Courtyard of Anticipation

Anna stood stock still, her hand suspended mid-air as if between two realms. A furrow was etched onto her forehead, a flash of puzzlement crossing her eyes as she looked at Victor. "You mean… you don't know?" The words were soft, laced with incredulity, almost delicate.

Victor shifted restlessly, scratching the back of his neck, the gesture giving away a tension he attempted—and failed—at concealing. A nervous burst of laughter escaped him, staccato and uncertain. "Uh… no, actually." His voice was weighed with awkward uncertainty, and for an instant, his eyes dropped to the floor, as though seeking out some phantom answer.

Anna's mouth opened slightly, her eyes growing wide, the blood ebbing from her cheeks in a faint panic. Her jaw clenched, the truth hitting hard and keenly—she had completely forgotten to inform him why he had been asked to visit. Slipping her hand back to her side, she let out a tiny, unspoken sigh, betraying the exasperation and self-blame gnawing at her.

"Victor…" Her tone softened, cautious now, all but tender, but with an edge of urgency. "Today, the Suncrest family is marking the birthday of their family head. They insisted that you join them to celebrate—you were invited personally." She regarded him steadily, as if anticipating the news to strike like some bodily weight, and the tiny beat of apprehension in her chest echoed his.

Victor leaned his head to one side, the creases of understanding etching across his face. "Ah… I see." The phrase was plain, nearly carefree, yet the nod that followed had a studied briskness, an effort to conceal the unexpected weight settling in his chest. His hands curled and uncurled slightly at his hips, small betrayals of the sense of duty he had not expected.

Anna exhaled sharply, the air between them thickening with a mixture of tension and unspoken concern. Her shoulders lifted and then fell, a tiny tremor of stress running through her frame as if she were gathering herself to face the next step. "Now," she said, voice firmer, resonant with authority, "go to your room and rest. I've sent a maid with your attire for today. Wear it properly." There was no room for argument, yet beneath the firmness lingered a trace of care, subtle and unmistakable.

Victor nodded his head, a gentle murmur of acceptance escaping his lips. "Yes, Mom." The words were subdued, nearly reverent, but bore a heaviness that seemed to contract the room, make it more intimate. He didn't stay, spinning on his heel to allow his footsteps to fall into the soft cadence of palace halls. Each step echoed faintly, mingling with the distant thrum of servants cleaning, the muffled sounds of a palace relaxing into the evening.

Behind him, Anna lowered herself into the chair next to the window, her hands entwining, fingers clenching for a beat before releasing. A furrow of concern etched her brow, delicate yet revealing, and she took a deep breath, reminding herself to concentrate. She couldn't allow worry to grip her—not now. So much needed to be managed, so much that had to be impeccable if Victor and Ania were to travel to the Suncrest estate. Every detail was crucial. Every second was important.

With a sweeping motion of her hand, she called for the maids. They stepped out silently, as if they had been conjured from the air itself, their movements quiet but deliberate, stances disciplined, eyes attentive yet submissive. "Do everything with care," Anna told them, her tone even, with a soft undertone that spoke of haste. "The presents… the carriage… their clothes… nothing must be left to chance.". Each piece, each stitch had to be flawless. Her eyes scanned them, keen but not unfriendly, quiet flames burning beneath refined poise.

Beyond the windows, the sky was going through its nightly ceremony. Amber dissolved into gold along the edges of the earth, coloring the world in warmth and light that was almost reverent. The palace courtyards shone, marble floors basking in the sun's last caress, fountains casting broken rainbows over stone, flags billowing lazily in the evening wind. The breeze held a touch of lavender and smooth stone, blended with the subtle musk of newly groomed horses, a scent that spoke of riches, concern, and careful thought.

The carriage Victor and Ania were to use was not mere transport; it was a statement. Its white panels shone as if carved from ivory of the purest kind, edges etched with filigree gold that glimmered as the last rays of sun brushed against them. Four perfect white horses pawed the earth, coats shining, muscles tensed and fluid beneath gleaming harnesses that shone with tassels of gold. The reins dangled loosely as if sentient, the soft metallic jingling hinting at precision and submission. Each element—from the aroma of lavender oil still in the leather to the faint sheen of polished wood—was testimony to care, to strength, to elegance brought to life.

Soldiers encircled the carriage in a perfect ring, every movement calculated, every stance unshakeable. Light danced off their gleaming breastplates, the Lionheart symbol—a lion caught in mid-roar—commanding every eye and attention. They were living statues, their discipline so fine it was on the verge of cleaving the air. Today's mission had the weight of more than mere routine duty: transporting Victor and Ania to the Suncrest Clan, and no room for mistake.

Among them, one man caught the eye with quiet authority. Walton, the King's personal bodyguard, was a pillar of experience. Broad shoulders filled the curves of his steel-grey breastplate, each line of his stance tempered by decades of service. Silver flecked his hair, speaking of ceaseless training, late nights, and battles won. His voice, quiet but inescapably commanding, wove through the formation, providing clear instructions that brooked no doubt.

An unexpected noise—the careful, deliberate thrum of feet—sharply drew the soldiers into alertness

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