He paused.
He wasn’t sure how to say it without sounding mad.
“We saw magic.”
Vesena gasped so hard she looked like she might choke on the tension. Her mouth fell open. She stared at him like he’d announced he was pregnant with the god Orvath’s child.
He frowned at her, deadpan. “Close your mouth or you’ll catch a fly.”
She snapped it shut.
Breakfast, meanwhile, continued as if no one else at the table was sitting on top of a sacrificial conspiracy.
Vesena huffed beside him, the sound very nearly a laugh if she’d had more sleep or patience left in her. She glanced toward the royal table with him, their gazes settling on the carefully neutral silhouettes of Evelyne and Alaric, sitting opposite each otherlike two beautiful statues sculpted by entirely different artists.
“They act like children,” she muttered. “And neither of them will ever admit they need the other.”
Cedric sighed dramatically. “Don’t even get me started. I swear, if I have to listen to one more of their charged silences, I might throw them into a closet and lock the door until they either kiss or stab each other. Whichever comes first.”
Vesena tilted her head thoughtfully. “That’s not such a stupid idea.”
His brows lifted. “Wait—what?”
“You’re not the only one tired of their brinkmanship,” she muttered.
Cedric lingered a moment longer eyeing Vesena. Her gaze was fixed somewhere just beyond the window on the other side of the room—as if she was trying to rearrange the entire castle in her mind. He’d learned early that when Vesena looked like she was staring at nothing, it usually meant she was solving everything.
Alaric set down his fork with a sigh.
Cedric took that as his cue. He moved to collect the plates. Stacking the dishes with one hand and lifting the tray with theother, he turned toward the kitchen corridor, offering a half-nod to Vesena on his way out.
He didn’t get far.
Grand Marshal Ravik was standing near the archway, arms behind his back like he was supervising the air. Cedric clocked him too late. The man turned as Cedric approached, and something about the shift in his posture said interception.
“You’re the prince’s servant, right?” Ravik asked, the words flat.
Cedric narrowed his eyes, not bothering to hide it.
“Yes,” he said, the syllable short and clipped. “And you’re the one who breathes too loud in council meetings. We all have our burdens.”
There were maybe four people in this castle Cedric gave genuine deference to: Alaric, the empress-to-be, the cook on meat day, and Vesena. Ravik was not, and would never be, on that list.
Ravik didn’t answer right away. He simply looked at Cedric.
And Cedric held it. He stood, tray in hand, weight balanced lazily on one hip, returning the look with the bland expression of someone entirely unimpressed with the conversation.
“Tell me,” Ravik began, voice low and clipped, “what was the journey from Varantia like?”
Small talk. Seriously?
Cedric blinked. “Long. Dusty. Too many rivers, not enough bridges.”
Ravik didn’t flinch. “And the prince?”
Cedric tilted his head slightly. “He has a better horse than I do.”
“And he’s adjusting well?”
