Cedric groaned. “Come on, Alaric. I endured your brooding, your pacing, your ‘what if she doesn’t even like me’ dramatics for a week. I think I’ve earned at least a hint.”
Alaric exhaled through his nose, feigning deep contemplation. “Hmm. Let’s see. I would say… the princess is content.”
Cedric squinted at him. “Content?”
“Content. Pleased, even.”
Cedric folded his arms, narrowing his eyes. “Pleased.”
Alaric stretched his arms. “Very pleased.”
Cedric groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “By the gods, you are insufferable when you’re happy.”
Alaric smirked wider. “Well, then, brace yourself, my friend—because I plan to be happy for a very long time.”
Cedric groaned. “Oh, that’s disgusting.”
“What?”
Cedric gestured at him, exasperated. “That ridiculous look on your face. You’re neighing like a fool.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” Cedric confirmed, shaking his head. “And it makes you look unintelligent.”
Alaric merely shrugged, entirely unaffected.
It was still early, though the sun had already begun to slant through the high windows, painting pale gold onto the stone floors of the corridor. The staff moved slower than usual, as if the celebration had sunk into their bones.
But the question was, why had the king summoned him?
There were options, of course. The man could be preparing to offer a hand-worn pearl of wisdom, passed down from generations of grim-faced monarchs who’d confused silence with depth. Or, alternatively, he might simply threaten to remove Alaric’s head from his shoulders. It really could go either way. That was the problem with men like Rhaedor—they rarely announced which version of themselves you were about to meet.
At last, they arrived at the guarded double doors. The two Silverwards shifted aside in perfect sync, pulling them open without a word. Alaric crossed the threshold, leaving Cedric behind in the corridor.
The scent of ink and aged parchment met him like a wall.
The king was sitting behind an oak desk, signing reports, then gestured for Alaric to sit in the armchair across from him. He bowed, then lowered himself onto the firm, uncomfortable seat, resisting the urge to shift.
He folded his hands together, keeping his expression neutral. “Your Majesty, you wanted to speak with me. Is something wrong?”
The king leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.
“No,” he said at length, voice calm. “Nothing is wrong. I wanted to speak with you about last night.”
A pause followed. He glanced toward the window, then back at Alaric. “Was the marriage… fully formalized?”
Alaric barely kept his expression in check, but his jaw clenched.
By the stars, this man wasted no time. He wasn’t asking if Evelyne was happy, if she was comfortable. No, he just wanted to know if the royal transaction had been completed.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he lied evenly, though he had to force the words out through gritted teeth.
Relief washed over the king’s face, and that nearly made Alaric vomit. The sheer absurdity of this moment, the fact that this was the conversation they were having, as if it were a military campaign that needed a status update.
“Good, good,” the king murmured. “I just wanted to be certain. I know my daughter is… a little different. I think you’ve noticed that by now.”
Different? Alaric nearly scoffed.
