The festival bells rang at midmorning.
Not the alarm horns.
Not the warning chimes.
These bells were older,bronze, heavy, and slow, mounted high on the watchtower overlooking the central square. They rang only three times a year, each occasion marking something the state considered worth remembering.
Today marked the End of the Spring Patrols.
For three months, knights had rotated through the mountain passes, border roads, and forest paths, keeping beasts away from farms and caravans safe.
When the last patrol returned without loss, the state celebrated not victory, but continuity.
That was the Falkerona way.
From the palace balcony, the Falkerona State unfolded below like a living tapestry.
Stone roads curved naturally between sturdy buildings of wood and brick.
No structure reached too high, not even in the wealthier districts.Everything here bowed slightly to the mountains that surrounded them.
Colorful banners hung from iron hooks, their fabric dyed by local guilds and embroidered by hand, some patched from years past rather than replaced.
Carts rolled in steadily, pulled by horses whose coats shone from careful grooming. Farmers arrived with baskets of early fruit and grain, merchants with bolts of cloth, cured meat, and simple jewelry.
Nothing exotic.
Nothing excessive.
Everything earned.
The air carried the scent of bread baking in open ovens, meat roasting over iron spits, and spiced cider warming in thick clay pots. Musicians gathered near the fountain.
Fiddles, flutes, hand drums tuning by ear rather than rule.
People smiled easily today.
Because they had been allowed to.
___
Chris stood just inside the palace gates, hands clasped behind his back the way Alfred had taught him.
He wore a simple tunic in the state's colors, well-made but practical, with boots polished enough to show care rather than wealth. His strange hair : half white, half red; had been tied neatly to keep it from falling into his eyes.
He felt… aware.
Not nervous.
Not excited.
Aware.
"Elis," he said quietly, "why does everyone look so happy?"
Elis stood half a step behind him, posture straight, expression composed. In public, she was no longer simply Elis. She was the personal maid of the Young Lord.
"Because they made it through another season, Young Master," she replied, voice respectful and clear. "And because your father believes survival deserves gratitude."
Chris nodded, committing that to memory.
Behind them, armored footsteps approached.
"Formation," a voice ordered calmly.
Chris turned.
Five knights assembled with practiced ease, armor polished but worn, crests of the Falkerona State etched into their breastplates.
Chris recognized them, not by name yet, but by presence.
The one who spoke first stood tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair pulled back and a scar running cleanly from temple to jaw.
"Captain Ser Harlan Veyne," Elis murmured softly. "Knight-Captain of the Inner Watch."
Harlan inclined his head to Chris. "Young Lord."
Beside him stood a lean man with sharp eyes and lighter armor, his movements economical, almost predatory.
"Ser Irik Solmar," Elis continued. "Scout-Captain. Oversees patrol routes and messenger lines."
A third knight rested a gauntleted hand on the pommel of his sword, blond hair catching the sun, expression calm and thoughtful.
"Ser Bram Keld. Training Marshal."
Two more completed the formation:
"Ser Lysa Fenwick", helm tucked under her arm, eyes steady . [logistics and supply oversight.]
"Ser Toren Hale", older, with graying beard and heavier armor . [veteran of the mountain passes.]
They did not crowd Chris.
They framed him.
"Shall we?" Captain Harlan asked.
Chris straightened. "isn't this too much for just one person ?"
" I am afraid it's not the case young lord." Captain Harlan smiled softly and said.
Chris wanted to argue but decided against it. "...Alright ."
___
The moment Chris stepped into the central square, the mood shifted.
Not loudly.
Not abruptly.
But Purposefully.
People noticed.
Conversations softened.
Hats were removed.
Some bowed their heads; others simply smiled.
"Morning, Young Lord," a baker called.
Chris stopped. "Good morning."
The baker beamed like he'd been personally rewarded.
Children whispered to one another. A woman nudged her son forward.
"Go on," she urged.
The boy approached hesitantly. "Th-thank you… for the patrols."
Chris blinked, then nodded solemnly. "You're welcome."
The boy ran back grinning.
Elis watched closely, her expression unreadable, but her chest warmed with quiet pride.
Near the fountain, a small cluster of figures stood apart from the crowd.
They wore robes.
Not ornate, not ceremonial but layered and practical, sigils embroidered along cuffs and collars for function rather than display.
One was tall and thin, dark hair streaked with silver, eyes sharp behind simple lenses.
"That's Master Corvin Hale," Elis whispered. "Senior Ward Architect."
Beside him stood a woman with auburn hair braided tightly, hands faintly glowing as she adjusted a small rune-stone embedded in the fountain's base.
"Mistress Rhea Morn. Civic Enchantments."
A younger man leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, watching the crowd rather than his peers.
"Alden Pryce," Elis added. "Messenger Mage. Short-range transport."
Two others stood nearby:
"Edris Vane", [healer-apprentice, assisting the infirmary wards.]
"Sella Dorn," [ weather-channeler, ensuring the festival fires burned safely.]
They noticed Chris and inclined their head.
Not deeply, not theatrically.
Respect, not reverence.
Tarin (a commoner boy) stood beside his mother's stall, fingers sticky with honey from the bread she sold.
He had seen the Young Lord before, from a distance.
Never this close.
"He looks normal," Tarin muttered.
His mother snorted. "That's the point."
Chris paused near the stall.
"That smells good," he said.
Tarin's mother smiled broadly. "Fresh this morning."
Chris hesitated, then looked to Elis.
Elis nodded once.
Chris reached into the small pouch at his belt, counted carefully, and paid.
"Thank you," he said.
Tarin blurted out, "My uncle was healed by Lady Lyanna."
Chris looked at him. "He's better now?"
"Yes!"
Chris smiled. "I'm glad."
That was all.
But Tarin felt something settle in his chest , like being seen.
____
As lanterns were lit and the sky deepened into indigo, music softened and laughter lingered.
Chris stood near the edge of the square, watching dancers circle a fire pit, their shadows flickering against stone.
Captain Harlan approached. "Enjoying yourself, Young Lord?"
"Yes," Chris said. "I think… this is my favorite kind of strength."
Harlan smiled faintly. "Most people never notice it."
Chris looked around at the state , whole, warm, alive.
"I want to protect this," he said quietly.
Harlan rested a fist over his heart. "you already do."
______
Elis's pov :-
Elis noticed the tension before the bells rang.
She always did.
The palace corridors were busy but controlled, servants moving with purpose rather than haste. Guards adjusted their patrol spacing - not tighter, just more aware.
This was not preparation for danger.
It was preparation for visibility.
She stood behind Chris as the gates opened, her spine straight, hands folded properly before her. In public, there was no room for familiarity.
"You will stay close, Young Master," she said quietly.
"Yes," he replied.
Good. He remembered.
From here, she could see the state unfold below-
stone streets swept clean by hand, banners raised carefully rather than replaced, the same ones she'd seen repaired year after year.
Elis had lived here most of her life.
She knew which stalls would appear first, which musicians always argued over tempo, which children would sneak sweets before noon.
This festival was not about joy alone.
It was about reassurance.
She watched Chris step forward with his escort and felt something unfamiliar tighten in her chest.
They're looking at him already, she thought.
And they smiled.
Not because he was Edrian's son.
Because he looked back at them.
Elis adjusted her pace, keeping him framed by steel and space. When he stopped to speak to a baker, she did not interrupt. When he thanked a farmer awkwardly, she allowed it.
Because this exact behavior was why the state trusted House Falkerona.
And trust, Elis knew, was more fragile than glass.
____
Ser Harlan Veyne's Pov :-
Ser Harlan did not enjoy festivals.
He tolerated them.
Crowds were variables. Variables became problems if ignored.
He positioned his knights instinctively as the Young Lord entered the square,no rigid wall, no visible threat posture. Just enough presence to redirect movement without disrupting it.
The boy walked well today.
Chin up. Pace steady. Eyes alert.
Harlan tracked hands more than faces. Who reached too fast. Who leaned too close. He memorized exits as easily as breathing.
But something unusual happened.
The people didn't press forward.
They made space.
That unsettled him more than chaos would have.
They trust him, Harlan realized.
Enough to behave.
A baker greeted Chris. A child thanked him. A stallholder laughed.
Harlan watched the Young Lord respond not rehearsed, not stiff.
Real.
He glanced briefly at Elis. She noticed everything too. Good.
When Chris said quietly, "I want to protect this," Harlan felt something heavy settle behind his ribs.
"You already do," Harlan replied aloud.
But inwardly, he corrected himself.
We protect it for you.
For now.
________
Mistress Rhea Morn's ( magician) POV :-
Rhea had been awake since dawn.
Festivals strained the wards,not dangerously, but persistently. Open flames, increased foot traffic, emotional surges. Magic responded to people whether they believed in it or not.
She knelt beside the fountain, fingers brushing the rune-stone embedded in its base. The stone pulsed evenly.
Stable.
Good.
She sensed the Young Lord before she saw him.
Not power, but potential. A quiet gravity that bent attention rather than drawing it forcefully.
She straightened as he passed, inclining her head with measured respect.
So this is him, she thought.
He didn't stare at the magic.
He noticed the people maintaining it.
That was rare.
Rhea watched him speak with a civilian boy near a bread stall.
No tension.
No superiority.
Just curiosity.
"You should be Careful," Master Corvin murmured beside her. "Attachments form easily on days like this."
Rhea didn't answer immediately.
"They should," she said at last. "That's how systems survive."
She turned back to the fountain, reinforcing the rune with the lightest touch.
Let the day remain peaceful.
Let the boy remember this version of the world.
______
Tarin's Pov :-
Tarin almost didn't speak to him.
Almost.
He'd seen nobles before on horses, behind guards, looking through people instead of at them. But this one walked like he was afraid of missing something.
He looks strange, Tarin thought.
Like two people mixed together.
When the Young Lord stopped at their stall, Tarin's heart started pounding. His mother smiled the way she did when customers mattered.
Then Tarin said it. He didn't know why.
"My uncle was healed by Lady Lyanna."
The boy, Christopher falkerona looked at him properly.
"He's better now?" he asked.
Tarin nodded hard.
"Good," Chris said, like it mattered.
That was it.
No reward.
No performance.
But Tarin felt taller somehow.
Later, by the fountain, Tarin watched him laugh with knights and thought:
He doesn't look lonely.
That surprised him.
When Chris waved, Tarin waved back before he could stop himself.
For the first time, the palace didn't feel far away.
_____
Edrian Falkerona's Pov :-
The study hall smelled of parchment, ink, and old stone.
Edrian Falkerona preferred it that way.
Tall shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, stacked with ledgers bound in worn leather, maps marked and re-marked over decades, and sealed correspondence from guilds, patrol captains, and neighboring territories.
Heavy curtains were drawn back to let in the afternoon light, which fell across a long oak table scarred by years of use.
He stood at its center, sleeves rolled to his forearms, one hand braced against the wood as the other traced a route on the map.
"Grain distribution from the lower terraces will need adjustment," he said calmly. "The rain shifted the western road."
Across from him, a clerk nodded quickly, charcoal scratching against slate.
"And the patrol rotation?" Edrian asked.
"Completed this morning, my lord. No losses."
"Good," Edrian replied. Not relieved, but satisfied.
This was the work that kept the state breathing.
Quiet decisions.
Balanced weights.
Problems solved before they became stories.
A soft knock sounded at the tall doors.
"Enter," Edrian said without looking up.
______
Lyanna's Pov :-
Lyanna entered carrying a small tray, porcelain cups clinking softly as she moved.
The hall always felt colder than the rest of the palace,stone built for endurance rather than comfort.
She paused just inside, watching Edrian work for a moment before he noticed her.
He always did.
"Tea?" she asked gently.
He finally looked up, the lines of focus easing from his face. "You're spoiling me."
"Someone has to," she replied, setting the tray down beside his papers with practiced care. "You forget when you're buried in maps."
The clerks took their leave with quiet movements, not disturbing their lord's private time.
Edrian accepted the cup, steam curling upward between them. "I don't forget. I postpone."
She smiled faintly and glanced at the spread of documents. "Festival reports?"
"Mostly," Edrian said. "Supply confirmations. Crowd flow. A few minor disputes already resolved."
Lyanna's eyes softened. "Then it's going well."
"As it should," he replied.
She took the opposite cup and leaned lightly against the table. "Chris went out just before noon."
"I know."
She raised an eyebrow. "You always know."
"I made certain arrangements," Edrian said calmly.
Lyanna hesitated, fingers tightening around her cup. "I worry."
Edrian met her gaze. "I expected that."
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[A/N :- Do comment your thoughts about the chapter guys ! ]