He came to a skidding halt before her, hands behind his back as if to prove—belatedly—that he did, in fact, possess manners. His gaze trailed over the grey velvet, the embroidery.
“Are you comfortable in it?” he asked, face scrunched with genuine concern.
She laughed. “For now. But in about twenty minutes, I’ll need to rest every few steps like a duchess on her fifth glass of port.
Thalen wrinkled his nose. “Girls are weird. They wear too much lace.”
Isildeth gave a soft laugh.
Evelyne’s gaze lingered on her brother a moment longer. He’d been a miracle wrapped in trouble since birth. She was fourteen when he came into the world. Too old to compete with him, but just old enough to fall in love the second she saw his tuft of dark hair and squalling red face. He’d been placed in his mother’s lap, swaddled in royal linens and Evelyne had watched from the doorway, heart aching in the strangest way. Loving him had never meant healing. But it gave her something soft to hold.
She used to sneak into the nursery during sleepless nights, curling up on the floor only to hear him breathe. Later, she read him stories, taught him how to walk without stomping like a soldier, and let him braid her hair into hideous knots.
Thalen sat beside her on the velvet bench, his legs swinging beneath him, too short to reach the floor. His boots were freshly shined and his hair, usually an unruly mop of brown-red curls, had been wrestled into something approaching civility. His eyes, blue like a brelith sky right before the rain, sparkled with anticipation.
“Do you think he’ll be tall?” he asked abruptly, glancing sideways at her.
“Prince Alaric?” Evelyne kept her tone neutral. “Taller than you, certainly.”
Thalen made a thoughtful hum. “He should be, if he’s going to protect you. Princes should be tall. And strong.”
“Oh?” she murmured, amused. “And is that the official requirement for protecting a princess?”
Thalen tipped his chin with great authority. “Obviously. He must know how to fight. And I am going to watch everything. Seeif he’s quick on his feet. If not…” He hesitated dramatically. “I’ll have to speak with him.”
Evelyne stifled a laugh. “A mercy.”
He sat up straighter, puffing out his chest a little. “I’ll be king someday; I need to know who’s around you. In case someone is not good enough.”
That did something strange to her chest. She reached over and smoothed a wrinkle in his sleeve.
“I’m very lucky, then,” she quipped, quieter now. “To have a future king watching out for me.”
Thalen gave a serious nod. He was still so young. He had inherited all the burden of duty and none of the freedom yet. Ysara tried to soften him, but Thalen had already decided that kingship meant knowing everything, being everywhere, and preparing for anything.
Even rogue Varantian princes.
“I hope he brings a sword,” Thalen said, leaning back. “And a falcon.”
Evelyne raised a brow. “A falcon?”
“Yes.” He nodded solemnly, as though it were obvious. “Like in the old stories. A gold one. With wings that slice the air.” He paused, then added with the casual authority only children possess, “Also, I heard he can control the sea.”
She tilted her head. “Who told you that?”
Thalen hesitated. “No one, really. It’s just… people say things.” He kicked at the leg of her vanity. “Isn’t that amazing?”
Evelyne stared at her brother, trying not to laugh. She smoothed Thalen’s hair, gently enough not to undo his careful part.
But the irony wasn’t lost on her.
They called her The Cursed Bride, afraid to pass her too openly in case bad luck rubbed off. She was tragedy dressedin lace, a reminder of the Maroon Slaughter and blood-soaked vows.
Prince Alaric Soleranos of Varantia was called the Golden Boy. Chosen by fate, adored by salons, admired even here, in a kingdom that was not especially friendly to Varantia—until now. One of the realm’s finest matches, they said.
How ironic.
The cursed bride. And the golden groom.
