Chapter Text
The castle had a way of knowing when something important was about to happen.
It started subtly.
A little more polish on the banisters. Fresh flowers appearing where there hadn’t been any the day before. Footsteps that moved just a bit faster along the corridors, voices kept just a touch quieter, as though the walls themselves were listening.
By midday, subtle had given way to unmistakable.
Servants hurried through the halls with armfuls of linens and polished silver. Baileywick stood at the center of it all like a general on a battlefield, directing traffic with crisp efficiency and the occasional, deeply offended gasp when something was not to his exacting standards.
“No, no, no, those are the formal napkins, not the state napkins! Honestly, one would think there was no distinction at all!”
A footman froze mid-step, looking as though he might vanish on the spot.
From the edge of the grand staircase, Evaline watched it all unfold with bright curiosity, her hands clasped behind her back.
“Is it always like this?” she asked.
“Only when dad is trying to impress someone,” came a sigh from beside her. Sofia had just returned from school, but seemed unsurprised by the hustle and bustle.
Evaline moved to lean lightly against the banister, arms crossed, her gaze following the flurry of movement below. There was something almost familiar about it. Something close to home in this controlled chaos, this sense of something looming just beyond the horizon. It reminded her, in a distant, uncomfortable way, of preparations before a battle.
Only here, the weapons were polished floors and pressed linens.
Evaline tilted her head. “Do you think it’s someone important?”
Sofia hummed a quiet, thoughtful sound. “Important enough that everyone’s trying very hard not to make a mistake.”
“King Magnus is extremely important,” Cedric cut in, sweeping up the stairs with an armful of scrolls that looked moments away from escaping his grasp. “You met him once before, as I recall. King of Rudistan, one of Enchancia’s oldest allies, known for his extensive influence across the Ever Realm and — Merlin’s mushrooms, where is my —”
One of the scrolls slipped free. Evaline caught it without looking, handing it back to him with practiced ease.
“You were saying?” she prompted.
Cedric sniffed, straightening as much as one could while holding a precarious tower of parchment. “As I was saying, his visit is not something to be taken lightly. King Roland will be eager to ensure everything proceeds flawlessly.”
“And you?” Evaline asked, one brow lifting slightly.
Cedric hesitated.
Just for a second.
“I,” he said, a touch more stiffly than usual, “will be ensuring that the magical wards around the castle are properly aligned. It is only sensible, given the… unpredictability of visiting dignitaries.”
Evaline’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary.
“Mm,” she hummed. “Sensible.”
Sofia glanced up at him, her lips quirking faintly. “King Magnus isn’t unpredictable.”
Cedric made a noncommittal sound that was just shy of a scoff.
“He is consistent,” Sofia amended diplomatically. “He likes to be impressive.”
“Ah,” Evaline said lightly. “That explains the napkins.”
Sofia stifled a laugh behind her hand.
Cedric did not.
“In his defense,” he said, shifting the scrolls in his arms as though they had suddenly grown heavier, “King Magnus is accustomed to a certain… reception. It would reflect poorly on Enchancia if we failed to meet those expectations.”
Evaline’s gaze flicked back toward the bustle below, watching Baileywick redirect a servant with the intensity Cullen might have with the Inquisition forces at Skyhold.
“I don’t think that’s likely,” she said.
“No,” Cedric agreed after a moment. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”
But he didn’t sound entirely convinced. Evaline noticed. Of course she did.
She pushed off the banister, stepping closer to him. “You’ve met him more than I have,” she said. “Should I be worried?”
Cedric opened his mouth. Paused. Closed it again. Sofia looked between them, suddenly very interested.
“He is —” Cedric began, then stopped, as though weighing his words more carefully than the question seemed to require. “He is a man who knows exactly who he is.”
Evaline’s brow lifted slightly. “That’s not usually a bad thing.”
“No,” Cedric said quietly. “It isn’t.”
Another beat passed.
“He also assumes,” Cedric added, almost as an afterthought, “that everyone else should know it as well.”
Sofia tilted her head. “You mean he’s a little full of himself.”
Cedric drew himself up. “I would never phrase it so crudely.”
Evaline’s mouth twitched. “But you wouldn’t argue it either.”
Cedric looked at her. And there it was again, that brief, flickering hesitation that hadn’t quite been there before.
“…No,” he admitted.
The noise below shifted then, less frantic now and more deliberate.
Baileywick’s voice rang out across the hall, crisp and commanding. “Positions, everyone! His Majesty’s procession has been sighted at the outer gates!”
The words seemed to ripple through the castle. Servants stilled. Straightened. Then moved with purpose instead of haste.
Sofia’s eyes lit up instantly. “They’re here!”
Evaline felt it then, that quiet hum beneath her ribs, the one she couldn’t quite name. Not danger. But not nothing, either. She exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders as though settling into armor she could no longer see.
Cedric adjusted his grip on the scrolls, then seemed to realize he was still holding them at all. With a small, frustrated sound, he thrust them into Sofia’s arms.
“Hold these.”
“Mister Cedric —!”
“Carefully!”
Sofia huffed but clutched them anyway, watching as Cedric smoothed down his robes with quick, precise movements that did very little to disguise his nerves. Evaline watched him for a moment. Then, quietly—
“You’ll be fine,” she said.
Cedric glanced at her, something unreadable flickering across his expression.
“Yes,” he said.
A beat.
“…Of course.”
He turned toward the grand hall, then stopped. Just for a moment.
“…Greylock will be with him,” he added, almost absently.
Sofia blinked. “Oh! I forgot about him.”
Evaline tilted her head. “Greylock?”
Cedric exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Greylock the Grand,” he said. “Royal sorcerer of Rudistan.” There was something in the way he said the name, tight and measured. Familiar.
“And?” Evaline prompted.
Cedric hesitated. Then, with forced casualness —
“He and I have… crossed paths.”
Evaline opened her mouth, no doubt preparing another question, but before she could ask it, the deep sound of trumpets rolled through the castle halls below.
The entire atmosphere shifted. Not frantic now, but ceremonial.
The great doors at the far end of the hall groaned open as sunlight spilled across polished floors in long golden bands. Beyond them, the royal procession swept into view with all the grandeur Cedric’s warnings had implied.
Rudistan’s colors hung richly from polished spears and banners, deep sapphire trimmed in gold that shimmered in the afternoon light. Knights in immaculate armor lined the entryway as attendants moved with rehearsed precision around them. Even the footsteps seemed coordinated somehow, measured and deliberate against the marble floors.
At the center of it all strode King Magnus.
He carried himself with the easy confidence of someone deeply accustomed to being watched. Broad-shouldered and sharply dressed, Magnus wore his finery as comfortably as most men wore sleepclothes. Rings flashed at his hands as he greeted the gathered court with a bright, practiced smile that somehow managed to feel both charming and performative all at once.
“Roland!” Magnus boomed warmly before he had even fully crossed the threshold. “You’ll forgive me if I say Enchancia looks even finer than when I last visited.”
Near the foot of the staircase, King Roland descended to greet him with the steady patience of a man already bracing for an exhausting conversation.
“Magnus,” Roland greeted with a diplomatic smile. “We’re honored to host you again.”
Behind Magnus, the rest of the procession filtered inward.
Advisors. Guards. Attendants. And then —
A man in dark blue robes stepped easily through the crowd with all the languid confidence of someone entirely uninterested in all the pomp and ceremony despite participating in it perfectly.
Greylock.
Evaline would not have known him on sight had Cedric not gone completely still beside her.
Where Magnus filled a room by demanding attention, Greylock seemed to command it by accident. His eyes wandered lazily across the hall, amused by something only he understood. A simple wand spun once between his fingers in a motion too practiced to be unconscious.
Then his gaze lifted toward the staircase. Straight to Cedric. And his smile widened immediately.
“Oh no,” Sofia whispered under her breath.
Cedric made a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a preemptive regret. Greylock raised one hand in a slow, delighted wave. The scrolls Sofia was holding abruptly unraveled themselves.
All at once.
Parchment cascaded down the staircase in an avalanche of carefully organized magical notes.
Cedric closed his eyes.
“Good,” he said flatly. “Wonderful. He's been here less than thirty seconds.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose with the air of a man reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this exact moment, Cedric tried to rein in his frustration as best as he could. Below them, Greylock looked positively radiant with satisfaction.
“Still organizing your scrolls by color, are we?” he called up the staircase, his voice carrying effortlessly through the hall. “I knew you’d never abandon the system.”
Sofia gave Cedric a sympathetic look from beside the raining parchment.
Cedric opened his eyes slowly. “I despise him,” he huffed under his breath.
“That seems a little strong,” Evaline murmured, though the corners of her mouth had already betrayed her.
“It is not strong enough.”
Another scroll bounced off the stairs and landed near Baileywick’s shoes. The Castle Steward stared down at it in horror as though personally offended by the concept of loose parchment.
“Mind the documents!” he cried.
Greylock placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “My deepest apologies.”
He did not sound sorry in the slightest.
King Magnus glanced back toward the commotion, one brow lifting with practiced patience. “Greylock.”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Try not to start a magical incident before dinner.”
“Of course Your Majesty,” Greylock drawled, sweeping into the lowest bow he could manage without toppling over. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Roland sighed the sigh of a man who had endured such an exchange many times before.
Meanwhile, Cedric had already swept down two steps to rescue the nearest scroll before someone trampled it. Evaline watched him crouch to gather parchment with tightly controlled dignity, muttering darkly under his breath the entire while.
Without a word, she bent to help.
Cedric glanced up in surprise as she caught one particularly rebellious page before it could flutter over the banister entirely.
“You don’t have to—”
“You’re outnumbered,” she replied simply, handing it back.
For a brief second, some of the tension left his shoulders.
Then Greylock called down from below:
“Oh, don’t look so distressed, Cedric. I haven’t even enchanted anything yet.”
Cedric froze mid-reach.
Evaline’s brow lifted faintly. “Yet?”
Greylock finally began ascending the staircase, his robes sweeping behind him in rich cobalt folds as though the dramatic effect had been carefully calculated. Which, Evaline suspected, it probably had.
Up close, he looked younger than she expected. Not young exactly, but sharp in a foxlike sort of way, his expression perpetually hovering somewhere between amusement and impending trouble.
His gaze flicked briefly toward Evaline.
And lingered.
Recognition sparked almost immediately.
“Well now,” Greylock hummed. “So this is the famous Lady Evaline Surana.”
Cedric straightened at once. Not obviously, but enough that Evaline felt it. Greylock noticed too. His smile sharpened by a fraction.
“You made quite an impression in Rudistan after the ogre attack here,” he continued lightly. “Though I confess, the stories failed to capture just how lovely you are in person.”
Evaline crossed her arms loosely. “Most stories tend to exaggerate.”
“In my experience,” Greylock said, “they usually do the opposite.”
Before Evaline could decide whether that was charming or suspicious, Magnus himself finally reached the staircase.
Up close, his presence was even larger somehow. Confident. Polished. Intentional.
His smile came easily the moment he spotted Evaline.
“Milady Evaline,” he greeted warmly. “It seems fate favors me after all. I had hoped we might meet again under less catastrophic circumstances.”
There it was.
That same strange buzz beneath her ribs. Still not danger. But closer now.
Evaline inclined her head politely. “Thankfully, ogres are not a common element of Enchancian hospitality.”
Magnus laughed warmly at that, the sound rich and effortless enough that several nearby attendants smiled automatically in response.
“A pity,” he said. “It certainly makes for a memorable first meeting.”
Cedric, meanwhile, had gone very still beside her. Not tense exactly, but measured. Evaline noticed that too.
Magnus’s attention shifted toward him at last, his smile widening with easy familiarity. “Cedric! It’s been far too long.”
Before Cedric could respond, Greylock swept in smoothly beside Magnus.
“Not nearly long enough, if you ask him,” Greylock supplied.
Cedric’s expression flattened instantly. “You continue to mistake your own voice for charm.”
“And yet you remember it so fondly.”
Roland cleared his throat with the unmistakable air of a king intervening before diplomacy was lost to magical bickering.
“Perhaps,” he suggested dryly, “we allow our guests to finish entering the castle before the sorcerers declare war on one another.”
Greylock pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “Your Majesty wounds me. I would never declare war before refreshments.”
Sofia snorted just loud enough that Amber — who had only just appeared at the edge of the hall — looked immediately scandalized.
Magnus only laughed again, utterly at ease amidst the chaos surrounding him. Evaline studied him carefully as the conversation flowed around them.
Cedric had described him well.
Magnus carried certainty the way other men carried cloaks. Effortlessly. Comfortably. As though the world had spent so long affirming him that it had simply become part of the air he breathed.
And for the first time since their arrival, Magnus looked at her fully. Not the polite glance of a king acknowledging a guest. Not curiosity. Assessment.
Interest.
The weight of it settled against her instincts like a stone dropped into still water. Subtle, but impossible to ignore.
Then Magnus smiled again, bright and practiced.
“I do hope,” he said smoothly, “that Lady Evaline might join us for dinner this evening. I would very much like the chance to hear more about the woman who saved my life.”
There it was again. That strange hum beneath her ribs. Closer still. And beside her, though Cedric said absolutely nothing at all —
Evaline felt him go rigid.