He expected the king to answer, but Ravik responded instead. “Every kingdom has rebellion. What matters is whether you feed it.”
Alaric drew in a breath, then let it out through his nose.
“And you believe this wedding,” he noted, “will be a feast.”
The general’s eyes didn’t flinch. “It is a royal union. A crown on a platter. Expect the best but prepare for the worst.”
Alaric rose from the chair, crossed the room, and paused by the window, his gaze settling on the barracks below.
“Heretics do not rise in a vacuum,” declared the High Preceptor.
Alaric turned, half-forgetting the man had been sitting there all along.
“They rise when fear loses its shepherd,” the man continued, hands steepled. “Symbols, unrest, disappearance—these are not merely threats to be tracked. Disorder has its own source.”
Ravik’s jaw ticked. “Spare the sermons. The threat is real.”
The High Preceptor didn’t look at him. His eyes remained on Alaric. “You think this marriage is a union of nations,” he said, “but it is more than that. Blood binds, not just hearts and houses, but the very threads of order. And in Edrathen, order has always been sacred.”
Alaric studied them both, intrigued. “You mean to say this union is not only political.”
The Preceptor gave the faintest nod. “Princess Evelyne will not be just a bride. She will be a symbol. The people need something to believe in. To ease the unrest. To…help cure the curse that is looming over her.”
Alaric turned back to the window. Below, the barracks buzzed. Soldiers training, the muted clash of steel ringing through the air. He drew a long, steady breath, letting it fill his chest before exhaling.
A symbol. A rite.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Curses had their uses. They clung to places, where something had gone wrong enough to leave a scar. People believed in them.And people, when gripped by fear and conviction, were often far more dangerous than whatever the curse threatened to be.
“She is my daughter, High Preceptor,” Rhaedor murmured. “And future empress.”
Alaric still stood with his back to them, hoping the High Preceptor’s face soured.
“But you know as well as I, Prince,” Rhaedor continued. “Since last year, her name has been spoken in whispers. The Maroon Slaughter tainted more than the chapel floor. Her reputation is... fragile. And a fragile legacy is a dangerous one.”
Alaric didn’t realize his fist had clenched until the sharp sting of his nails biting into his palm snapped him back.
Rhaedor cleared his throat. “This union is not merely a matter of state. It’s a remedy. For her sake, and yours. And for both our kingdoms.”
A pause. Then, more pointedly: “When diplomacy, the army, and the gods all speak with one voice—people listen.”
So that was it. Giving Evelyne a ‘happy ending’ wasn’t about affection. It was an attempt to rewrite the narrative, to stitch a cleaner ending over a bloodstained story.
“If you hear anything, Grand Marshal—”
He turned from the window to face them, taking in the room with a slow, measured glance.
The High Preceptor watched him too closely, something in that stillness made Alaric’s skin crawl. Rhaedor looked faintly bored, his fingers drumming once against the table before stilling again. Ravik remained a wall of, as if carved from the same stone as the castle itself.
“Anything that threatens her safety, you will bring it to me directly.”
His tone was quiet, and Ravik’s brow lifted just enough to make his disdain clear.
“My daughter,” Rhaedor began, “is not ignorant. She knows the weight of her position. And she is not foolish enough to provoke the mob, or indulge sentiment at the expense of reason.”
