She wasn’t certain who ‘they’ encompassed—her father, Ravik, the High Preceptor, the entire machinery of Edrathen—but they knew she had been moving beyond her station.
Was it a test? A trap? A seat offered so they could watch her fail?
Her pulse was hammering when she glanced up. Vesena watched her quietly. Evelyne drew a slow breath, lowering the envelope to the desk. The candle flame leaned toward it, as though eager to burn.
She was in trouble. And there would be no pretending otherwise.
Chapter 29
Alaric had never experienced a migraine in his life. He’d fought battles hungover, debated philosophy while nursing sword wounds. But this… this was new.
Lord Ciriad of House Mera had been speaking for thirty-seven minutes. Alaric knew this because he had begun counting around minute six, when the conversation had shifted from standard floral arrangements tothe symbolic language of bouquet composition. Apparently, the placement of a third Zhareshian nightbloom could ‘soften the austerity’ of the dais. Alaric wasn’t sure ifhewas the dais in this metaphor or if the entire kingdom was. He also wasn’t sure he cared.
Lord Mera was lavish in both vocabulary and fragrance. He somehow smelled of lavender, cinnamon, and disappointment. Unlike his infamous friend Evan, who offset cologne with charm, this man managed only the former—by the gallon.
Alaric, for his sins, had listened. Because he was polite. Or at least because he hadn’t yet found an escape route that wouldn’t end with someone fainting dramatically into a hydrangea.
To his misfortune, he’d been caught off guard. The man had approached while Alaric was still waking up, mentally and bodily, and before coffee. Not real coffee, mind you, the castle’s offering was a bitter, chalky concoction masquerading as something from the Velross Archipelago.
So, when Mera had pounced with, “Your Highness, if I may trouble you for just a moment about the entrance arrangements,” Alaric, blinking slowly and already regretting breathing through his nose, had nodded. That had been his first mistake.
Cedric, of course, had immediately disengaged. The luxury of not being a prince. He stood to the side with an expression ofdutiful boredom, which Alaric envied deeply. His eyes, however, kept drifting toward the woman standing behind a Lord Mera. She was young, likely common-born, blonde, and standing behind her lord with her gaze dutifully fixed on the floor.
“And of course, Your Highness,” Lord Mera was saying now, sweeping one bejeweled hand, “the red freyara petals placed inside the arch will echo Princess Evelyne’s veil. They were very hard to source, but naturally I spared no expense.”
Alaric began mentally cataloguing potential exits: feigned illness, sudden diplomatic summons, spontaneous sword duel. He hadn’t ruled any of them out yet.
“—and of course the freyara petals will line the eastern corridor, just before the great doors, creating what I hope is a gentle olfactory transition from the sharper notes of the entryway to the warmth of the hall itself.”
Alaric blinked, hoping it might shake the fatigue from behind his eyes. It didn’t. “Forgive me,” he said, finally breaking in. “We’re talking about the wedding day arrangements, yes?”
Mera brightened. “Why, yes, Your Highness.”
Alaric nodded slowly. “Right. I assume Princess Evelyne provided the instructions?”
He hoped she had.
“Well,” Mera said, tone softening into something chiding, “traditionally, the arrangements include lilies. Always lilies.”
Alaric stared at him. Just for a whisper of time. Not long enough to cause offense. But long enough to make it very, very clear he wasreevaluating the purpose of this entire conversation.
He sighed, rubbing at his temple and offered a tight, tired smile. “Lord Mera, thank you for the… story. But forgive me—how can I be of service, exactly?”
The lord’s expression brightened. “Only this, Your Highness—if the arrangement meets with your approval, House Mera wouldbe honored to provide the floral design for your coronation in Varantia. As a gift, naturally.”
There it was. The pitch.
Alaric stared at him for a beat, balanced on the edge of irritation and awe. The man was good. It wasn’t about flowers. It was about influence. If House Mera couldn’t marry into the old blood or vote on council matters, they would settle for something more subtle. Gifts that could whisper in court halls long after the giver had bowed out.
Alaric nodded, polite as ever. “How generous. I’ll be sure to pass that along to the Varantian court florist—she’s very territorial.”
Lord Mera hesitated, smile still intact but just a hair too fixed.
“I’ve taken the liberty of preparing an early draft of potential color harmonies for the coronation procession,” he said, producing a velvet-bound folio as if unveiling state secrets. “Nothing formal, of course. Merely humble inspiration.”
Alaric raised a brow. “Naturally.”
“Thessa,” Lord Mera barked. “Stop fidgeting. Fetch the documentation.Now.”
