Alaric didn’t flinch, but he felt the cold edge of those words slide beneath his ribs.
“These are standard precautions,” the king continued. “We’ve made them for every royal celebration in the last two decades. And I assume the same will be done in Varantia when your coronation comes—in six months’ time.”
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the muffled sound of soldiers training outside.
“I understand,” he said at once. “And I assure you—on my crown and my name—when that day comes, I will see to it personally that not a hair falls from her head.”
“That’s why the capital is under such watch,” Ravik explained. “The more we consolidate around the city, the more eyes we keep where they’re needed.”
Eyes, Alaric thought, but not ears. And certainly not perspective.
“An understandable instinct,” he replied, voice even. “But a risky one. Cluster too many sentries in one place and you weaken everything else.”
He returned to his seat, flicking open the folder. Inked maps, troop placements, patrolling intervals. The scent of wax and parchment rose faintly from the vellum.
“Unit rotations,” Alaric prompted, tapping the margin with his forefinger. “Supply routes. Emergency withdrawal points. Everything appears accounted for except this—” He turned the page, spreading it with a smooth motion. “—the northern pass. Kelvar’s Cross.”
He looked up, fixing the general with calm curiosity. “There’s a drawdown of guard presence. No reassignment. No coverage notes. Has there been a threat assessed?”
Ravik’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “The region is low priority. Sparse terrain. Harsh conditions. The weather does most of the guarding.”
“Yes, well,” Alaric murmured, “the weather has never sworn an oath to the crown.”
Ravik’s jaw ticked, one muscle pulsing like a clockwork spring wound too tight. He didn’t answer.
“As you areaware, the wedding draws attention,” Alaric went on. “If I were planning to make a point, I wouldn’t go for the castle steps, not when they’re swarming with your men. I’d take the back road.”
Ravik looked to Rhaedor; the king gave a curt nod. “We’ll consider it.”
Which, of course, translated toabsolutely not, Varantian princein fluent Edrathen.
Alaric returned a nod, the smallest flick of civility masking his irritation. Gods, how did Evelyne do this every day without biting someone’s head off?
The king excused himself with little fanfare, offering Alaric a brief nod that might have contained the barest molecule of approval—or indigestion. Hard to tell. The High Preceptor bowed in the slightest way possible, and trailed behind Rhaedor like a shadow. The heavy doors shut behind him, and Alaric found himself alone with Ravik.
Wonderful.
He lingered a moment, closing the folder with a deliberate slowness.
“You’ve served the king for many years, haven’t you?”
“I served his father before him,” Ravik replied without hesitation.
“Then you’ve known Princess Evelyne since she was a child.”
“I’ve seen her at court since she could walk,” Ravik said, his tone clipped, edged with impatience.
“She’s clever,” Alaric remarked, choosing his words with care as he watched the general’s eyes. “And she’ll rule in her own right. I imagine you must be proud.”
Ravik’s lips twitched—not quite a smirk, but close.
“She was born for salon intrigue, not war,” he muttered. His voice was gravel, ground down by years of protocol. “She’s precise, yes. But that won’t stop a blade, nor win a siege.”
Alaric’s fingers curled slightly against the wood.
“So strength, to you, is measured only by the weight one can lift? By scars and sword calluses?”
“A ruler must know how to make hard decisions. Shed blood when needed.”
