Cedric tilted his head. “What?”
“There’s been minimal guard rotation along the northern pass. That stretch near Kelvar’s Cross. It borders the high valley, doesn’t it?”
“Remote, cold, empty. A dream vacation spot,” Cedric offered. “Not much happens there. Wolves, maybe a trader or two.”
“Exactly,” Alaric murmured. “Which is why it’s odd they’ve pulled back guard presence without redirecting patrols to compensate.”
Cedric crossed his arms. “You’re thinking it’s deliberate.”
“I’m thinking it’s worth a conversation,” Alaric rose from his chair. “I’m meeting with their Grand Marshal and High Preceptor in a few minutes.”
Cedric sighed. “Of course you are. Can’t just enjoy the fresh air and pending nuptials, can you?”
“I have a feeling my future bride doesn't want to see me now. And something smells off.”
“Could just be the tapestry. Everything smells like old iron here.”
Alaric let out a soft chuckle. Cedric plopped unceremoniously into one of the room’s high-backed chairs, withdrew a small carving knife from his belt, along with a scrap of wood he’d probably stolen from the kindling basket, and began whittling.
Alaric exchanged his navy robe for an open-collared linen shirt, well-worn trousers, and the soft leather doublet that smelled faintly of cedar and sea salt.
Home.
As he reached for the door, Cedric added, a little too casually, “Brace yourself. You’ve got lessons at noon.”
Alaric turned just enough to squint over his shoulder. “Yes, I remember.”
Cedric only smiled. “Try not to sprain anything. I hear footwork’s important when one is being watched by an entire kingdom.”
Alaric smirked, gathered the folder with a sharp flick of his wrist, tucking it beneath one arm, and stepped into the corridor.
He didn’t miss the way the servants stiffened when he passed. Not impolite, but cool in that uniquely Edrathen way, like they weren’t entirely convinced he was real. Or worse, that he belonged.
He asked two footmen and a steward for directions to the Council chamber. Each gave him the same pointed smile before gesturing the opposite way he’d been headed.
By the time he turned the right corner, he was already late. They would be thrilled.
Gods, he hated this place.
It wasn’t just the cold. It was the stares. The quiet judgment. The stone walls that watched you. He could take the frost on his breath, the lack of vineyards, even the daily assault of boiled root vegetables—but the way they looked at him? Like he was a spoiled souvenir from the south that someone had forgotten to return.
He stepped into the council chamber and schooled his expression into something polished but not too smug. King Rhaedor stood by the cold hearth with two men—one figure carved from war, the second from order.
“Ah, Prince Alaric,” the king greeted him with that steely voice that managed to sound both polite and vaguely disappointed at all times. “This is Grand Marshal Ravik Kordane. He’ll be overseeing all security measures for the wedding.”
Alaric extended a hand. Ravik did not shake it.
The general simply inclined his head with the kind of discipline that looked painful. His hands were folded behind his back. Probably welded there at birth.
“Grand Marshal,” Alaric greeted smoothly, lowering his hand. “A pleasure.”
“And High Preceptor of Orvath,” the king added, gesturing to his left.
The man was bald, with a severe, angular face in the color of the sand, every feature sharpened by age and disdain. Deep lines bracketed his mouth in permanent judgment. His grey robes fell in heavy folds, the hood resting against his back. A black, thick chain draped over his shoulders like a mantle of authority.
“Your Highness,” the Preceptor murmured. His voice was low, drawn-out, and nasal.
Alaric inclined his head. “High Preceptor.”
