The Arrival Under the Sun
Victor noticed, a flicker of sothing thoughtful crossing his face, though he said nothing. Instead, he turned toward the fountain, where the sunlight danced in the rippling water. The sight drew a small, private smile from him.
The courtyard seed to hold its breath—flowers swaying gently, banners whispering in the breeze—as the Lionheart family stood together beneath the open sky. The scent of roses lingered in the air, mingling with the aroma of freshly prepared dishes that drifted in from the long table by the fountain.
Then, softly, a small hand tugged at Victor’s.
He blinked, his gaze breaking from the water as he looked down. Ania stood beside him, her face glowing with delight, her eyes sparkling with that familiar, innocent mischief.
"Brother," she said, smiling up at him, "look! The food is ready!"
Victor’s lips curved into a faint smile. "Is it?"
"Mm-hmm!" She sniffed the air dramatically, her shoulders rising as she took in the scent. "Ahh... it slls so good."
Her excitent was contagious—pure and unguarded, cutting through the quiet formality of the courtyard. Victor reached out and placed his hand gently atop her head, brushing his fingers through her soft hair.
"Yes, my lovely sister," he said, voice low but warm. "You have a nose sharper than any royal chef."
Ania giggled, scrunching her nose. "Then you should listen to more often."
"I’ll try," he replied, a quiet amusent threading through his tone. "Now... shall we go see what your wonderful nose has discovered?"
"Yes! Let’s go!" she said eagerly, tugging at his arm.
Victor let her pull him forward, his composure softening around her energy. Together, they walked toward the long table near the fountain—her skipping steps balancing against his steady pace.
The courtyard around them felt alive. The maids moved gracefully in rhythm, like part of a quiet dance. They bowed as the prince and princess approached, lowering their heads with seamless respect. The clinking of utensils, the soft rustle of silk, and the steady whisper of the wind through the hanging banners ford a calm, elegant music.
As Victor and Ania reached the table, a group of maids stepped forward in unison. The silver dos covering the dishes glead under the sunlight. With perfect timing, the head maid gave a small nod, and the rest followed—lifting the lids with smooth precision.
A wave of warm aroma spilled into the open air.
Golden roasted ats glistened beneath the light, paired with delicate pastries that shimred with sugar glaze. Bowls of fresh fruit caught the sun—crimson berries, pale slices of pear, and small clusters of grapes beaded with moisture. Beside them were trays of honey-drizzled bread, cream sauces, and floral teas steeping in glass kettles.
Ania’s eyes widened. "Ohhh..."
Victor smiled faintly at her reaction, though even he couldn’t deny the beauty of the spread before them. The Lionheart cooks had outdone themselves—it wasn’t just a al; it was art laid upon silver.
Ben and Anna approached from behind, their steps slow, their faces touched with quiet admiration.
Anna’s voice broke the montary stillness. "It’s beautiful," she said softly, her gaze sweeping over the table. "They’ve turned this into sothing out of a painting."
Ben exhaled through his nose, the faintest curve of pride tugging at his lips. "It looks like peace finally decided to visit our palace."
Anna turned to him, her tone light but edged with tenderness. "Then let’s not chase it away, even for a day."
"I’ll do my best," he murmured.
She gave him a knowing look. "That’s all I ever ask."
Their small exchange carried warmth—a quiet understanding that ca only from years of walking through storms together. When they joined Victor and Ania at the table, the atmosphere seed to soften again, grounded by their presence.
The maids continued their work silently, setting the final plates, aligning goblets with perfect symtry. A light breeze passed, stirring petals from a nearby rosebush; they floated across the courtyard, landing softly on the fountain’s surface and drifting in slow, lazy circles.
Victor stood still for a while, his gaze following the movent of those petals. There was a calm in him, though beneath that calm was sothing more—awareness. A sense that this serenity was only a fragile pause before sothing larger.
Still, he allowed himself to breathe it in.
Beside him, Ania tugged lightly at his sleeve again. "Brother," she whispered, "when will our guest arrive?"
Victor looked down at her, his eyes softening. "Soon," he said. "Patience, little one."
"I’m trying," she said, pouting faintly. "But it’s hard."
He chuckled. "You sound like Mother."
"I do not!"
"Mm. You do when you pout."
Her face puffed even more, making him laugh under his breath. He rested a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. "Alright, alright. I’ll say no more."
Anna glanced over, her lips twitching into a quiet smile at their exchange. Ben, watching from beside her, shook his head slightly. "He’s softer with her than I ever was."
Anna’s voice was gentle but laced with affection. "You were firm where he is kind. They both needed that balance."
He gave a small grunt, as if disagreeing but without conviction. "You make sound old."
She tilted her head. "You are old."
That earned her a look of mock offense, followed by her low, amused laughter.
The mont stretched, easy and familiar—the kind of peace a family rarely gets to keep.
Then, the rhythm of the courtyard shifted.
One of the guards standing near the archway straightened abruptly. Another maid froze mid-step, her eyes darting toward the entrance. A hush rippled through the staff like the breath before a storm.
Victor’s gaze followed theirs. He could sense the faint tremor of expectation in the air, the invisible ripple that preceded every formal arrival.
The head maid stepped forward, her posture composed but her tone carrying a trace of reverence as she lifted her voice.
"My King. My Queen. My Prince. My Princess..."
The air seed to still around each title, the words echoing gently against the marble walls.
She paused, turning toward the grand entrance of the courtyard—the tall golden doors frad by climbing vines and sunlight.
"...Lady Sasha Suncrest has arrived."
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