Alaric leaned closer, dropping his voice into something more conspiratorial. “Only if you promise not to show your tutor. I don’t want a lecture from someone with powdered eyebrows.”
The boy grinned. “Deal.”
They shook on it.
“Oh, for gods’ sake,” Cedric muttered from the corner, “you’re courting the brother now?”
Thalen’s eyes snapped to Cedric as if noticing him for the first time—which, in fairness, he probably was. “Who are you?”
Cedric stood very still, like a deer that had just realized the crossbow was pointed at it. “Er. No one important.”
“Can you fight?” Thalen asked, chin rising.
Cedric gave Alaric a slow look, then angled back to the boy. “I don’t fight children. Royal or otherwise.”
Alaric laughed aloud at that, standing up. “Well, I think you’ve interrogated my entire staff now, Your Highness. Shall I walk you to the corridor?”
Thalen puffed up proudly. “I can find it myself. I have a post-sundering history lesson in ten minutes.”
The boy spun around, but just as he reached the threshold, he paused and turned back. “It was an honor to meet you, Prince Alaric. I look forward to seeing you again at supper. I’ll be seated at the right of my father.”
He offered a very deep bow and strode off.
Alaric exhaled slowly and looked at Cedric. “So?”
“Royal Menace’s terrifying. I suddenly feel terribly underqualified.”
Alaric stood slowly, glancing down at the map in his hands.
“Your in-laws,” Cedric added, “are something else.”
Alaric just smiled. “So’s the woman I’m marrying.”
Chapter 8
The Great Cloister Courtyard had always been a place of serene performance. Stone columns carved with gentle spirals, ivy trained to curve perfectly, and wisteria hanging in suspended bloom.
She shivered, remembering the way his touch lingered. He hadn’t even meant it as a threat. That was the worst part. It was thoughtless.
And she’d snapped. Because when she got defensive, it usually meant she felt cornered. And feeling cornered was the same as being out of control.
She exhaled through her nose, pressing her thumb to the bridge of her nose. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Not about what he said. Not even about what he meant. But she couldn’t explain it to him—couldn’t tell him that this wasn’t about tradition, not really.
How was she supposed to admit that she didn’t flinch because of custom, but because she couldn’t bear the thought of being touched? How was she supposed to tell him that the woman he was going to marry was afraid of something that simple?
That his future empress wasbroken.
She couldn’t.
Broken things weren’t allowed in Edrathen.
“Try not to stab anyone,” Isildeth interrupted her thoughts, low enough that only Evelyne could hear.
So she locked it down. Folded the thought tight and put it away.
Another sealed box in the back of her mind. One among many.
“I promise nothing,” she murmured. “Not if someone starts with ‘Such a shame about last veil.’”
