Yen and Lily

The stars had started to prick the sky, dim at first, then bold and bright against the deepening indigo. Lanterns swung lazily overhead, their warm light flickering gold across the courtyard's stone walls and flagstone ground. The feast was well underway, but the earlier military precision had given way to the disorder of wine and full bellies.

Most men were sprawled across benches or collapsed on cloaks, either passed out cold or too drunk to care. Some still cackled by the firepits, trading stories that grew taller with every round of drink. Roasted bones littered the plates. Spices clung to the air. A lute somewhere was being plucked out of tune.

Yen sat in silence at the head table, a quiet island in the storm of noise.

Across from him, Zion was talking with his mouth full again, his wine-slick grin flashing mid-chew.

"So then I told her," Zion said, stuffing another bite in, "if that goat comes into my tent one more time, I'm naming it after you!"

Arkon, stoic and suffering, reached out and calmly pulled his plate a full arm's length away from Zion before continuing his own meal in solemn silence. He didn't speak, but the twitch of his jaw said everything: I want to die.

Yen didn't smile. He rarely did. He simply leaned back, one hand curled around his wine goblet as he listened, or tolerated, their reports. He'd already heard most of it—supply issues at the northern watchtowers, skirmishes near the pass, and Zion somehow not getting executed for crashing a nobles-only strategy council wearing nothing but a bedsheet and a crown of dead flowers.

And then—

Jang arrived.

The servant leaned in close and whispered something into Yen's ear. Whatever it was, the Patriarch's expression didn't change. He gave a faint nod, and Jang disappeared again into the shadows like smoke.

Yen set down his goblet, rolled his shoulders once, and turned to the table.

With deliberate, silent focus, he picked up a slender blade and began cutting into the tender slab of marinated venison on the silver tray before him. The knife sliced like it met no resistance at all. Clean, thin cuts. Every motion fluid. Every angle measured.

He wasn't just carving food. He was composing.

He placed the cuts precisely to one side of a ceramic plate—symmetrical, but natural, like brushstrokes. Then he turned to the fish. Without a word, he deboned the entire thing with the smooth efficiency of a surgeon. Not a single flake was broken. The fillet landed gently on the center of the plate, skin glistening under the golden oil drizzled across it. A pinch of herbs. One last touch.

Zion, who'd been mid-sentence, slowly stopped chewing.

Both he and Arkon stared.

"…Okay, stop that," Zion finally said, pointing. "It's too perfect. It's irritating. Are you showing off?"

Yen didn't even glance up. "Can you stop being an annoying little shit for once."

"Aw," Zion grinned, raising his cup in salute. "You missed me."

"I fantasized about beheading you," Yen said dryly, spooning a portion of rice into a smaller bowl with the same care one might use to lay out ceremonial incense. "Every day. Sometimes twice before breakfast."

Zion clapped like a child at a puppet show. "Gods, you did. You really did."

Before the back-and-forth could escalate into a full-blown roast battle, a voice cut through the air like a bell. Gentle. Warm. Composed.

"Gentlemen."

Both Arkon and Zion turned instantly at the sound.

Zion's eyes lit up. "My lady!"

Arkon stood and gave a deep bow.

Lily approached them with the grace of falling snow—quiet, effortless, but impossible not to notice. She had changed into something softer, her hair gathered neatly at the nape of her neck with silver pins that caught the firelight. Her gown was pale, a gentle cream with soft embroidery that shimmered as she walked. The sleeves fell loose at her wrists, catching in the breeze as she moved through the lingering heat of the banquet.

Her smile was so gentle, so serene, that it felt like medicine to look at her. It softened the stone in your chest. It quieted the nerves in your bones. The chaos of the evening seemed to hush around her, just slightly, like the air made room for her to breathe.

Zion beamed wide. "You're a sight for sore, war-weary eyes."

She gave him the faintest nod, her voice a soft melody. "And you are well-fed and overly loud. It brings me comfort."

Zion pressed a hand over his chest like she'd struck him with poetry. "My lady, be still my heart."

Arkon cleared his throat. "Lady Lily."

She bowed to him gently before her gaze shifted to Yen.

"My lord."

He didn't speak, but his hand moved—an unmistakable gesture—and she moved to him at once, seating herself beside him with practiced elegance.

"Eat." he said simply, sliding the plate he had prepared directly in front of her. "All of it."

Lily didn't question it. She nodded once and began eating, her movements as graceful as the way she walked, her fingers light on the utensils, her posture flawless. She didn't waste a bite, didn't pause to speak. She obeyed him with quiet precision.

Zion leaned slightly toward Arkon and whispered, "She's always this polite or is it just when he's looking?"

Arkon replied without looking at him. "He's always looking."

Yen didn't respond to either of them. Instead, he picked up the water pitcher and poured Lily a full cup, setting it beside her with the same exacting care he had used preparing her plate. His hand lingered near hers for just a moment longer than needed—barely noticeable—but she felt it. And she knew.

The silent claim.

The unspoken chain.

"I'm glad you're both well and in good health," she said quietly, addressing them both, her voice feather-soft. She didn't lift her gaze from her plate. But when Yen's arm moved to her waist, pulling her ever so slightly closer, she let it happen. She leaned into the touch.

No struggle. No protest.

Just quiet submission dressed in silk and soft-spoken smiles.

The four of them sat there as the stars wheeled overhead, while the wine kept flowing, and the men kept laughing. But at this table, there was a different kind of energy.

Not the drunken haze of soldiers.

But something sharper.

Stronger.

Colder.

Between bites and banter, between jest and jaw-tight silences, there were unspoken truths laid bare at that table. Years of war. Layers of loyalty. Sins tucked behind pleasant smiles.

And Lily—

She sat at the heart of it, like porcelain in a room full of knives.