When their eyes met, a weight sank deep in her stomach.
Without a word, he pivoted and departed.
And she stood frozen, her fingers still tangled with Alaric’s, wondering if they had made a terrible mistake.
Chapter 60
It was remarkable, really, how many people could laugh while bracing for the end. The cheers had faded, replaced by the clatter of silver and the hum of courtly performance. Laughter a little too loud, smiles stretched just a touch too wide. It all clung to him like a poorly tailored second skin when he stepped into the ballroom with Evelyne.
Overhead, chandeliers spilled golden light across crimson and blue banners bearing the crests of Edrathen and Varantia. Silver platters passed between clusters of nobles: honey-glazed quail, figs stuffed with spiced cheese, bread still warm from the ovens.
On the other hand, there were tasters at the high table; Silverwards at balconies. Servants wove through it all like thread through a needle, refilling goblets before they could empty.
Alaric pulled out her chair by the long royal table at the raised platform, then sat beside her. Now, with their hands apart and the performance underway, he found himself glancing sideways.
The red veil still framed her silhouette, catching the firelight. She looked beautiful, as always. But a breath apart. From the crowd. From him.
A statue holding its breath.
She was bracing. And why wouldn’t she be?
It hadn’t gone well the last time. And she was just a hair's breadth away from repeating the story. He’d been terrified. Gut-level, blood-cold terrified.
She must have been too.
But they were here. No blood on her gown. No madman chanting ominously in the background. So far, a success. He fought the urge to say something foolish—something like “let’s run away and become goat herders in the North.” She wouldn’tappreciate it. Not now. Her walls were up, and besides he had a feeling she hated goats.
And probably lilies too, judging by the way she was glaring at the centerpiece as if it had personally offended her lineage.
He tore a piece of bread in two and offered her half—something to steady her hands. He hadn’t expected her to accept it. She hesitated, fingers suspended for a heartbeat, then took the piece in silence.
He leaned in. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Her gaze flicked to his, sharp and unreadable. “I assure you; you don’t want to hear that.”
The corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Try me.”
He expected the usual retreat: a lift of the chin, a perfectly timed deflection. But her gaze held, and for a moment, he saw it—that flicker behind her eyes.
“My priest wasn’t there,” she explained at last, low enough that only he could hear her. “The one who was meant to bless the ceremony. They replaced him.”
That was strange. Alaric had grown used to ceremony shifting hands for politics, but to change such a core figure without notice? Especially now?
That wasn’t just oversight.
He leaned closer. “He’s trustworthy, this Halwen?”
She nodded once. “The most.”
“Then I’ll ask after him. If something’s wrong, we’ll find out.”
She turned to him. “Thank you.”
A smile curved at his mouth.
The music dimmed to a hum as the king stepped onto the dais. Conversations died mid-sentence. The hush was instant—anticipation tightening the air like drawn bowstrings. He cleared his throat.
“Good evening, lords and ladies, noble guests and honored allies. Tonight, we bear witness to an alliance that will forge a path toward a greater future for our kingdoms.”
