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The soft glow of lanterns casts a golden haze upon the dark wooden beams of Panther's Grace, the ancestral seat of Zhuyin's royal family. The fortress exudes an aura of power and grace, blending elegance with martial splendor. Intricate carvings of panthers and lotus blossoms adorn the lacquered walls, and silk tapestries ripple with scenes of Zhuyin's storied history. Tonight, the great hall echoes with music and laughter as the lords and ladies of the great houses gather to welcome Princess Rhaenyra, heir to the Iron Throne.

Zyre escorts the princess through the ornate corridors, her delicate hand resting lightly on his arm. The air between them buzzes with a familiarity that is both comforting and antagonistic.

"You have grown up," he remarks, his tone as nonchalant as the faint smirk that tugs at his lips.

Rhaenyra glances up at him with a small smile. "So have you. You're now taller than me."

Zyre huffs as they turn a corner, his gaze sweeping over the embroidered panels that line the corridor. "I have always been taller than you."

"Isn't that huff a little too careless?" she teases, a mischievous glint in her lilac eyes.

"Who said I was careless?" His tone sharpens, though not without amusement. "Not to be rude. Why are you here, really?"

"I missed you too much." Rhaenyra's reply is quick, but there is a pause, a slight shift in her expression that Zyre notices.

He narrows his eyes at her. "What is the real reason?"

"It is the real reason," she insists, glancing ahead to the open doors of the grand hall, where music and chatter spill into the corridor. "You didn’t even visit me in three years. We just raven each other.”

“If you want to lie to me, go ahead,” Zyre replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “But I’m not going to pretend to believe you.”

"Why not?" she retorts, her brow arching with playful defiance. "It's only common courtesy."

Zyre stares at her, waiting. The patience in his silence is louder than words.

Rhaenyra finally sighs, conceding to his persistence. "I am forced to choose a husband, and all the suitors are piling up at every step I take. It was suffocating me, and I needed an escape."

"And you chose to ruin my peaceful life and make a nightmare out of it," Zyre says dryly, his lips curling in an exaggerated pout.

"Exactly what I intended to do." Rhaenyra laughs softly, squeezing his arm. "But I did miss you dearly."

"I know." His voice softens slightly, though the smirk remains.

As they enter the great hall, Zyre’s senses are assaulted by the richness of the scene before him. The air is thick with the fragrance of jasmine and sandalwood, mingling with the scent of roasted meats and sweet pastries. The great hall itself is a marvel, with its high vaulted ceilings and lacquered pillars carved with prowling panthers. Lanterns of red and gold bathe the room in a warm glow, and the lords and ladies of Zhuyin’s great houses—House Blackpaw, House Redbrook, House Starfall, House Shadowfox, House Ironflower, and House Jadeleaf—mingle among the silks and brocades, their laughter and conversation creating a harmonious clamor.

At the head table, Prince Haoran and Lady Elora sit with regal composure, watching over the festivities like two celestial beings. Their love for one another is apparent in the small gestures—the way Haoran’s hand rests lightly over Elora’s, and the shared glances that speak of a lifetime of devotion. Zyre notices this as he leads Rhaenyra to their seats, and something tugs at his heart, a longing he barely recognizes.

The feast proceeds with dances, toasts, and performances. The atmosphere is lively, and Rhaenyra gracefully endures the procession of suitors—lords and young noblemen who come forth to offer their praise and speak of their intentions. She meets each with politeness but nothing more, and declines every proposal with the practiced diplomacy of a princess. The tension in the room rises with each rejection, and whispers of her selectiveness flutter like nervous moths in the dimly lit corners.

As the feast continues, Lord Ironflower approaches the head table, accompanied by his lady wife and their daughter, Lady Linnea. Linnea is a gentle and beautiful young woman, two years older than Zyre. Her beauty is undeniable—an ethereal grace that draws the eye. Her dark, lustrous hair, adorned with delicate floral ornaments, frames her face like a piece of art, while the gentle curve of her brows enhances the depth of her expressive eyes, which seem to sparkle with a quiet intelligence and a hint of mischief. Her fair skin, as smooth as fine silk, catches the soft light from the hall’s lanterns, casting a warm glow over her delicate features. The flow of her elegant robes, embroidered with vibrant patterns, accentuates her refined poise, giving her an air of captivating allure.

As she approaches, her gaze lingers fondly on Zyre, unhidden and unashamed, the fondness in her eyes speaking volumes. It is clear that she does not wish to mask her feelings, and Zyre can sense the intensity of her admiration without a word needing to be spoken.

“My lord, my lady,” Lord Ironflower greets, bowing his head with the grace of his station. “Princess Rhaenyra, it is an honor to welcome you to Zhuyin. May your stay be as splendid as the night’s feast.”

Lady Elora smiles warmly at Linnea, and there is a gleam of knowing in her eyes. “And this must be your daughter, Lady Linnea. She is as lovely as ever.”

Haoran, catching his wife’s intent, gestures toward his son. “Zyre, have you not seen how our young lady has blossomed in these past years? You should greet her properly.”

Zyre hesitates, then forces a polite smile as he rises from his seat and approaching the young lady. “My lady,” he says, his voice smooth and formal, “I hope you are enjoying the feast.”

Lady Linnea curtsies, her gaze never leaving his. “I am, my prince. It is an honor to be in your company once again.”

As she turns to leave, her foot catches on the hem of her Hanfu, and she stumbles. Zyre moves swiftly, catching her by the arm before she can fall. “Careful, my lady,” he murmurs, steadying her. But as he is about to ask if she is hurt, he notices the look on her face—wide-eyed and breathless, like a maiden caught in the enchantment of a storybook hero. It is not the look of someone who has merely tripped; it is the look of someone utterly bewitched.

Zyre raises an eyebrow, his lips curling with faint amusement. “My lady,” he says, setting her upright, “I think you fantasize too much.”

Lady Linnea blushes furiously, stammering a soft, “Thank you, my prince,” before retreating quickly to her parents.

Prince Haoran watches the exchange with mild disappointment, his eyes narrowing slightly at his son’s lack of interest. Lady Elora, sensing the same, gives Zyre a knowing look, but Zyre merely shrugs, unperturbed. “If you will excuse me,” he announces, his tone clipped, “I find that I am exhausted. I shall retire to my bedchamber.”

Rhaenyra, always quick to seize an opportunity, rises as well. “I, too, am weary from the long journey,” she says, glancing at Zyre with a mischievous glint. “I would like to retire for the night.”

They leave the hall together, the weight of the feast falling away as they step into the quiet of the corridor. Rhaenyra’s laughter breaks the silence. “That was rather romantic,” she teases, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Romantic, my foot,” Zyre scoffs, his irritation flaring.

“I think you would make a fine match with Lady Linnea,” Rhaenyra continues, her tone light and playful, though there is a hint of something else—something veiled.

Zyre stops in his tracks, turning to face her with an exaggerated look of annoyance. “A fine match?” he echoes sarcastically. “Well then, Princess, should I fall to my knees and declare undying love at the first blush?”

Rhaenyra is amused, her lips curving into a playful smile. “Zyre, are you always that sarcastic?”

“No,” he retorts, voice dripping with mock courtesy. “I only save my sarcasm for you.”

She pretends to brush something off his robe, holding her hand in the air as though displaying a prize. “Look, what's this?”

Zyre narrows his eyes suspiciously. “What?”

“Your pettiness,” she replies, her grin widening.

“I won’t deny that I’m petty,” he admits with a faint smirk. “But you’re pretty thick-skinned yourself, Nyra.”

“You have a tainted heart. I don’t want to talk to you.” She feigns a pout, turning as if to walk away. “All right, Zyre, you don’t need to see me off.”

“I’m heading back,” he says, his tone sharp but not entirely unkind. “Who said I’m seeing you off?”

They pause, locking eyes for a heartbeat longer, and then both pull faces—Rhaenyra sticking her tongue out playfully while Zyre rolls his eyes in exaggerated exasperation. With that, they turn and walk in opposite directions, Rhaenyra’s laughter lingering in the air like a song of dragons, and Zyre’s footsteps fading away with the calm certainty of a shadow that knows no master.

In the heart of Panther's Grace, under the watchful gaze of its carved panthers, the two young royals walk to their separate chambers, leaving behind the laughter and the wine, and perhaps, unknowingly, a piece of their hearts.