Azaerin stepped into the corridor, the door’s arcane lock humming softly behind him before fading to silence. The hall stretched long and high, its vaulted ceiling supported by ribbed stone arches that had endured centuries of wear. Shafts of sunlight poured through the tall windows that lined the eastern wall, their panes etched with faint warding runes that shimmered in the light. Beyond the glass, the forests of Xenia rolled outward like a sea of green mist, and far in the distance, the jagged silhouettes of the Greyhorn Mountains marked the province’s edge.

  He descended the main stairwell, boots tapping quietly on well-worn stone. As he moved, servants passed him with baskets, ledgers, and laundry in hand. A few slowed just enough to offer respectful nods or quiet greetings, which he returned with the brief, subtle smile of someone not used to being bowed to.

  Blackthorne Keep was no bustling courtly palace. Its halls held no pageantry, no golden trim or marble colonnades. But it was alive. Well-kept and quietly proud, like the people who worked within it. Tapestries hung between windows—depictions of hunts, of dragons, of ancient oaths—and the faint glint of magefire sconces flickered in alcoves still untouched by sunlight.

  As he neared the ground floor, a rich scent greeted him—rosemary and roast venison, fresh bread, a hint of smoked peppers. The aroma curled through the corridor like a beckoning hand, drawing him toward the wide archway of the dining hall.

  Inside, the long table was nearly set, polished oak gleaming beneath the soft glow of hanging lanterns. Platters were just beginning to arrive from the kitchen beyond, and the staff moved with efficient, practiced grace. He recognized each face, each voice. They were his people—not just servants, but the backbone of Blackthorne.

  One of the staff—an elderly woman of indeterminate age (no one had dared ask her exact age)—approached with her usual quiet authority. Her iron-grey hair was pulled into a flawless bun, her spectacles perched near the end of her nose, and her sharp eyes missed nothing. A ring of keys hung at her hip, swaying gently as she walked. She stopped in front of him, arms folded.

  “Well now,” she said, voice dry as parchment. “Early to lunch for once, are we? I usually have to track you down and drag you to the table like a wayward apprentice.”

  Azaerin offered a small, wry smile. “Ah, Edessa. Charming as ever.”

  She sniffed. “Haven’t you learned by now? That charm of yours doesn’t work on me.”

  “Oh, I know,” he said, brushing an invisible speck from his shoulder. “But I like to think it chips away at you over time.”

  Edessa scoffed. “Like trying to charm a granite wall, boy.”

  Azaerin chuckled. “You always manage to make me feel like I’ve committed a great misdeed. Isn’t it a good thing I’m actually early for once?”

  “That depends,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You’re only early for two reasons: you’ve forgotten something important—or something’s weighing on you enough to drag you out of that study of yours.” She paused. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with that letter Marcus delivered this morning, would it?”

  He hesitated just long enough for her to nod to herself.

  “Thought so,” she said briskly, then turned on her heel. “Sit. Eat. Maybe it’ll put some sense in you.”

  Azaerin took his seat at the head of the long table. The moment he did, the rest of the staff followed suit—quietly, respectfully, without ceremony. All except Edessa, who remained standing at his right, hands folded, ever ready to serve or scold as needed.

  Ordinary nobles would never be caught dining with their staff. It would be seen as unbecoming—beneath their station. But then again, Azaerin was hardly a typical noble.

  In truth, none of House Blackthorne ever had been.

  There was a time when the name carried weight across the Empire—when Blackthorne lords had ruled with cunning and steel from the shadowed borders of Xenia. But time and blood had worn the family thin. Azaerin was now the last of them, at least by name. There may have been distant cousins scattered across the Empire, branches too far-flung to matter, too diluted to claim the banner.

  But here, within these stone walls, only he remained. And he preferred to eat with those he considered the closest thing to family.

  As Edessa made up his plate with practiced precision, Marcus entered the hall. He looked mildly winded, as though he’d been jogging from one side of the Keep to the other, but he managed to compose himself before joining his lord, taking his usual seat to Azaerin’s left.

  Pulling a dish toward him, Marcus said, “All has been arranged for this afternoon, my lord. Have you made up your mind yet—as to whether you’ll be heading to the capital?”

  “The capital, you say?” Edessa remarked, as she poured Azaerin a goblet of wine. Her tone was too casual to be innocent.

  Around the table, the staff perked up like hounds catching a scent. Curiosity flashed across their faces, spoons suspended midair.

  One of the younger maids leaned in slightly. “The capital? What’s the occasion, Lord Thorne?”

  She was immediately silenced by the sharp clack of Edessa setting down the wine bottle, followed by a glare so withering it could curdle cream.

  Azaerin made a small, placating gesture in Edessa’s direction before answering the maid.

  “Her Imperial Highness Elise Aurelia is coming of age,” he said calmly, “and I am to attend her Debut. Assuming I decide to go.”

  Edessa sniffed as she refilled his goblet. “If you decide to go? Surely your attendance is mandatory—or why bother inviting you?”

  There was a pause. Then a few quiet snorts around the table.

  “Why indeed?” said one of the cooks, feigning deep thought. “He can barely operate a knife and fork—imagine him trying to survive a court dinner.”

  “I hear they use six different spoons in the capital,” another added.

  “Seven,” Marcus chimed in. “The seventh is ceremonial. It’s never actually used—just passes judgment.”

  Azaerin raised an eyebrow and took a slow sip of his wine. “I’ll have you all know, I’ve mastered at least three utensils. On a good day.”

  Edessa’s lips pressed into a thin line, her glasses slipping slightly down her nose. “Oh, you know what I meant,” she muttered.

  “Well,” Azaerin said, setting down his goblet, “there’s mandatory… and then there’s expected.”

  He leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting briefly to the tall windows and the distant sky beyond. Weighing his options he finally arrives at a decision “I suppose I’ll go—unless the Gods see fit to give me a reason not to.”

  The moment of reflection was short-lived.

  The young maid—Lira, barely into her second year at the Keep and still too bold for her own good—leaned forward again, eager.

  “Does this mean you’ll be sending some of us ahead to prepare your estate in the capital?” she asked, her eyes shining with mischief. “Because I would gladly volunteer.”

  She didn’t even flinch at the second withering look from Edessa, though the older woman’s sigh had a distinctly murderous tone.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Yes, indeed, that’s the case, Lira,” Azaerin said, glancing her way with a knowing smirk. “And yes—you may go to the capital.”

  Lira’s eyes lit up in delight, though she wisely bit back a squeal.

  “Edie,” he continued, turning toward the headmaid, “I’ll need you to oversee the preparations over there. Decide who else you’ll want to bring along.”

  Edessa blinked once, slowly. “Oh, will I now?”

  “Unless, of course, you’re volunteering to stay behind and let Marcus manage things.”

  Marcus opened his mouth to protest, then wisely chose silence.

  Edessa sighed, long-suffering. “Fine. But I’m choosing the rooms, the curtains, and the wine cellar. I’m not having you host foreign nobility with dust on the crown moulding.”

  The rest of lunch was far from quiet. Conversation turned, as expected, to the capital. The younger staff—many of whom had never left Xenia—listened wide-eyed as the older servants described the grandeur of Solareia: marble towers that scraped the sky, marketplaces where enchanted trinkets danced without strings, and alleyways where thieves could vanish like smoke.

  Plans were already forming—routes to walk, foods to try, sights to see. Azaerin didn’t have the heart to tell them he’d only be staying seven days.

  When the noon hour waned, Marcus leaned in and quietly reminded him that the tailors had arrived. Azaerin nodded and stood from the table.

  "When Lady Raewyn arrives just bring her straight to the solar Marcus."

  “As you say,” Marcus replied with a slight bow.

  He made his way to the solar—a high-ceilinged sitting room on the ground floor, usually reserved for private guests and quiet reading. Sunlight poured through arched windows, casting warm light across the darkwood furniture and shelves of old tomes. Today, the room had been entirely repurposed.

  Bolts of fabric unfurled across tables and draped over chairs. Deep navy, gold-stitched black, rich charcoal, and sapphire blue—all laid out like war banners. Threads shimmered with subtle enchantments. Silks, velvets, wool blends enchanted to warm or cool depending on the wearer’s needs. At the center of it all, one tailor stood proudly beside a panel of dark, scaled hide.

  “Dragonskin,” he said, as if unveiling a sacred relic. “Harvested from a mature sky wyrm. Treated by firebinders and softened with alchemical infusion. Strong as plate, light as linen.”

  Azaerin eyed it with mild disapproval. “I’m attending a debut, not leading a charge.”

  Behind him, Marcus chuckled. “I did warn them, my lord.”

  Marcus reappeared and cleared his throat politely. “Lady Raewyn to see you, my lord.”

  She entered with the calm authority of old trees and older memories.

  Lady Raewyn was tall, even by elven standards, and though she bore the ethereal grace of her kind—sharp features, unlined skin, and eyes the color of sunlit moss—there was nothing delicate about her. She moved with quiet purpose, as if the world itself made room for her steps.

  A slender circlet of silver rested across her brow, set with a single smooth stone of deep green. Her pale-gold hair was braided down one shoulder, woven with threads of vine-silver and clasped with tiny carved leaves. A forest-green cloak draped over her shoulders, fastened by a brooch in the shape of an oakleaf.

  She smelled faintly of cedar, earth, and spellwork.

  As her eyes landed on Azaerin—arms held awkwardly out to his sides as a tailor fussed with measurements—she tilted her head slightly and smiled.

  “Well,” she said, tone like cool rain on stone. “It’s been years, and yet you still haven’t developed a sense of flair… Thorne-ling.”

  Azaerin sighed through his nose. He used to prickle at the nickname, but by now he knew better. That—or suffer the alternative: Zae-Zae.

  “Having flair is exhausting,” Azaerin muttered, still holding his arms out as the measuring thread danced around him. “I apologize, Rae, but the fitting couldn’t wait. You don’t mind, of course?”

  “Naturally,” Raewyn replied with a trace of mischief. “And where, exactly, are you off to that requires an entirely new wardrobe? Finally decided to court some poor young lady?”

  “If only I were that fortunate,” he said dryly. “I’m off to the capital. I’ve been summoned to attend the Crown Princess’s Debut.”

  “Really now?” Her tone shifted—still teasing, but now tinged with genuine interest. “How delightful. Plenty of young ladies there, Azaerin. Do try and bring one back with you.”

  “Enough, godmother,” he sighed. “I hear enough of this from Marcus and Edessa.”

  “Well, I’m not getting any younger, dear.”

  “You’re an elf,” he pointed out. “You have all the time.”

  “But none of the patience,” she returned without missing a beat. “Helping to raise you was one of my greatest joys. And I would very much like to raise another young Blackthorne, if only to ensure they don’t turn out quite so broody.”

  “You came here for a reason, didn’t you?” he asked, eyebrows lifting in mild exasperation.

  Raewyn waved a hand. “That reason can wait. If you’re heading to the capital, we must have you looking your best.”

  She turned her gaze toward the fabric displays, scanning them with a practiced eye before plucking a bolt of deep navy with fine silver embroidery. “Let’s start with something dignified, shall we? Regal. Not... tragic.”

  What ensued could only be described as a heated debate, followed by tense negotiations, artistic outbursts, and no fewer than two backroom compromises involving sleeves. But by the end of it, a collection began to take shape—regal, understated, and unmistakably Xenia.

  One piece in particular stood out: a cloak woven from enchanted thread, dyed pitch black, designed to be embroidered with the crest of Xenia—a black dragon with wings unfurled, rendered in fine gold stitching.

  “Finally,” Azaerin said, lowering his arms with a groan. “That took forever. Well then. I’ll need them all made in nine days.”

  The five tailors froze. One went visibly pale.

  Before the protests could erupt, Azaerin held up a hand. “Yes, yes—I know. Quite the challenge. But I’ve every faith in your abilities. And you’ll be well compensated for your efforts. Enough for a holiday, in fact, to recover from your nine-day ordeal.”

  He let that sink in, then continued, his voice steady and sincere.

  “But understand—when I arrive in the capital, I won’t just be representing myself. I’ll be representing all of you. All of Xenia.”

  The room was quiet now. Even Raewyn paused in her fabric appraisal to glance over at him.

  “I admit,” he added, “the failure to prepare earlier is mine. But I need you now, more than ever, to do your best. Can I count on you?”

  There was a beat of silence. Then, one tailor slowly nodded. Another straightened his back. The youngest muttered something about making Xenia proud.

  Azaerin had always had a knack for rallying others with a few well-chosen words—something his father had been known for. That much, at least, he’d inherited.

  As Marcus escorted the tailors out, the solar door creaked open and Edessa poked her head inside.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Raewyn. Lord Thorne—I thought you and the lady might like some tea?”

  “Excellent timing, Edessa,” Azaerin said. “Bring it in.”

  The door swung open wider as Lira entered carrying a silver tea tray, followed closely by the young cook, Orren, his arms full of small cakes, fruit slices, and honey-dusted biscuits. They moved with practiced care, setting everything down on the low table near the hearth.

  “Lady Raewyn, will you be joining us for dinner?” Edessa asked, folding her hands politely.

  “I believe I will, Edie. Thank you,” Raewyn replied with a warm nod.

  With a slight bow from both maids, the staff slipped out and closed the door behind them, leaving the two alone.

  As Azaerin poured their tea, Raewyn watched him over the rim of her cup, silent for a time. Then she spoke, gently:

  “So. The capital.”

  A pause.

  “I take it you’re absolutely dreading the trip?”

  “Can you blame me?” Azaerin replied, not even trying to hide the grimace. “I still don’t understand how my mother and father—how any of our predecessors—could stand that place. Ever since House Blackthorne settled this province, we’ve been looked down on.”

  Raewyn’s expression softened. “They focused on what mattered. Xenia. This land, this home—unlike any other in the Empire.”

  She set her cup down, folding her hands in her lap. “I’d say you’re luckier than they were. They didn’t have the luxury of disappearing from court when it suited them. You did.”

  He huffed, but there was no real protest in it. “I suppose you have a point. Seven days doesn’t seem so bad now.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  She leaned in slightly, her voice quieting.

  “You know, Azaerin…” she said, and he noted the use of his name at once—rare and reserved, even for her. “I always hoped you’d return to the capital one day. When you were ready.”

  Her eyes, still clear and green as spring leaves, held his.

  “We Xenians… we’ve hoarded your talents for too long. You, your House, your name. It’s time you used them for more than just this corner of the world. The Empire could benefit from you. Now more than ever.”

  Azaerin blinked. “Where’s this coming from all of a sudden?”

  Raewyn took a slow sip of tea, then set her cup aside with care. Her voice was softer now—gentler.

  “Your parents, bless them… they always believed you were destined for great things. I still believe that. There’s a greater path waiting for you, Azaerin.”

  He glanced away, thoughtful. “And what about Xenia? If I step onto the Imperial stage, you'll all be dragged into it along with me.”

  Raewyn didn’t hesitate. “How long do you think Xenia can keep hiding from the rest of the world?”

  She leaned forward, green eyes steady. “Might as well do it on your terms. It’s about time this province took its rightful place—not as an afterthought, but as a beacon.”

  She smiled faintly. “Besides, we can handle whatever the world throws at us. We always have.”

  Azaerin gave a quiet sigh, swirling the last of his tea. “Spread my wings, is that it?”

  Raewyn’s gaze softened. “Dear boy, it’s long past time.”

  He met her eyes again, a rare flicker of uncertainty in his.

  “And the rest of Xenia… they share your sentiment?”

  She didn’t flinch. “They do. But don’t take my word for it—ask anyone.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Azaerin said at last.

  Raewyn nodded. “Of course. Just make sure it’s your decision. If you choose to spread your wings, let it be because it’s what you truly want. I’ll support you either way.”

  Azaerin offered her a small, grateful smile. Raewyn returned it with quiet warmth, then set her teacup aside.

  “Now,” she said, brushing invisible crumbs from her cloak, “let’s move on to lighter matters.”

  “Such as?” he asked warily.

  Raewyn sipped, then glanced over the rim. “Let’s talk about your gift for the Princess.”

  Azaerin blinked. “Gift?”

  “What gift?”