“I’ll do my best.”
The king gave a nod, rose from his chair, and crossed to the tall windows; his arms folded behind him.
“She always says she’s fine,” he murmured. “That she understands her duties. And I know she does. She’ll do fine.”
A pause. A shift in tone—like steel sliding beneath velvet.
“But I don’t want her to just do fine.”
Alaric turned slightly, studying the older man.
“I can see that you care about her,” Rhaedor remarked, finally meeting his gaze. “That means a great deal to me. You seem like a kind man. Patient. I can see you’re fond of her.”
Fond. What an insultingly small word.
“And I’m glad for that,” Rhaedor added. “I hope that in time, you develop a true connection. You’ll both need a friend, considering the responsibilities that await you. Being a ruler is difficult. Trust is rare. I wish that for both of you.”
Alaric cleared his throat, surprised by the hoarseness in his voice.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said carefully. “I promise I’ll do my best to take care of Evelyne.”
The king let out a quiet breath. He turned from the window, crossed the room and lowered himself into the chair.
“Those are just words, Prince Alaric.”
The sentence landed with the soft, deadly elegance of a snowflake that knew it would become an avalanche.
“Words are the cheapest currency in court,” the king continued, gaze sharp beneath lowered brows. “You may believe we are hidebound. Stuck in customs you think are outdated. That we are rigid. But it is that very rigidity that has kept us standing while others fell. It has shielded us from war, scandal, and delusion that the world is soft and forgiving.”
Alaric said nothing.
“I did not agree to this match for coin or land,” the king went on. “Not for alliance, not even for the convenience of a traderoute. I agreed to this because I am preparing for the world that is coming. Not the one we wish for.”
He paused, his eyes, pale as early frost, locked onto Alaric’s. “She is my daughter. And if anything happens to her—if she returns to me not as an empress but as a discarded wife—know this.”
Another pause. The king leaned his left elbow on the armrest and pressed fingers of his right palm into the desk.
“She will return with her head high, and her place at this court untouched. She is my blood. And those who think they can turn her into anything less than what she is will find they’ve made a ruinous miscalculation.”
Alaric breathed slowly through his nose, keeping his face still.
“You have my word,” he promised. “Your daughter isn’t going anywhere.”
A long beat passed before the king gave a single, quiet nod.
“See that she doesn’t.”
He couldn’t say how it always went with men like this, that you always knew when the conversation was over. Alaric dipped his head respectfully, stood up, ready to move back through the corridors of polished stone, to find Evelyne and—
The bells rang.
It started with one. Deep, low, ominous. Then another, joining the first in a disharmonious clamor. Alaric froze, the sound vibrating down the marrow of his bones before his mind could catch up to it.
The door slammed open. A breathless boy staggered in, his hair damp with sweat.
“Your Majesty!” he cried, almost stumbling over his own feet. “The princess and heir—they are gone!”
Alaric’s heart didn’t stop.
