The tavern was louder now, filled with the clatter of dishes and the hum of conversation. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread lingered in the air, mingling with the occasional burst of laughter from mercenaries gathered around the wooden tables.
Kael, Riven, and Jorrik sat at a corner table, plates in front of them, the remnants of their meal scattered across the surface. The urgency from earlier had faded—for now.
Kael absently pushed a piece of bread across her plate, her mind still turning over the note from the Duke.
She didn't trust it.
Didn't trust him.
But if what Riven and Jorrik said was true, if this Duke Aric Valen really had been a friend of her father's, then ignoring him wasn't an option.
She just hated not knowing which side of the game he was playing.
"You're thinking too much again."
Kael blinked, looking up.
Riven smirked at her over his cup of wine, his expression easy, but his eyes sharp. "You do that a lot."
Kael rolled her eyes and reached for her drink. "It's called having a functioning brain."
Riven grinned. "And yet, it hasn't killed me yet."
Jorrik, who had been quietly cutting into his meat, sighed. "That is truly the tragedy of our time."
Kael smirked at that.
Riven gasped in mock betrayal. "You're both cruel. Here I am, trying to add a little warmth to this gloomy morning, and all I get is insults."
Kael took a slow sip of her drink. "You deserve worse."
"See?" Riven said, pointing at her as he turned to Jorrik. "This is abuse. This is why I have trust issues."
Jorrik didn't even glance up from his plate. "No, you have trust issues because your family is a den of vipers."
Kael nearly choked on her drink.
Riven blinked, then laughed. "Alright, fair."
For a moment, the tension eased.
The conversation drifted to lighter things—nothing important, nothing that weighed too heavily on their shoulders.
And then—somehow—the topic shifted.
"So," Riven said, propping his chin on his hand, "do you ever wear anything that isn't black?"
Kael paused mid-bite.
She looked up, eyes narrowing. "What?"
Riven gestured vaguely at her. "Your clothes. They're all the same. Dark, practical, serious. It's like you were personally offended by color."
Kael scoffed. "I change my clothes."
"Mm." Riven tilted his head. "Are you sure? Because I swear, you've looked exactly like this since I met you."
Jorrik smirked but said nothing, clearly enjoying where this was going.
Kael sighed. "All my clothes look the same. That's not my fault."
Riven's smirk widened. "Not very queenly behavior, is it?"
Kael stilled.
Something flickered in her expression, something unreadable.
Then—calmly—"I'm not a queen."
Riven studied her, his smirk softening slightly. "Not yet."
Kael exhaled slowly, leaning back in her chair. "For now, I'm a warrior. Nothing more."
Something about the way she said it made Riven's amusement fade completely.
There was no hesitation in her voice.
No longing.
No doubt.
Just certainty.
He didn't push the conversation further.
Not yet.
Instead, he took a sip of his drink, then sighed dramatically. "Still. A little color wouldn't kill you."
Kael smirked. "Neither would shutting up."
Jorrik chuckled. "Alright, enough. We should go soon."
Kael nodded, standing. "Agreed."
Jorrik wiped his hands on a cloth. "I'll head back to the palace. There are a few things I need to take care of." He looked at Riven. "Try not to get into trouble while I'm gone."
Riven placed a hand over his heart. "Jorrik, have a little faith."
Jorrik gave him a long, unimpressed stare before walking off.
Kael sighed, adjusting her belt. "You ready?"
Riven smirked. "For another secret meeting in a questionable location? Always."
Kael rolled her eyes, then turned toward the door. "Let's go."
---
^The Meeting^
The café was small, tucked away near the old stone bridge, just as the note had said.
It wasn't the kind of place nobles usually visited—too simple, too ordinary.
But that was the point, wasn't it?
Kael and Riven stepped inside.
The air was warm, filled with the scent of roasted coffee and fresh bread. A handful of people sat at the scattered tables, speaking in low voices. No one paid them any attention.
But Kael's eyes went straight to the man in the corner.
He was seated alone, his hands wrapped around a cup of steaming tea.
His gaze met hers immediately.
And Kael stopped.
The man was older, maybe in his early fifties, his dark hair streaked with silver at the temples. His sharp features were marked with faint lines, the kind carved by years of war and duty.
But it wasn't his appearance that made her pause.
It was his eyes.
Regret.
Grief.
Something painfully familiar.
Riven glanced at her. "That's him."
Kael didn't move.
She should be on guard.
Should be ready to fight, to flee if necessary.
But something about the way he was looking at her—**like he was seeing a ghost—**made her hesitate.
Then, slowly, the man stood.
He didn't speak right away.
He just looked at her.
Then, finally—softly—"You've grown."
Kael's fingers curled at her sides.
The voice was familiar.
Distant, buried under years of silence.
The man swallowed, his jaw tightening. "It feels like just yesterday I saw you running through the gardens with your brother."
Kael's breath caught.
Memories flickered—a towering figure in armor, a deep voice calling her name, a hand ruffling her hair.
Her lips parted slightly. "You…"
The man exhaled shakily, stepping closer.
And then—before she could react—
He pulled her into an embrace.
Kael tensed.
Her body screamed at her to shove him away, to break his hold, to demand answers.
But she didn't move.
She couldn't.
His grip was firm, but not restraining.
Warm. Familiar.
Like the father she lost.
His voice was thick when he spoke again. "I thought I'd never see you again."
Kael clenched her jaw.
Her hands, which had been poised to push him away, loosened slightly.
She didn't return the embrace.
But she didn't pull away, either.