The great hall blazed with golden light.

  Chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings like captured stars. Nobles in silk and jewels filled every corner, their voices rising in a constant hum of conversation and laughter. The air was thick with perfume and wine and anticipation.

  At the center of it all stood Sir Alec Veyron.

  He'd traded his silver armor for formal military dress—black with gold embroidery, the royal crest prominent on his chest. Even without the armor, he commanded attention. Every eye in the room found him eventually.

  Estelle watched from the edges, she looked towards the large crowd nobles from over town coming over for the ceremony and sighed. Everyone was gathered for the ceremony including her.

  Her gaze drifted over the hall and she felt it before she understood it—a sudden pressure against her skin, a weight in her chest. Like being watched by something that could see through walls.

  Slowly, she looked up.

  Across the hall, golden eyes stared directly at her.

  Sir Alec Veyron stood among the nobles, perfectly still. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze—

  It pinned her in place.

  Intense. Unwavering. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle only he could see.

  She glanced around, searching for whoever must be standing behind her.

  But when she looked back, those golden eyes were still fixed in her direction.

  She shifted. Trying to ignore the situation.

  Then he moved.

  Sir Alec began walking. Long strides. Purposeful. His gaze never wavering.

  Coming straight toward her.

  Why is he coming over here? Why—

  Heat crawled up her neck.

  He walked closer.

  Closer.

  She could see his face clearly now. Those golden eyes locked on—

  "You've dropped this, miss."

  He walked right past her.

  Estelle's looked to her side.

  Francesca stood just behind her, radiant in her emerald gown. A pale blue handkerchief—silk, embroidered with her initials—lay at Sir Alec's feet.

  He bent smoothly and retrieved it.

  "Oh! How careless of me. Thank you, Sir Alec." Francesca's hand flew to her mouth in perfectly practiced surprise.

  Their fingers brushed as he returned it.

  The ladies around them sighed audibly. Someone actually swooned.

  Estelle stood frozen, face burning.

  He hadn't been looking at her. He'd been looking past her. At Francesca. Beautiful, perfect Francesca who stood just behind her.

  Of course. She scoffed

  Estelle looked away quickly and the ceremony began.

  The King stood at the head of the hall and delivered a speech about valor and sacrifice. Other nobles followed—each one praising the Hero's courage, his strength, his dedication to the realm.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Speech after speech after speech.

  Estelle's attention drifted.

  Were her roses growing well? She'd planted them three days ago. The soil had been good, rich with nutrients. But the weather had been cold at night. Perhaps she should add more mulch when she returned—

  Then she felt the air change.

  The King was speaking again, gesturing broadly.

  And when Sir Alec's attention shifted to him—just for a split second—she saw something flicker across the Hero's face.

  Hatred.

  Pure, cold hatred.

  Then it was gone, replaced by that same controlled smile.

  What was that

  Estelle blinked. When she looked again, Sir Alec was nodding politely at something the King said, his expression perfectly pleasant.

  I must have imagined it.

  ***

  The speeches ended. Music began.

  The ceremony dissolved into a celebration. Nobles swarmed Sir Alec immediately—lords wanting to shake his hand, ladies giggling behind fans, young men asking about battle tactics.

  He smiled for them all. Answered their questions with practiced courtesy. Let them touch his arm, his shoulder, as if proximity to a hero could transfer some of his glory.

  Estelle stayed at the edges.

  She spoke when spoken to—brief exchanges with lesser nobles who remembered politeness if nothing else. Mostly she enjoyed the canapés. The smoked salmon was excellent. The tiny pastries filled with cheese and herbs were even better.

  Across the hall, Francesca held court surrounded by admirers. She laughed at every joke, her hand resting on various arms, her attention always circling back to where Sir Alec stood.

  But tonight, he was the star. Everyone wanted him.

  Estelle slipped out quietly. No one noticed. She took a walk in the dark.

  She let out sigh at the cool breeze finally relaxing.

  Then she heard voices.

  Estelle slowed her steps instinctively.

  Around the corner, partially hidden by a marble statue, stood Sir Alec. A beautiful noblewoman pressed close to him—Lady Helena, one of Francesca's circle. Her hand rested on his chest, her face tilted up toward his with an inviting smile.

  "You're even more impressive up close, Sir Alec." Helena's voice was breathy, practiced. "I've heard such stories about your... prowess."

  "Mmm. I wonder if they're all true." Her fingers traced the embroidery on his jacket. "Perhaps you could show me?"

  Estelle's face burned while she rolled her eyes. She shouldn't be hearing this. She needed to leave, to find another path to her chambers.

  She walked quickly under the night sky, savoring the relief after the hall’s suffocating warmth.

  She breathed in deeply, grateful for the silence. Her head ached from all the noise, all the false smiles and hollow laughter, all the pretending.

  The wind picked up suddenly, sharp and unexpected.

  Her skirt whipped around her legs violently. She stumbled, balance lost, arms flailing—

  A strong arm caught her waist.

  The world tilted sideways. Then steadied.

  Estelle looked up, breathless.

  Golden eyes stared down at her, inches away. This close, she could see flecks of amber in them, like molten gold catching firelight. Like something alive and burning.

  Sir Alec Veyron.

  The Hero of the East. The man who'd killed three hundred soldiers alone. The man who'd been with Lady Helena just seconds ago.

  His arm was wrapped around her waist, firm and steady, and she could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of her dress. He smelled like wine and steel and something else—smoke, leather, battlefields. Things foreign to palace life.

  "Are you alright?"

  Estelle's mouth went dry. "I'm fine"

  She tried to step back. His arm didn't move immediately, keeping her steady.

  "Ending the night so early, Princess?" He still hadn't released her.

  He knows me.

  "Yes I am," Estelle said." Weren't you with"

  "Who?" He stepped closer.

  There was no space between them now. None at all. She had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, and even then she felt small. Fragile. Like he could break her with one hand if he chose.

  Estelle's heart hammered so hard she was certain he could feel it against his chest. " Nevermind, I should go. I'm tired"

  "Hmm." His smile was slight, almost sad. "I agree. Smiling for sycophants can be exhausting."

  His hand moved. Fingers brushed her cheek as he tucked a loose strand of pink hair behind her ear.

  Estelle froze.

  What did he just say? Sycophants?

  He raises his hand to his mouth

  "Ha ha- You take me too seriously, Princess." His voice was low, almost amused.

  He stepped even closer and leaned down until his lips nearly brushed her ear, his breath warm against her skin.

  "You should head inside. It's cold."

  Estelle jolted back.

  "Yes I'll take my leave."

  She pulled away—forced herself to move—and walked quickly toward the palace entrance.

  She didn't look back.

  But she felt his gaze following her. Heavy. Intense. Like a physical touch trailing down her spine.

  Estelle closed her chamber door and leaned against it, her legs finally giving out.

  Her whole body trembled.

  Her heart still raced wildly. Her skin felt too hot, feverish. The place where his fingers had touched her cheek burned like a brand, like he'd marked her somehow.

  What was that? What just happened?

  Sir Alec Veyron, Hero of the East, calling the nobles sycophants. He'd seen through it all, just like she had.

  Stop. Stop thinking about it. He's a playboy obviously, he was just with Helena moments ago. This is what they do. It means nothing.

  But his gaze it was... different.

  Estelle pulled the covers over herself and stared at the ceiling, willing her heart to slow, her thoughts to quiet.

  Tomorrow all this excitement will end. He'll leave, and everything will return to normal.

  That was what she wanted.

  She closed her eyes, but all she saw were golden eyes staring down at her in the darkness—the way they'd looked at Helena with practiced charm, then shifted to her with something raw and real and dangerous.

  Just one more day. Then peace will return.

  End of Chapter 6