My breath stills for the briefest moment. Something deep within me recoils, ancient and instinctive, as if memory lingers in my bones even if my mind cannot reach it.
“Perhaps,” I say softly, “but not all who fall are lost. And not all who rise are steady.”
I lift my goblet, letting the silence settle. I don’t rush. Men like Striden enjoy the sound of their own voice too much to notice when someone else is holding the blade.
“I’ve heard there’s a king buried somewhere in the southern mountains. No one says his name anymore, but they still whisper about him. Mad, they say. Crowned himself after the fall. Locked himself away in glittering halls, surrounded by stone and gold he didn’t earn. Spends his days speaking to walls, waiting for power to speak back. He built a kingdom from the bones of what was never his, and wears the illusion like a crown that fits.”
I glance at Lord Striden then, just briefly, but I let the glance say everything.
“Some men spend their lives circling power like vultures around a carcass, convinced that wanting something badly enough makes it theirs. As if standing near the throne is the same as sitting on it.”
I take a sip, slow and unbothered, before setting the glass down.
“But wanting more doesn’t mean you’ll have it. And claiming what was never yours doesn’t make it any less stolen.”
A tense silence blankets the table. Striden leans back in his chair, unimpressed, and speaks with the disinterest of a man swatting at a fly.
“An impressive analysis,” he says, voice cool. “Particularly from someone who, as I recall, was found outside the city gates with nothing to her name” He turns to swirl the wine in his glass, adding almost idly, “Your grasp of diplomacy is surprisingly well-developed... for someone with no lineage to inherit it from.”
The insult coils through the air like smoke. I meet his gaze now, calm but unyielding.
“I may not have had an inheritance to define my place in this world, Lord Striden,” I say, my voice smooth but pointed. “But let’s not forget, I was given a crown. I didn’t take one.”
Jason’s father’s lips press into a thin line, his silence a tacit acknowledgment of my retort. Across the table, Jason’s gaze shifts to me, his expression softening.
“Spoken like someone who knows how to navigate a room,” Jason says, his tone pointed enough to draw the focus away from the clash between his father and me.
Clyde chuckles, the sound low and amused as he leans back in his chair, the room already bending around the weight of his voice.
“Right you are Jason!” he says, his eyes sliding to me with something between pride and possession. “She could silence a room with her face alone, but lucky for us—her mind’s even sharper than her tongue.”
Striden lifts his glass with a small smirk.
“Sharp tongue, indeed.”
I nod slightly in acknowledgment, grateful for Jason’s intervention. In this room, the dinner may be a game, but Jason and I are not opponents. We’ve just begun to play, and it’s clear we’re on the same side.
As my father sets his glass down, I reach out and place my hand over his. His grip is firm, steady, and his gaze drops to our joined hands. His eyes catch on the silver bracelet at my wrist, narrowing slightly, his proud expression faltering for the briefest breath. Still, he looks up at me with a rare smile. It’s a fleeting moment of tenderness, calculated, as his affection so often is. Still, when he leans over to press a kiss to my temple, it stirs a sense of safety I can’t quite explain. And deep inside, the part of me that once cried in the dark—small, scared, and desperate to be seen—feels, for just a moment, held.
“I believe the sun is about to rise, Lord Striden,” my father announces, his commanding tone slicing through the waning conversation. “It’s time for us to depart. However, I look forward to the hunt.It will be a fitting celebration of the union between my daughter and your son.” He raises his glass, his eyes briefly flashing with something that might be pride.
I rise with him, slipping my arm through his, ever the obedient daughter, and together we head toward his study.
“Goodnight, Princess,” Jason calls softly from behind.
Pausing, I glance over my shoulder to meet his steady gaze. A blush creeps unbidden across my cheeks, and I nod quickly, unable to summon a reply. Turning away, I let my father lead me forward, leaving Jason—and the quiet understanding between us—behind.
Inside the study, the air shifts, now heavier and charged. My father moves with purpose, gliding over to his imposing desk and lowering himself into the grand chair behind it. His elbows rest on the polished surface, fingers steepled as he studies me. A sly, curious smile tugs at his lips.
“What’s making you smile?” I ask, easing into the chair opposite him, the weight of his scrutiny settling on my shoulders.
He chuckles, a low, indulgent sound that echoes off the dark-paneled walls. “I’m simply wondering why you’re still here, my sweet, when your prince charming waits just beyond those doors.”
I shake my head, glancing toward the fireplace. The flames sway and crackle, and I lose myself in their hypnotic dance before forcing my focus back to my father. He hasn’t stopped watching me, his expression expectant.
“Why him?” The question escapes before I can rein it in, my own doubt woven into every syllable.
His eyes narrow slightly, the tension in the air growing. He leans back, his chair creaking faintly under his movements. The silence that follows is as calculated as every other decision.
