron.

The Crown Prince stepped forward at once, his expression controlled but unreadable. The crowd roared again, louder this time, eager now for the heir who stood at the kingdom’s future.

Theron accepted his father’s hand and took his place beside them, though the motion carried something faintly strained in it, as though he were playing a part he had not quite chosen for himself.

Below the balcony, the people cheered until their voices blurred into one another.

Yet not everyone was smiling.

Ingrid, the royal mistress, stood a little further back with a tight little pout on her lips, one that she tried and failed to disguise with elegance. Beside her, her son Alaric muttered under his breath with no real effort to keep his irritation hidden. The two of them looked as though they had been forced into the edge of a story they believed should have revolved more kindly around them.

The King did not seem to notice.

Or perhaps he noticed and simply did not care.

He remained at the center of the balcony, one hand holding the Queen’s, the other resting against Theron’s, while the kingdom lifted its voice in devotion beneath them. The scene was polished enough to look effortless, but beneath the brightness of the celebration there was something else moving, something quieter and more dangerous.

A court always knew how to smile.

What it did not always know was how to forgive.

"How are you planning on solving the cotton crisis?" The King asked. Still smiling, still waving.

Theron’s eyes hardened.