Ysara gave a soft laugh, cracking the top of her egg and spooning it carefully from the silver cup. “Girls can be fun too. They just talk about different things.”
He wrinkled his nose, unconvinced. “Like what?”
Ysara exchanged a fond glance with Evelyne. “We’re better at keeping secrets and noticing things. And we don’t tend to tackle each other at the dinner table.”
“I know, Mother,” Thalen muttered, “I just… I want to learn how to fight.”
“And when the prince arrives, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunities. But you’ll still remember your courtesies.”
“I will,” he quipped, chin up. “But if he’s boring, I’m not sharing my almonds in sugar.”
Evelyne raised a brow, spreading the dark jam thinly over bread. “That seems fair. I wouldn’t either.”
He grinned at that.
Ysara returned to her tea with a smile that was soft at the edges. Evelyne watched her for a beat. They were not close. Not for lack of effort, Ysara had tried, in her gentle way. But she was only eight years Evelyne’s senior, more like a careful older sister forced into the role of a second mother. Evelyne liked her, but she did not confide in her. Not about the dreams, or the tightening in her chest as the wedding approached.
“You’ll meet the prince at the official supper,” Rhaedor murmured at last, the words clipped but not unkind. “Lessons first. You’ll learn to fight when you’ll be able to hold a proper iron sword.”
“Yes, Father,” Thalen mumbled, looking at his plate.
Rhaedor turned to her, “Evelyne, you’ll greet him at the gates.”
“Of course.”
She ate in silence, her mind drifting as it often did these days. A month ago, her father had told her of the arrangement,in much the same way he told her of any important matter: directly, without unnecessary embellishment.
She had thought about it since. The south did not seem a terrible place to go. Varantia was said to be breathtaking in all seasons, and the palace in Solmara was one of the most beautiful on the continent. And there she would not be merely a wife. She would become an empress.
Empress.
The word was heavy and foreign, as if someone had handed her a crown meant for another head. She hadn’t been raised for rule. She had been prepared to be a wife. She had learned diplomacy as performance, not governance. Now, all at once, that performance would have consequences.
And so, she studied. Over the past month, she poured herself into Varantia’s laws and histories, its turbulent border conflicts, its habits of debate. She had studied the customs of its people, how they greeted one another, how they mourned and how they moved on.
And Prince Alaric…
She tore a piece of bread and dabbed it into the honey, careful not to drip on her sleeve.
Evelyne had heard of him, of course. Eldest child of Emperor Emrys and Empress Aurevia. A scholar at heart. Beyond that, she knew little.
The royal family of Varantia would not be attending. Just Alaric. The official explanation was distance, health and political obligations. But Evelyne doubted it was the only reason. After all, what monarch in their right mind would accompany their son to marry a woman known across the continent as the Cursed Bride?
Perhaps Alaric had been sent alone to spare them from potential scandal. Or perhaps—if he didn’t matter to them—hehad been sent as a willing sacrifice. Or maybe they simply didn’t believe in curses.
Across the table, Thalen dropped his spoon with a satisfied clang and announced, “I’m full.”
Ysara offered a quiet smile. “Then you can thank the cook and go to the lessons.”
“I already thanked the cook,” he noted, sliding off his chair before his nursemaid appeared in the doorway. She gave everyone a quick bow before shepherding the future heir out.
Ysara rose, smoothing her skirts. “I’ll walk him to his lessons.”
Rhaedor inclined his head, and she returned it with a hesitant nod before leaving. The door clicked softly behind her.
A servant slipped in at once, refilling their cups before retreating in silence. Rhaedor watched the steam rise from his tea, then shifted the spoon aside with the edge of his thumb.
“I’ve been thinking about your marriage, my daughter. Varantia is not Edrathen.”
