“For generations, our lands have stood strong. Through battle and blood, we have ensured that our banners never falter. We have survived wars, prospered through hardships, and thrived where lesser nations would have fallen to dust.”
A murmur of approval rippled through the gathered nobility, heads nodding, glasses raised.
“Strength is the pillar upon which our legacy is built. Strength of steel, strength of will, strength of memory. And tonight, we reinforce it in its most sacred form—a bond between two sovereign houses.”
He turned his gaze from guests to them.
“Together, these two shall stand as a testament to the strength of our realms. Their union ensures prosperity, stability, and a future that will see our legacies endure. Let this night mark the beginning of a new era—one of fortitude, dominion, and triumph.”
A swell of applause followed. A well-rehearsed display of approval.
Alaric in contrast stayed light. Made jokes about conquests and wedding speeches. Not because he wasn’t keenly aware that something could go wrong at any moment, but because if he let his own tension bleed through, she would feel it.
Thalen pushed through the crowd with more determination than direction. Ysara trailed behind him in polite alarm, her hand outstretched as if she might catch him mid-charge, but wisely let him go. The boy had made up his mind.
He stopped in front of the high table, brushing an errant lock of hair from his brow. His gaze flicked between them and he gave a sharp, dignified bow.
“Your Highnesses,” Thalen drew himself up to his full height. “As your future king, I offer you both my blessing.”
Alaric bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” Alaric said with matching gravity, offering a respectful incline of his head. “May your reign be as wise as it is charming.”
That earned him the briefest flicker of a grin—quick, crooked, and immediately suppressed.
Thalen cleared his throat and leaned in slightly. “Have you seen Lady Vesena anywhere?” he asked, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to conspicuously formal.
Evelyne tilted her head. “She’s probably nearby. Or she might’ve gone to the kitchens. Why do you ask?”
Thalen’s cheeks flushed in a slow, spreading bloom. He looked down at his boots, then back up with visible effort. “You’re leaving tomorrow,” he said, as if that explained everything. “I just… wanted to talk to her. For a moment.”
Evelyne’s face did something so soft and so heartbreakingly tender that he couldn’t take his eyes off it. The corners of her mouth curved, her eyes shimmered, and for a split second he saw her chin trembling.
Thalen cleared his throat, shifting to face Alaric with his shoulders set—more soldier than child. “I hope you’ll keep your word, prince Alaric.”
Alaric’s smile faded, just slightly. He met the boy’s gaze without flinching.
“I intend to,” he promised simply. “Every part of it.”
There was a beat of silence, short but weighty. Then Thalen nodded once and turned on his heel with the self-importance of a crowned eagle. Ysara, eyes wide with maternal apology, gave them both a helpless little bow and followed after her son, barely suppressing a smile.
Alaric reached for his goblet, less from thirst than to give his hand purpose. When he glanced back, Evelyne was watching him, one brow arched in wry suspicion.
“What was that?” she asked quietly.
Alaric raised his glass in mock salute. “Your brother just knighted me in the name of truth and consequences.”
Evelyne’s gaze lingered a moment longer before she looked away, but not before he caught the corner of her mouth curling.
Before Alaric could speak again, the king’s voice cut clean across the ballroom.
“It is time for the dance,” he declared, and just like that, the hall stilled.
Alaric’s gut coiled. Their last dance had been a ritual of avoidance. All precision, no touch. This one? Three sanctioned points of contact.
Edrathen and its gods-blessed customs.
He masked his sigh behind a winning smile and rose, extending his hand, palm up.
