Caveen and Alaric stood side by side on the terrace, glasses of blood-red wine in hand. The cool breeze carried faint music from the grand hall, but Caveen's eyes remained fixed on the fields below.
He wasn't smiling.
Suddenly, the headlights of a sleek, dark car pierced the dusk. It stopped just beyond the garden gate, and from it stepped a tall, striking man in a dark indigo cloak embroidered with arcane sigils—each thread humming with restrained power.
His raven-black hair tousled perfectly in the wind. His jawline sharp, his eyes a deep glacial gray that shimmered with hints of violet under the moonlight.
Kylan Daikun had arrived.
Alaric sipped his wine. Caveen tilted his head slightly. "Another late guest?"
But before Alaric could reply, movement from below caught Caveen's attention.
Lysandra.
She had been talking with some guest across the garden when she suddenly turned—her silver eyes lighting up the moment she saw the mage.
With unexpected warmth and no hesitation, she hurried toward him.
"Kylan!" Her voice carried over the roses and wind.
The mage's face lit up like dawn. "Lysa," he said, his tone soft but rich with familiarity.
They met halfway, and Lysandra threw her arms around him in a tight embrace. He returned it with equal intensity, one hand cradling her back like she was something sacred—fragile yet priceless.
On the terrace, Caveen's hand stilled over his glass.
Alaric noticed the sudden stillness in the air around him.
Kylan's arms loosened from the embrace, but before Lysandra could guide him inside, he lifted his gaze up—and found Caveen watching.
Their eyes met.
Kylan's lips curled into a knowing smile. Bold. Unapologetic. The kind of smile that didn't ask for permission—it challenged.
It said: "So, you're the prince she chose. Let's see how long that lasts."
Caveen looked away.
"Who the hell is that?" he asked, the question slipping out before he realized how low and tight his voice had gotten.
Alaric's gaze was still locked on the mage, now being ushered inside by Lysandra, who looked completely unaware of the tension brewing above.
"…Kylan Daikun," Alaric said finally. "From the Daikun Clan of Mages."
Caveen glanced at him. "And?"
Alaric sighed, swirling the wine in his goblet lazily. "One of the Moonwell's closest allies for centuries. Powerful. Brilliant. The Council once feared him as the next Mage Lord. He's the kind of elite who can burn through ten spellbound warriors in a breath."
"He looked like he wanted to burn me instead."
Alaric chuckled. "He probably does. The rumors say he's been head over heels for Lysandra for years. Even asked for her hand once."
Caveen's eyes sharpened. "She never told me that."
"She rejected him," Alaric replied. "Outright. Publicly. Said she didn't want a husband… not then."
A beat of silence.
"And now?" Caveen asked.
Alaric arched a brow. "Now she's engaged to you."
Another pause. Caveen stared at the glass in his hand like it might offer answers.
"Do you think she feels something for him?"
Alaric shrugged, setting his wine down. "That's not the question you should ask."
"Then what?"
Alaric glanced at the direction Lysandra and Kylan had just walked through.
"Ask yourself this: Does he still believe she'll change her mind? Because if he does… he'll wait. He'll fight. And with his power and his status, the world will let him try."
The weight of that truth pressed down like thunderclouds.
Caveen remained still, then finished the rest of his wine in a single gulp.
"I don't care how powerful or who he is to her," he muttered, voice low. "She's already carrying my child."
"Your engagement is just a show, Your Highness," Alaric said, stepping away from the railing. "What if she choose him after giving birth to your child."
Caveen let out a sigh, no answer. Then he kept his composure and patted Alaric."Come, lets meet this Kylan" he says and left toward the grandstairs.
All attention gravitated toward three figures.
Lysandra walked beside Kylan, her silver-blue gown trailing like mist behind her. The mage, now free of his cloak, wore fitted robes of deep navy and silver, tailored to perfection. Ancient runes flickered faintly along the collar—sigils only the most gifted could activate.
Kylan's presence drew eyes, especially from the noblewomen. After all, he was Kylan Daikun—the favored son of the Daikun mages, a rare beauty of intellect and sorcery combined. But he didn't spare anyone a glance.
His focus was entirely on Lysandra.
Caveen watched them approach, standing near the base of the royal platform. He didn't move. He didn't speak. But his eyes... his eyes followed every step the mage took.
Lysandra, as radiant as ever, gave Caveen a smile that was both soft and steady—like an anchor in a storm.
"Caveen," she said, stopping before him. "I'd like you to meet someone important to me."
Kylan turned, lips curved in that maddeningly polite smile.
"Kylan Daikun," he said, offering a graceful bow. "Honored to meet the famed Prince of Three Bloodlines."
Caveen's jaw clenched slightly. He didn't bow. Didn't smile.
He extended his hand, voice level. "Caveen Landon."
They shook hands.
A pulse passed between them. Two powerful men sizing each other up not with words, but with presence.
Kylan's grip was firm. So was Caveen's.
Lysandra didn't noticed.
"Thank you for coming, Kylan," she said smiling. "It means a lot."
Kylan smiled at her, softer this time. "You asked me to be here for your important moments. I intend to keep that promise."
Then he looked back at Caveen.
"She always hated parties, you know," he said, tone deceptively casual. "Back when we were in training, she'd rather sneak into the mountains and chase mana spirits than wear gowns."
Caveen gave a faint smile—one without warmth. "She's changed."
"Maybe," Kylan said. "But some things stay the same."
Alaric stepped in from the side, breaking the stare-down with a mock-cheerful tone. "Ah, the Daikun heir in the flesh. I was beginning to think you were just a myth."
Kylan smirked. "Only to those who can't keep up."
Alaric arched a brow. "Lucky for you, I'm not one of them."
The tension thinned slightly as the conversation widened, but the air between Caveen and Kylan remained tight, razor-sharp under the surface.
Lysandra cleared her throat. "Come, Kylan. There's food, and Mother would love to see you again."
He nodded and followed her toward the banquet table, but just as they walked away, he turned his head—his eyes locking once more with Caveen's.
He didn't speak. But the message was clear.
"I'm still here. I always will be."
Caveen watched them until they disappeared into the crowd.
Behind him, Alaric exhaled slowly, swirling his drink again. "He doesn't hide it, does he?"
Caveen's voice was quiet, hard. "He doesn't need to."
Alaric tilted his head. "He still wants her?"
Caveen nodded. "Yes."
Alaric's gaze narrowed. "Then its up to you to keep her or lose her to him."
Caveen didn't reply. But he turned toward the crowd—toward Lysandra—his eyes darker than before.
He would not lose her.
Not to fate. Not to politics.
And definitely not to Kylan Daikun.