Location: Armathane, Post-Ball — Palace Balcony, Upper East Corridor → Private Chamber Wing
Time: Night of Day 350 After Alec's Arrival
The Conversation — Alec & Elira
The ballroom had begun to thin. Nobles retreated to wine, whispered councils, or eager gossip. Music softened into ambient tones, the strings playing now more for the walls than the guests.
Alec didn't follow the crowd.
He moved toward the upper east balcony, overlooking the moonlit courtyard.
She was already there.
Alone.
Of course.
Elira of Oslo stood with her back to him, arms resting on the carved stone railing, dark gown kissed by breeze. She did not turn when she spoke.
"Lord Alenia."
Alec stopped.
"You recognized me before I introduced myself?" he asked.
"You were the only one in the room not pretending to hide your interest."
A beat of silence.
Then Alec stepped beside her.
"I analyze," he said.
"Others ogle. You assess." She looked at him now — green eyes clear, cool, deliberate. "I respect the difference."
The air between them settled into mutual containment — neither hostile nor open, like two fortress walls testing for cracks.
"You've read reports about me," he said.
"And you've heard court gossip about me," she countered.
He gave a small nod. "Not all of it aligns."
"Then perhaps we start fresh."
A pause.
"Very well."
She extended her hand. Not dainty. Not limp. A commanding gesture.
He took it. Firmly. No kiss this time.
Just recognition.
"You lost your husband four winters ago," Alec said.
She didn't flinch. "Yes. Sudden fever."
"You retained control."
"My daughter needed a future. And I was not about to let vultures write it for her."
Alec studied her. "You mean your brother-in-law."
"Among others."
"His name is on certain incident reports," Alec said softly. "Burned caravans. Missing grain. Smuggler subsidies traced to Oslo's northern roads."
Her eyes flashed, but only for a second.
"Didn't think you would be interested in a backwater county as Oslo"
"It's still part of Midgard, isn't it?"
She didn't reply.
"Proving it means war," she said after a while. "And war costs more than I'm permitted to spend."
"You don't strike," Alec murmured, "because you haven't been handed a weapon that won't splinter."
Her gaze sharpened. "Are you offering me one?"
"I'm offering you leverage."
"Same thing, different weight."
They were silent again. The moonlight painted Elira's features in white and shadow — elegance built on bone and poise, not paint or posture. Alec wasn't distracted by it.
But he didn't ignore it either.
"You're more formidable than the reports suggest," he said finally.
She raised a brow. "And you're less cold than I expected."
"Cold wastes energy. Precision preserves it."
She turned fully toward him now.
"Tell me, Lord Alenia — do you build things to protect people… or to control them?"
Alec met her eyes.
"Same thing, different intention."
Elira smiled — slow, quiet, approving.
Then she stepped away.
"Good night, Lord Alenia."
"Countess."
Post-Ball – Serina & Mira
The corridor outside the guest wing was quiet. Moonlight stretched across the marble floor in silver lines.
Serina stood near her door, one hand on the handle, still wearing her violet gown. Her cheeks were flushed — not from wine. From everything.
She had danced twice. Spoken to four counts. Been toasted beside her mother. And Alec had kissed her hand.
Then left the ballroom.
To follow another woman.
Footsteps behind her.
She turned.
Mira.
Clad now in a forest-green travel cloak, her hair unpinned, face clean of paint. Simpler. Older. Still beautiful.
They stood across from each other in the hall — two different women. Two different kinds of presence.
"I didn't expect to see you here," Mira said.
"I live here," Serina replied. "You don't."
A pause.
Then Mira smiled faintly. "He spoke well of you. Before I came."
Serina blinked. "He doesn't… speak well of people."
"I know."
Mira moved a little closer, leaning one shoulder to the stone wall.
"You're young," she said. "But you're not fragile."
"I could say the same of you," Serina replied, voice quieter now.
They stood in that careful stillness — not quite hostility, not quite camaraderie. Something unshaped.
"I've known men like him," Mira murmured. "But I've never seen anyone change a man like him."
Serina didn't answer right away.
Then: "I'm not trying to change him."
Mira looked up. "No. That's why it's working."
They didn't speak after that.
Eventually, Mira stepped back toward the guest wing, her cloak brushing the wall.
Serina entered her chamber without turning.
Each woman carried something in her chest she hadn't brought into the palace.
And neither quite knew what to name it.