A brief spark crossed Alaric’s eyes—there and gone before his smile found its place, practiced and effortless.
“Well then,” he murmured, “until next time, Princess Evelyne.”
Evelyne didn’t answer right away. Her fingers had tightened imperceptibly around the edge of her fan. She cleared her throat, inclined her head in farewell and turned, her steps leading her back toward the castle. The gravel crunched softly behind her.
But he did not follow.
She realized then that the panic hadn’t devoured her after all. Not because she’d mastered it.
But because she hadn’t. She let the realization burn a moment longer, then swallowed it down like something bitter.
Chapter 7
It was a stunning view, and Alaric barely saw it. He stood at the tall window of his guest chambers, one forearm braced against the cold stone, the other resting at his hip. The mountain landscape stretched in shades of brown, gold, and white. Somewhere behind him he could hear the sounds of servants arranging his belongings around the rooms. But his mind was elsewhere.
He let out a slow breath. Warmth was the last thing he’d expected. Royal matches were not spun from affection, and yet, he had hoped for more, and it clung to him like a prophecy already written.
They had a saying for people like her in Varantia:a storm in disguise—the kind that arrived with calm skies and left nothing standing.
Her reputation had preceded her, of course. His advisors had been cautious, all hushed tones and raised brows.Your Highness, perhaps reconsider. The last groom—well, you’ve heard the story.
Yes. He had heard the story. Everyone on the continent had, and everyone had already assumed something about her—cursed, cold, or complicit, depending on who was speaking. He had paid those whispers little mind. He didn’t care what she was, but it was clear what she wasn’t: fond of him.
Alaric rolled his shoulders as he turned from the window and poured himself a cup of wine. The last of the servants bowed their way out of the chamber, the heavy doors clicking shut behind them. Alaric shrugged out of his outer coat and shivered instantly, cursing local temperatures. It was the first week of someris, and yet he felt like lighting a fire.
“Well, that was something.” Cedric’s voice cut through the stillness, as he closed the door behind the servants. “Would you like me to fetch you a mirror so you can admire your own performance? Or perhaps you’d like a quill and parchment to jot down every word you spewed out there for future generations to study?”
Alaric let out a long-suffering groan and dragged a hand down his face. “I take it you have a comment.”
Cedric crossed his arms, leaning against the nearest pillar with the ease of a man who had long since discarded the idea of groveling before nobility. “Comment? Oh, no, myprince. I’m simply marveling at the sheer audacity of your arrogance. It was like watching a peacock discover its own reflection and fall in love with itself.”
Alaric smirked, unbothered. “I was merely engaging in diplomacy.” He gestured grandly. “Bridging the cultural divide between our two great nations.”
“It looked more like you were attempting to suffocate the princess with your excessive verbiage. The poor woman barely got a word in before you filled the space with yet another gilded, over-the-top nonsense you lifted from a book.” Cedric sighed, shaking his head. “Not to mention the complete disregard for etiquette. Do you even know what you did?”
Alaric glanced at him with a slightly guilty smirk. His thumb brushed over his forefinger, as if the ghost of her glove still lingered there.
Cedric leveled him with a look. “You touched her.”
“Yes, well… I didn’t think it would matter as we're engaged.”
“Before the wedding. In public. In a country where that is about as scandalous as setting fire to a temple.” He slow-clapped his hands together. “Bravo.”
Alaric exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “I admit, I might have misjudged that particular custom. But really, must they be so rigid about it?”
“Just because you’re used to touching women whenever you please doesn’t mean everyone else is.”
Alaric huffed. “I don’t touch women whenever I please.”
“No, of course not,” Cedric observed dryly with mock seriousness. “You first deliver a two-minute monologue about the nature of fate,thenyou touch them.”
Alaric ran a knuckle along his lip. “Alright, point taken. Perhaps I got a bit carried away.”
“A bit?” Cedric lifted an eyebrow.
Alaric waved a dismissive hand. “It’s not as though I offended her beyond repair. She’s rather stiff, wouldn’t you say?”
“Ah, yes, let us criticize the woman who was just manhandled in front of an entire court and is probably still reeling from it.” Cedric shook his head. “It's a miracle she didn't exile you from the country.”
