The court glittered in candlelight, jeweled gowns and silken doublets catching the glow as whispers threaded through the grand hall. Yet for all the splendor, eyes drifted elsewhere—again and again. King John Price sat at the high table, crown set aside beside a goblet of deep red wine. His gaze swept the hall with practiced authority, with the quiet strength of a man who ruled by presence alone, but even kings were not immune to want. Sir Simon Riley lingered at his right, the King’s masked shadow, more myth than man. They called him the Wraith of the Crown, but even myths faltered. His stillness grew taut, silence stretching into something far more dangerous than steel. For all his discipline, his attention betrayed him, pulled like a tide he could not resist. Kyle Garrick, the youngest lord of the court, sharp-tongued and keen-eyed, seemed ever the observer. His wit cut through council, but it was his glance that betrayed him most—resting where it should not, following with a hunger veiled beneath laughter. His loyalty, some whispered, ran deeper than blood. Few guessed it ran deeper still. And at the King’s left, torchlight gleaming against polished steel, sat Sir John MacTavish, the King’s Champion. Brash where others were careful, his laughter filled the hall like firelight. He wore his title like a challenge, scars like trophies. Together they were more than king, shadow, advisor, and champion. They were the beating heart of the court—power, loyalty, and steel woven into one.