Chapter 724: The Third Courtesy

The banquet hall of the Cradle Palace ran longer than any street in Silverwood, set for a thousand guests. Every chair was a carved cradle, rocking very slightly as if somebody invisible still slept inside it, dreaming quietly.

Cessy walked the length of that table in her red dress, a paper lantern cupped in both hands.

‘Eight hundred courtiers watching, and my knees choose tonight to turn into custard.’

Lucan sat midway along the table, polite and blank, folding his napkin into small, precise triangles for no reason. Zarvine lounged beside him with her rapier across her lap, plainly bored as a woman at a dull play.

“A name must be spoken by whoever gave it first,” Ibaran said warmly from the head of the table, pouring tea with steady hands.

“I know the rules, Your Majesty,” Cessy answered, lifting her chin.

“Then take your time, my dear, nobody here is in a hurry.”

She stopped before her brother, close enough to smell the winter frost clinging to his collar, cold, familiar. Behind her the whole court leaned forward, silk rustling, every cup paused halfway to somebody’s waiting, parted lips.

“Do you remember me, sir?” she asked softly.

“I regret that I do not… madam,” Lucan said, tilting his head with a courtesy that cut deeper than any knife.

“I named you at two years old, you hated it for a decade, you wore it anyway,” she said, her voice shaking.

Her voice cracked on the final word, so she pressed her lips together hard until the trembling stopped. Down the table Hajin gave her one slow nod, asking nothing, offering the whole of his steady attention.

‘I will not cry in front of this man, not one single drop.’

“Lucan,” she said, “my annoying brother betrayed us once and handed me a key, so come home.”

She set the lantern on the table between them, a pale paper flame blooming inside it.

The floor trembled, the cradles stilled, then a thin silver current rose from the palace stones, tasting of rain. The River of Unborn Names lifted the lantern, turned it once, then poured its light into his whole chest.

Lucan gasped like a man hauled from deep water, gripping the table edge while his eyes cleared.

“Cessy?” he rasped, staring up at her like a stranger returning from a very long trip.

“Yes, you ungrateful man,” she said, tears already spilling, “I’m right here.”

“You did that badly,” he said, his voice breaking on a laugh.

“I did it perfectly, you dolt,” she sobbed, throwing both arms around his neck.

“I betrayed you in the Larder,” he said into her hair, “and you came for me anyway.”

He held her hard enough to bruise her ribs, a courtesy she allowed, never planning to mention it. Across the table Zarvine lowered her rapier an inch, sighing, plainly pretending the whole thing bored her deeply.

“Touching,” Zarvine muttered, “truly… I may weep into my wine.”

“That was a hell of a way to say a name, Cessy,” Hajin called, his voice thick.

“I know, I am magnificent,” Cessy sniffed, scrubbing her face on her brother’s lapel.

Ibaran set down the teapot, then began to applaud, slow and soft, each clap echoing off the vaulted ceiling. One by one the courtiers joined in, gloved hands rippling, until the hall rang like rain on a roof.

“Splendid,” the Birth-King said, rising, “the Third Courtesy is a pure delight.”

He lifted his cup, the applause dying instantly, as if a door slammed shut on the sound. His silver-gold eyes found Didi, then Hajin, with the gentle fondness of a grandfather at a wedding.

“I promised you honesty at my table, I keep my promises,” he said, smiling.

“Then let’s have it,” Hajin said, not smiling now.

The hall went so quiet that Cessy heard the cradles’ tiny, dry creak, the court breathing through its masks. Every courtier watched Hajin the way a cat watches a bird, delighted, patient, already fed, perfectly unhurried even today.

“The Fragment in your chest stands at eighty-five parts in a hundred, my boy, and you have known what ripe means since Gaoh.”

His hand drifted to his sternum, fingers spreading slowly across the cloth, pressing against something that pressed back. Thin threads of gold light seeped between his knuckles, plain for every guest at the table to see.

“You knew the harvest, Hajin, so I won’t insult you by pretending otherwise,” Ibaran said, almost gently.

“On Didi’s coronation night the Throne of Birth drinks the Goddess out of you, then I wake her in my own cradle and marry her at last.”

Didi’s chair scraped backward, her breath turning to white smoke between her teeth.

“You loved her,” Vella said slowly, rising beside Didi, “you killed her anyway.”

“I loved her more than anyone alive, madam, so I helped, so I will mend it.”

Shaking, he doubled over, one fist slamming the table, as a sound that was not his voice tore loose. It was a woman’s scream, vast, ancient, furious, cracking every goblet along the whole table from rim to base.

“Hajin!” Juna shouted, vaulting a cradle to reach him.

Cessy was already moving, claws out, blood-whip uncoiling from her wrist, before she finally remembered the Cradle Peace. Ibaran stood perfectly still, cup in hand, wearing the sad, kind smile of a man delivering bad news.

‘He is not afraid of us, nothing in this hall can touch him, he knows it.’

Aria gripped his sleeve from beside him, her small panel flashing red at her face, “His Fragment signature is rising past every safe limit.”

“Not happening… old man,” Hajin wheezed, forcing his spine straight.

“You will not touch him,” Didi said, frost cracking along the table toward the Birth-King’s cup.

“Of course not, little crown, not before the coronation, I would never.”

Juna planted herself in front of him with her fangs bared, “Touch him once and I will tear this table in half.”

Alya rose beside Juna with her hand on her lance, silent, her gaze never leaving the Birth-King.

Cessy slid under his arm, taking his weight across her shoulders, “I carry your coffin and your bags, remember, so lean on me.”

“Wasn’t planning on needing the coffin yet.”

A crooked grin forced its way through the pain on his face.

At the far end of the table Ysolde turned her face away, her knuckles white around her fan. Cessy’s stomach dropped, since her mother knew the plan, yet still poured every guest a cup of tea.

Across the table, claws still out, she whispered, “You knew.”

Ysolde did not look up, “Eat something, darling, the nights ahead will be long.”

“Where is Nyra?” Eirwen demanded, spinning toward the empty seat between Ferra and Loccy.

That cradle still rocked, a child’s cup half full beside it, a bite of skull-candy abandoned on the plate. Loccy shoved up from the table with her hammer already in her fist, her ears flat against her skull.

“The Nursery took her,” Ibaran said gently, “she is warm and fed, I promise you.”

Hajin snarled through gritted teeth, gold still bleeding between his fingers, “Give her back, you smiling—”

“Soon, my boy, once the coronation is done, she is the second horn, the anchor the Throne requires.”

He lifted his cup toward them all, tea steaming, kindness shining from every line of his face.

“Nine nights,” Ibaran said, smiling, “take your time, my dears, nothing here is forced.”