Jacob's conversation with Castor and Elly had, on the surface, been going remarkably well, at least well enough that no one watching would suspect he'd ignored the two of them for over two years. He responded at the right times, asked thoughtful questions, and kept his tone warm and agreeable, even managing to laugh when it was expected of him, regardless of whether the joke had any real merit. In many ways, it was a performance, measured, deliberate, and mechanical.

For Jacob, it didn't feel like a reunion. It felt more like an extended exercise in social maintenance, as if he were navigating through some intricate formal dance where every step had to be carefully calculated. Without the natural support of his emotions, every sentence became a construction project, planned, reviewed, then delivered with artificial sincerity. Pretending to care was far more exhausting than he had anticipated.

"…and that's how I ended up beating my tutor," Castor was saying, his voice light with pride, "you should've seen his face, even the guards were speechless. I guess I really am getting strong."

Two years ago, Jacob might have responded with a joke, perhaps something self-deprecating or teasing, the sort of thing friends did to keep each other grounded. A few hours ago, the same words might have made him feel quietly bitter, the gap in strength between them yet another source of silent frustration. But now, now he felt neither amusement nor resentment. Just calculation.

He tilted his head slightly and offered a well-timed chuckle. "Let me guess, you're Rank Seven now? Can't imagine you've gone further than that already."

He laced the words with just enough awe to stroke Castor's ego without coming off as sycophantic, matching his expression with a look of friendly admiration. All of it rehearsed, all of it fake.

Castor beamed. "Wow, you got it. Spot on. Rank Seven. You know what that means?" He didn't wait for an answer. "It means I'm officially the strongest of the three of us. Most popular, too. Best looking by far. Honestly, it's not even a competition anymore."

Jacob kept his expression fixed, but mentally raised an eyebrow. 'Narcissist,' he thought, though even that didn't stir any emotional reaction, just a simple internal note.

Castor was joking, at least partly. His tone was playful enough to suggest that he didn't mean all of it seriously, but Jacob could tell, with little effort, that the prince truly believed what he was saying. And why wouldn't he? He was the best-looking among them, with a sharp jawline, clear skin, and eyes that always seemed to hold a glint of confidence. His build was muscular, but not grotesquely so, and there was a polish to the way he carried himself that Jacob couldn't deny. As for popularity, being the prince practically guaranteed an entourage.

But still, to actually say it, even veiled in humour, felt distasteful. Two years ago, Castor had either been more modest or at least subtler. Now there was something sharper in him, an air of entitlement just beneath the charm. And Elly, who sat beside them with her arms crossed and a satisfied smirk on her face, didn't seem much better, loud, confident, and childishly proud of her perceived place in the world.

Jacob found himself noting every change, every shift in personality, not with judgment, but with the same detached focus one might apply to a puzzle. And despite how well the conversation seemed to be going, Jacob knew with certainty, he wasn't enjoying himself at all. Though he would mostly attribute that to his faded emotions.

What Jacob failed to consider, perhaps because of how detached he currently felt, was that the behaviour of Castor and Elly wasn't necessarily arrogant or unnatural, it was simply typical for their age. Pride over small victories, moments of exaggerated confidence, sudden bouts of childishness, these were all the things that came with being young.

But Jacob had spent the last two years buried in complex theories and advanced magical research, alone with his thoughts and too often lost in the intimidating depths of ancient books. His perspective had shifted; maturity had crept in early, and any trace of childish indulgence had been quietly swept aside. Self-doubt had made pride seem pointless, and his habit of minimizing his worth left little room for arrogance.

Elly's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and exaggerated in its indignation. "That's a bit too much," she said, frowning playfully. "How could you say you're the best looking when I'm sitting right here?"

She folded her arms across her chest and tilted her chin up in mock offense, the pout on her face clearly exaggerated for effect.

"So, you're denying it?" Castor shot back with a grin, clearly delighted by the banter. Then he turned toward Jacob, eyes glinting with mischief. "Well then, Jacob, who do you think looks better?"

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The question made Jacob pause. 'So I'm not even in the running?' he thought with a flicker of dry amusement. Even he had to admit he didn't really see himself as competition. Castor was the handsome, well-groomed prince, Elly the lively and striking girl. He, on the other hand, had always looked plain. Out of place. He didn't dwell on it, though. Instead, he lifted a hand to his chin and pretended to think.

"You're asking something impossible," he said eventually, his tone light. "You both look great, honestly. But comparing the two of you…" He trailed off, letting the silence stretch just enough for dramatic effect. Then he smiled faintly. "I couldn't bear to compare my two closest friends. So you'll have to interpret that however you want."

Castor looked like he was about to reply, probably with something smug, but before he could speak, the atmosphere in the hall shifted. The music changed, the soft, ambient melodies giving way to something more formal and grander, the kind of music suited to ballroom dancing. Servants moved efficiently to clear a space in the centre of the hall, and a few young noblemen began walking among the guests, offering their hands to various women in carefully practiced gestures.

No one stepped into the open space just yet. It was tradition for the guest of honour to begin the first dance, and tonight that title belonged to Castor. A sheepish look crossed the prince's face as he turned to Elly, his earlier arrogance giving way to something more familiar and warmer.

"Same as usual?" he asked.

Though they'd been squabbling moments ago, Elly nodded without hesitation. Castor rose, offered her a polite bow, and the two of them walked together into the centre of the hall, their steps poised and graceful as they took their place beneath the dome of golden light.

"Finally," Jacob let out a slow breath and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes halfway. "Peace at last," he muttered to himself, already thinking of using the break to rest a bit before they returned. He didn't expect to be disturbed.

But, of course, the world didn't seem keen on giving him any quiet.

"This lady would love if you would grace her with a dance."

The voice, soft and regal, came from beside him. Jacob opened his eyes, puzzled, who in their right mind would ask him to dance? He turned his head, and the person standing there made the confusion only deepen.

Still, instinct kicked in. Without hesitation, he rose from his seat, offered a deep bow, and lifted his eyes respectfully. "How could I dare accept the first dance, or any dance, really of the princess?"

Princess Leah stood before him with a composed smile, dressed in a deep blue gown that shimmered faintly under the banquet hall's lights, the fabric flowing elegantly down to her ankles. Her long, golden hair hung loose, cascading over her shoulders and down her back until it nearly brushed her waist. Her eyes, an arresting shade of green, reflected the glow of the chandeliers above, and though her beauty was not quite as flawless or commanding as Audrey's, it was undeniable nonetheless, refined and serene in a way that seemed effortless.

To Jacob, however, she was nothing more than another interruption, an unforeseen detour in an evening already too long. 'Another disturbance,' he thought, watching her carefully. He couldn't recall ever speaking to her before, though he knew who she was, of course. It wasn't hard to guess her reason for approaching him; just like Samuel, she likely had some political motive, another angle to gain support. What he didn't understand was why he, of all people, kept being approached. What support did they think he could possibly offer?

"No matter what you're thinking," Leah said softly, her voice polite but poised with confidence, "I would still like to share a dance with you. Please grant me the pleasure."

Jacob exhaled slowly and took a step closer, not bothering to disguise his reluctance. "If you want to talk," he murmured, "there's no need to go through the trouble of dancing."

"But I like dancing," she replied, an innocent expression flickering across her face as she extended her hand, poised and expectant.

With another quiet sigh, Jacob accepted it. He led her through the gathered crowd, toward the space where others were already twirling across the marble floor, the music swelling gently around them.

If he still had access to his emotions, maybe he would've felt nervous, maybe he'd have second-guessed each movement or word. But now, everything was distant. He had been taught how to dance since he was a child, it was simply another skill, another routine to execute cleanly. And if their conversation turned out to be anything like the one he'd had with Samuel, he knew how to handle it: politely dismiss her, deflect with vague words, and walk away when it was over.

They took their place and assumed the proper stance. Jacob's hand took hers lightly, and with the other, he rested his palm against her back. The music guided their steps, and they began to move in unison, slow and measured, rotating in a smooth counter clockwise rhythm with the others.

He looked directly into her eyes, waiting, expecting her to open the conversation. But to his surprise, she remained silent, her gaze calm and focused, as though she were genuinely lost in the motion of the dance.

"You're a pretty good dancer," Jacob said finally, deciding to break the silence, not out of interest, but because the quiet was beginning to feel pointed.

"So are you," she replied without missing a step. "Though I'll admit I didn't expect that. You don't exactly seem like the dancing type."

"I practice," he said flatly, already wondering how much longer the music would last. He wanted to return to his seat, maybe close his eyes for a bit, maybe let the rest of the evening pass by without further interference.

Then, finally, Leah shifted her gaze slightly and spoke, her voice as level as ever. "I assume you're aware of why I approached you. So let me ask directly, are you currently supporting, or do you intend to offer your support to any of my siblings?"

'There it is,' Jacob thought. At last, she'd gotten to the point.

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