Rhyssa preserve us. He’s winning over the boy. And he hasn’t even used sweets yet.
Alaric turned to Rhaedor. “Forgive my inquisitiveness, but I find myself wondering about the traditions surrounding betrothals here in Edrathen,” he began. “Are there particular ceremonies or customs to celebrate the upcoming union?”
Rhaedor dabbed at his lips with a napkin before replying. “There is one official ball,” he explained, tone steady and precise. “A formal occasion to present the betrothed to the court and key nobles. There will also be a military parade two days before the wedding. What about Varantia?”
“We host several events. Feasts, yacht racing, and games. A time, ostensibly, to strengthen bonds between families, though one could argue it's merely an excuse for revelry.” Alaric paused thoughtfully. “Of course, some gatherings have become creative over the years. Young nobles recently took to hosting what they call a 'Final Freedom Feast'—an irreverent farewell to bachelorhood.”
King’s brow arched. “Fads come and go; we see no need to indulge fleeting trends.”
Alaric nodded, swirling the wine in his goblet. “Of course, of course,” he murmured. “I am merely an observer. It is my duty to understand the tensions that shape my lands.” He glanced at Evelyne then, something knowing in his expression. “And yours, of course.”
Rhaedor took a measured sip of wine before speaking again. “Tradition is the pillar of stability. Without it, a nation fractures.”
“And yet,” Alaric mused, “nations do change.”
“Change is inevitable,” Evelyne admitted. “But control over how and when it happens determines whether a kingdom thrives or collapses.”
Alaric let out a small laugh. “A measured answer, Princess. You truly have been studying diplomacy.”
“And what of your own lands, Prince Alaric?” Rhaedor asked, a faint smile curving his lips, though his eyes held no warmth. “You speak of change and shifting tides, but Varantia is not without its shadows. Whispers reach our borders. Some claim there are those in your kingdom who seek to revive what should remain buried.”
The effect was immediate. The playful glint in Alaric’s eyes dulled, his smirk cooling by degrees. Even the servants, trained to remain invisible, faltered. Ysara’s fingers tensed around her goblet, though the gesture dissolved into elegance again.
Evelyne felt it like a spotlight pinned to her chest. The back of her neck prickled as if every eye in the room had turned on her.
Rhaedor sipped on his wine. “We remember where such prying leads. The Assembly’s ledgers still list the names. All ended the same. In the gutter.”
Alaric’s gaze flicked to Evelyne for a fleeting moment. “Ah, yes,” he finally said, voice softer now. “Those particular whispers do find their way into conversation.”
He turned back to the king, setting his spoon down.
“Fear makes for excellent politics, doesn’t it? A kingdom surrounded by drought and unrest is easier to govern when its people have something dark to fear. The idea of a blasphemous scholar in some crumbling tower gives a shape to their unease. A name to hate.”
He let that linger, just long enough.
“And stories, as we all know, travel farther than soldiers.”
Evelyne felt that more than she liked to admit.
His goblet touched the tablecloth with a soft click.
“Of course,” he added more lightly, “Varantia is committed to peace. We root out extremism where it festers. But we’d be fools to think the past lies as still as we pretend.”
Evelyne tilted her head slightly. “What does that mean?”
Alaric’s eyes sparked. The kind of satisfaction that came from being heard in the exact way he wanted.
“There’s a scroll in the Archives of Solmara,” he recounted, “written during the first century after the Sundering. King Adravan the Penitent of Edrathen, once a mage himself, denounced magic as divine punishment. Claimed it was torn from us because humanity had strayed. That god's absence was the price for our sins. History is filled with men who mistook silence for proof.”
Evelyne’s gaze slid sideways to her father. Rhaedor’s jaw had set in that particular way it did when someone mentioned this. Edrathen was not proud of this chapter.
Alaric tapped his fingers against the rim of his goblet.
“I think that people long for what they do not have,” he continued. “Magic was once a force that shaped kingdoms and changed the course of wars. And when something so powerful vanishes, it leaves behind… a kind of emptiness.”
“A void for superstition,” the king waved a hand. “Men who do not understand history speak of its return because they do not comprehend its end.”
“And you, Princess?” Alaric asked. “What doyouthink?”
