Her mind flicked through the histories she had read. Accounts of the Sundering, of entire cities lost to magical devastation, of the desperate measures taken to end it. The magic disappeared long before she was born, but its shadow remained in storiesand books. There had always been two camps: those who argued that magic, if controlled differently, could return to serve rather than destroy; and those who believed it should remain buried, a mistake not to be repeated.
“I think that power never truly vanishes. It only changes hands.” She paused, glancing toward her father before returning her attention to Alaric. “But I believe its time has passed. As you said yourself, the world changes. Perhaps this is one tradition we are better off leaving behind.”
Alaric rested his elbow against the armrest, fingers trailing thoughtfully along his jaw, the hint of a smirk playing at his lips as he regarded her with unmistakable interest. His signets gleamed in the candlelight.
“Is it?” he countered. “After all, tradition was once a change that succeeded.”
“You seem fond of these debates,” she remarked. “Do you always engage in such discussions over supper, or is this a special occasion?”
Alaric chuckled, leaning slightly back in his chair. “Oh, I assure you, Princess, this is a pastime I indulge in regularly. Questioning is, after all, one of my most important duties as a future emperor.”
Rhaedor rested his forearms against the table. “Speaking of emperors… how are they faring?”
Alaric put on a rehearsed smile—one Evelyne recognized instantly, because she wore it often.
“My father has been feeling unwell,” Alaric explained, just a touch too smooth. “My mother now tends to the country’s matters.”
Rhaedor hummed, low and noncommittal. “Something serious?”
A pause. Small. Then: “No, not like that. He fell ill during the Second Crimson Plague. From time to time, the aftermath returns.”
“I hadn’t realized the Second Plague reached Varantia,” Evelyne observed.
“Not like in Edrathen,” Alaric admitted. “But yes, in parts. That’s why certain arrangements were made quickly. There were… contingencies to consider.”
Rhaedor nodded once, slowly. “And a coronation in six months. I found your succession process quite interesting.”
Alaric didn’t miss a beat. “Ah, yes. The Passing of the Sun. Varantia practices a different kind of heredity. Unlike Edrathen, where the crown passes only after the sovereign’s death to a male heir, we follow a system of abdication. The ruling couple steps down, and the new pair rises together. The former emperors join the advisory circle. It was designed to prevent stagnation, and allow succession to be a choice rather than a reaction.”
Evelyne’s jaw softened, though her mind did not. She was no longer nineteen. Courtiers whispered of the ‘uncertain season.’ They both will be expected to act swiftly—especially with unrest at the Vaelmont-Kaer’Vosh border.
Rhaedor, ever the strategist, gave a thoughtful hum. “So. A time of change.”
Alaric inclined his head. “Indeed.”
A beat of silence passed between them. The king finally shifted his attention back to his plate, signaling that the conversation had, for now, reached its end.
Evelyne’s hand closed around the stem of her wineglass, her fingers cool against the delicate glass, but she did not take a sip. Instead, she felt it—the unmistakable weight of Alaric’s gaze lingering on her.
She did not look at him, not immediately.
She had imagined her future husband a dozen different ways—but never like this. And now, here he was. Alive with contradictions. A foreign prince. Her betrothed. A man she had spent last month imagining in faceless, vague shapes, existing only in words spoken by ambassadors and letters exchanged between rulers. Reckless. Impertinent. She had half-expected a wild-eyed madman with a crown too loose on his head and a taste for theatrics.
And in truth, hewashalf of that.
Alaric was warm in his speech, playful even, but his mind was always working. He adapted, shifting between sincerity and provocation, never lingering too long on either.
And she had no idea what to make of him.
Evelyne finally lifted her gaze to meet his—steady, unreadable.
She arched a single brow, the gesture quiet but deliberate.
Alaric’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile before his gaze slid to the bowl of figs. He paused, reconsidered, and instead reached for a cut of meat, setting it on his plate with careful indifference.
Evelyne turned to her meal.
Her stepmother was quiet. A royal wife was expected to smile softly, speak rarely, and never offer more than what was asked. Evelyne had watched it for years and now she knew that it would not be her path. She was the exception. The only woman in the realm permitted a full education in statecraft, politics, and law. The one lucky enough to say something that perhaps someday will be heard.
