Five

My heartbeat quickens in my chest. I feel some sort of shaking of excitement and tighten my hold on the glass as someone steps forward.

Is this it? Is now the time?

Will I get to see him at last? 

A stylish figure enters the spotlight. His clothing is flawless and appropriate for the occasion. He's tall, quite manly, and—wait—blonde?

Under the chandeliers, his hair appears like woven gold, and his golden eyes... They are far too pure and tender.

And what the devil is that smile? It's happy, even charming, as if he's just walked in from a garden party rather than a battleground.

His steps have a spring to them, a carefree confidence that shows genuine attractiveness.

What exactly is this? It is completely unacceptable for a man who is recognized for violence and disorder to appear as like he is going to make a joke and then laugh at it.

Silly.

The only word that springs to mind is that. Instead of inspiring dread, he appears to be someone who trips over rugs.

No. No, no, no. There must be a mistake here.

What on earth is going on?

I don't even realize my jaw is half-dropped until I catch myself. How come? I've been imagining what he might look like all this time—a rich, cruel predator. 

And now…

Now, I can't even remember what I thought he'd look like. Nothing in my mind holds up next to this man, standing before me with that smile and those golden eyes.

"Your Majesty," he says at the outset, in a quiet yet kind voice, "It is a privilege to be here, under your roof, among the best of your kingdom."

With a faint smirk on the corner of his lips, he straightens himself, his eyes never leaving the King. No dread or uneasiness, just a serene certainty that stays in the breeze like a silent challenge.

"You..." A glimpse of something—disbelief or anger—flashes in the King's eyes as his voice stumbles. He tries again after clearing his throat. "Where is the Duke?"

What? Is he not the Duke?

The man, who maintains his graceful stance, smiles courteously, but the corner of his mouth quivers as if he's about to burst out laughing. "Your Majesty, the Duke sends his sincerest apologies. Unfortunately, the Duke was unable to come tonight. He--" The person seems to be considering how to best frame the most absurd of reasons while he pauses for dramatic effect.

"He said something about wanting to take a nap. You know, after all the hard work he's put in saving the kingdom, he really needed to catch up on his beauty sleep. So much effort, he said." His smile broadens as he laughs, obviously taking pleasure in the ridiculousness of the circumstance.

So he's really not the Duke, then?

The shock sinks in like cold water as I blink. Suddenly, I feel a weight that I was unaware I was carrying leave my chest.

What's causing my relief?

Why does the thought of the real Duke—whoever that is—bring me any relief? It doesn't make sense.

I must be losing it. I really must be going crazy.

The chatter begin once more, subtle enough to feel like something private but loud enough for everyone to hear, a small gossip storm raging. 

"The Duke didn't come? How disrespectful."

"Yeah, right," someone scoffs under their breath. "No one skips a banquet like this, especially one arranged specifically for them."

The King must be fuming. He is not going to overlook this.

But what about the Duke? He's not afraid, is he? To ignore such a significant event, fully aware of the politics, expectations, and egos at stake. Somewhere he must be smiling, making fun of the royals without even revealing his face.

What sort of statement is the Duke making by not even showing up if he is meant to be this great hero, this irresistible force? He doesn't even care enough to attend the one event that should be in his honor.

I glance back at that man again, narrowing my eyes slightly.

That's his face. The type that comes from someone who is very skilled at what they do.

There's no chance he's only a messenger, based on the way he's speaking to the King—so unorganized, so unconcerned, as if he's speaking to an old friend rather than a ruler—and the way he carries himself with it. 

No one stands that tall, smirks that easily, and gets away with such audacity unless they've got something powerful backing them up.

The man's eyes widen slightly, as if just remembering something, and he claps his hands together in mock realization. "Oh! I nearly forgot," he replies in a calm, relaxed voice. "I was asked to deliver a letter by the Duke. If you will, a more... formal way to express oneself."

He casually flicks his wrist, pulls a perfectly folded letter out of his coat's pocket, and holds it out to a knight who is standing rigidly before him. "Here," he adds, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a half-smile.

After a brief moment of hesitation, the knight moves forward to accept it, obviously unsure of what to think of the man. He turns and approaches the King, presenting the letter with a small bow.

The King grabs the letter slowly, his fingers gripping the parchment, his knuckles turning white. He seems to be fighting for all of his self-control to keep from snapping at the man in front of him. He is clearly thinking of a hundred ways to completely silence that arrogant look based on the strain in his jaw, the thin line of his mouth, and the keen reflect in his eyes.

Even Anton, who's usually unreadable, looks uncertain. 

And the man?

With the same arrogant ease, he stands there as though he doesn't realize—or doesn't care—that he's only one mispronounced phrase away from becoming an issue that the King might truly resolve.