From the side, overseeing the entire operation with the air of quiet command, stood footman George. Middle-aged, or at least, he had always looked that way, and polite to a fault, with perfectly combed silver hair that had never seemed to change. Evelyne couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t been in the castle.
Her attention shifted, landing on a figure standing near the largest of the carriages, watching the statue with quiet interest. The moment she laid eyes on him, she knew.
Prince Alaric Soleranos.
The Golden Boy they mean to anchor to me.
His frame was tall, relaxed, and confident—athletic, but not overly so. His dark brown hair, long enough to brush his collarbone, were slightly tousled, and a short beard traced the sharp angles of his jaw. His expression flickered with curiosity, as he turned and met her gaze.
As she approached, he gave a deep, confident bow.
She clutched her fan, her jaw locked in a quiet war with herself, betrayed by the controlled breath she hoped no one would notice.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness,” he recited when she approached, his voice low. “Prince Alaric. Scholar, equestrian, and, if the court is to be believed, a rather dashing conversationalist.”
Then, with a glance that was entirely too knowing, he added, “And now, in the presence of such grace, I fear my own reputation for eloquence may falter.”
A pause followed just before footman George gave a respectful nod and turned, retreating toward the castle. A few servants followed, murmuring softly among themselves as they carried ledgers and linen bundles, no doubt headed to supervise the arrangement of Prince Alaric’s chambers.
A smile curved Alaric’s mouth with the ease of someone accustomed to being liked. His attire was what truly set him apart. Unlike the men of her court, whose tailored garments were stiff with elaborate embroidery, his clothing spoke of a different world. He wore brown trousers and an ivory shirt cut from a lighter, more natural fabric. The collar hung open, and—to her great dismay—his olive skin and the faintest trace of chest hair was visible at the opening.
Her lips pressed into a line, willing herself not to look again.
“Princess Evelyne,” she intoned, while making a shallow curtsy. “An honor, Your Highness.”
Well. He appeared tolerable enough. Nightmares, accounted for. An ill-timed conversation, endured. A minor incident at breakfast, survived. Surely fate would grant me a pleasant—
Without a warning, Alaric reached for her gloved hand. Before she could react, he planted a delicate, lingering kiss to the back of it, his eyes never leaving hers. Heavy signets pressed into her skin—one bore the Soleranos crest, the other a symbol she didn’t recognize.
The courtyard seemed to fall away—the chill air, the murmur of guards, the scent of horses and frost. For a moment, all she felt was Dasmon’s cold palm, slick with blood.
Such a gesture was unthinkable. In Edrathen, only a husband touched his wife, and even then, only in private. Public affection belonged to ceremony, to script, to duty.
But he was a foreigner. That would be the excuse. Different customs. Different rules. Perfectly understandable.
Her palm turned to ice in his grasp. Panic surged clean and sharp. Her lungs refused to move; breath caught behind her ribs. Her heart pounded too fast, each beat drumming against the stillness. She didn’t flinch, but her skin burned beneath the glove, that sick, familiar heat crawling up her arm until even the winter air felt suffocating.
Control. Calm. Focus.
She latched onto the ritual like a lifeline, directing her thoughts into the details of what had been violated rather than what it felt like.
The impropriety. The breach of protocol.Yes. That was easier than admitting the truth.
She lifted her fan, shielding the tremble in her lip.
Alaric straightened leisurely, fingers uncoiling from hers as if savoring the moment. Evelyne resisted the urge to shake out her hand.
Behind him, his servant stared at him with wide eyes and mortified expression. He had short, brownish-red hair and stubble on his chin. His fair skin was tanned from the Varantian sun.
Evelyne cleared her throat lightly, reclaiming what little control the moment had allowed to remain.
“The journey must have been long,” she commented, tone polished, and perfectly neutral. “I trust your retinue was not too inconvenienced by the weather?”
Alaric exhaled dramatically, as though the very memory of mild hardship offended him.
“Ah, the weather,” he began, voice lilting with theatrical dread. “Snow that bites like a jealous lover. Winds sharp enough to skin a man alive. Your western passes are quite the experience. I do believe one of my guards attempted to bury himself beneath the luggage to escape the cold.”
He spoke with gestures that bordered on performance, and words dressed in just enough flourish to feel intentional. Evelyne watched his mouth, but saw Dasmon’s carved lips behind her eyes.
