So, you still celebrate your birthday?
She frowned at the gold-dusted cake.
No. There wasno wayit had come from Alarik Felsing. She doubted he even remembered her saying that, or cared enough to keep track of the days since. The thought alone was laughable. Why would the king of Gevra send her a cake? Why would he sendanyonea cake? She snorted at her own absurdity. There was obviously another, simpler explanation, but right now she didn’t need one. She jabbed her fork into the cake and devoured her first mouthful,groaning in pleasure.
Gold dust coated her lips as she chewed, her mouth watering as white chocolate danced on her tongue. She detected sugary buttercream and fresh sponge, and the sweet and sour tang of a fruit she had never tasted before. It was so divine she smiled through every single bite.
Happy birthday indeed, she thought, welcoming the fizz of sugar in her bloodstream as she crawled into bed. She was still smiling when she fell asleep.
CHAPTER 11
Alarik
Alarik was getting dressed in his bedchamber when he heard the drums again. He stilled, sure he was imagining the thrum in the wind, just like before. Only this time, Nova was growling, and Luna had woken from sleep with her hackles raised.
The king bit off a curse as he fled his dressing room with his shirt half buttoned. The drums were getting louder, matching the thunder of his pulse. He grabbed his sword on instinct and ran to the balcony, steeling himself for the sight of Queen Regna’s soldiers storming the mountains around Grinstad.
But that was not what awaited the king of Gevra as he leaped on to his balcony. The drums were real, but they were not the steel war barrels of Vask. They were made of vellum and oak. They cast a soft and steady rhythm, like a hum coming up from the earth.
Not a threat, but a greeting.
The twenty-strong troop that carried them were dressed in fitted uniforms of olive green, trimmed in silver. They wore tall helmets that obscured their faces, but Alarik knew those colours just as he knew the flag they carried.He recognized the outline of dark green mountains cresting under a full moon.
These soldiers had come from Halgard.
Understanding curdled in Alarik’s gut. He looked past the procession and saw the royal carriage at the end, a large wooden coach pulled not by horses but four towering weaver elk, their jutting gold antlers glimmering in the sunlight.
He knew precisely who was sitting in that carriage. Not just a princess, but the fruits of his mother’s plotting these past few weeks.
‘No,’ he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut, wishing he could blink it all away.
A knock sounded on his bedroom door and Johan burst inside, without waiting for permission.
‘Your Majesty!’ he huffed. ‘Your presence is requested in the entrance hall. The princess of Halgard has …’ He trailed off at the sight of Alarik standing on his balcony, wearing a look of such horror, it stopped Johan in his tracks. ‘Ah … you’ve already … figured that out …’
Despite the dull roar of his panic, Alarik had the good sense to step in from his balcony before Princess Elva of Halgard peered out through the drapes in her carriage and noticed the king, half dressed and scowling at her arrival.
Back in his bedchamber, Alarik paced the floor, raking his hands through his hair.
How long had it been since he first met with his mother in her tower? When had he made her that vague promise he never intended to keep? Weeks had passed with little thought of anything but warfare, and now it was too late to stop this madness.The princess was already here. With her drums and her elk. Her expectations of marriage.
Freezing hell.
He groaned into his hands, trying to find a way to undo the machinations of his mother’s grand scheme, but it had already gone too far. The Halgard delegation was inside his gates. He couldn’t turn them away. Any move to reverse their course would be seen as a terrible diplomatic sleight at best, and at worst, an act of war. Alarik had enough war on his hands already.
Johan cleared his throat. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, daring to step closer. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
Alarik shook his head mournfully. ‘Where is my mother?’
‘She’s in the entrance hall, preparing to welcome the princess.’
‘Of course she is,’ Alarik muttered. He released a long string of swear words. Then briefly considered locking his door and crawling back into bed for the rest of the week. But that was the action of a boy, not a man. Certainly not a king. No, he must make the best of this unfortunate situation. Halgard was a valuable ally, and even if he had no intention of marrying its princess, he intended to keep their loyalty.
Somehow.
‘Go,’ he said, waving Johan off. ‘I’ll be down shortly.’
Alarik finished getting dressed, choosing a pair of fitted black trousers and a plain black frock coat to mourn the death of his own free will.
