Chapter 6 - The Velvet Trap
The summons arrived at midday, delivered by four members of the royal guard clad in ceremonial white and gold, their expressions carved from stone. They didn't kick the door down this time; they knocked with heavy, deliberate formality.
Keeper Alistair opened the door, his hand resting firmly on his staff. "State your business."
"By order of High Chancellor Voren and Prince Vane, the boy Jaren and his... charge are commanded to attend a formal banquet in the Sunken Garden," the captain of the guard announced, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "His Majesty wishes to officially recognize the bond and bestow upon the boy the title of Guardian of the Crown."
Alistair snorted derisively. "A title? Since when does the council bestow honors on a servant without a trial?"
"Since the kingdom faces an unprecedented era of unity," a smooth voice interrupted. Prince Vane stepped out from behind the guards, wearing a brilliant, disarming smile that didn't reach his cold eyes. He looked at Jaren, who stood cautiously behind the old keeper, with Silver nestled securely inside a reinforced leather pack slung across the boy's chest.
"Jaren," Vane said, spreading his hands in a gesture of absolute peace. "Let us put aside the misunderstandings of yesterday. The king wishes to honor you. You are no longer a servant of the lower rings; you are a pivotal part of Oakhaven's future. Come, break bread with us. Let the realm see that we stand united."
Jaren looked at Vane, sensing the razor-sharp trap hidden beneath the velvet words. Every instinct screamed at him to refuse, to bolt back into the hidden tunnels of the Citadel. But as he looked down, Silver poked its small, horned head out of the pack, letting out a low, warning hiss that only Jaren could hear.
We go, the dragon's presence seemed to echo softly in Jaren's mind. We face them.
Jaren lifted his chin, mirroring a fraction of the pride he had seen in the nobles yesterday, though stripped of all arrogance. "I will come."
The banquet in the Sunken Garden was a masterpiece of aristocratic excess. Lanterns of colored glass hung from the twisting branches of ancient apple trees, casting a surreal, dreamlike glow over tables groaning under the weight of roasted meats, exotic fruits, and sparkling wines. Lords and ladies sat in polite circles, their laughter sounding like chiming glass as Jaren was led down the center path.
Every head turned. Every eye locked onto him. The smiles were too bright; the welcomes were too sweet.
Prince Vane guided Jaren to a seat of honor directly beside the high table, pouring a goblet of deep red wine himself and sliding it across the polished wood.
"Drink, Jaren," Vane urged, his smile flashing in the lantern light. "To a new beginning for Oakhaven."
Jaren stared at the goblet. The surface of the wine shimmered with a faint, iridescent film that vanished the moment a breeze ruffled the liquid. Poison. Simple, elegant, and fatal.
May you like
Jaren looked up, meeting Vane’s steady, expectant gaze. Slowly, deliberately, Jaren reached out—not for the wine, but to pick up a heavy silver pitcher of fresh spring water, pouring it into his own cup instead.
Vane’s smile twitched for a fraction of a second.
