“It was a remarkable victory. Your brother restored all the land the Elvarrans had captured and took control of the passage.” Timothy radiates with pride. “Halfway through the battle, the duke protecting those lands turned and abandoned his men to save his pregnant mistress. Horatio Horne, I think the duke’s name was? Without his leadership, they were easy to conquer.”
“That’s good news, indeed. Cutting off that mountain pass means the Elvarrans can’t travel as freely to the south,” I remark, taking in the information.
“Indeed. It forces the Elvarrans to make the twenty-day journey east to Grimhold Crossing if they need to travel to the south.” Timothy keeps pace perfectly with my line of thought.
“Anything else?”
“The kingdom of Erynthe is holding up better than I expected,” Timothy says. “King Francis Van Buren recently sent boats with rations to Liora.”
“How interesting,” I muse. “Erynthe is known for being so… recluse.”
The kingdom of Erynthe is on the largest island of the Southern Isles, secluding itself from the rest of Dratheria.They are excellent mariners, spending most of their time crafting boats and fishing in the nearby reefs.
“That’s putting it mildly,” Timothy replies, his tone unimpressed.
I leave it at that.
As we turn the corner, the guards posted in front of the great hall allow us entry. Guests waltz in the center of the room, their bodies flowing across the polished marble floors. A string quartet plays lively music, creating a moment of respite against the weight of war.
My gaze immediately catches on my brother, Valentin, who is standing beside my father’s throne. He wears a finely tailored formal coat, black trousers, and tall boots. The extravagant gold buttons stand out against the dark burgundy fabric, matching perfectly with my dress. Valentin runs a hand through his neatly styled curls, and I notice a fresh scar that runs across his left brow.
His blue eyes light up at the sight of me as I approach. “My dear sister.” Valentin pulls me close for a hug. “How I have missed you.”
I wrap my arms around my brother and hug him close. “Thank the gods you’re home,” I say in relief.
“You’re late, Raelys.” My father’s voice is gruff.
Ulrik wears an embellished coat, the right chest embroidered with our family crest—a golden stag. Beneath the extravagant coat are brown trousers and well-polished boots. It's as if the clothes are wearing him, a bit saggy and ill-fitting. I’ve watched my father wither away from his illness over the years, his gray hair thinning, wrinkles deepening, and age spots darkening. No healer has been able to figure out what is causing him to decline.
Ever since I was a child, my father has had burn scars onthe left side of his jaw, down to his neck. It almost appears like a handprint, one jagged scar cutting diagonally across his chin, with four longer peaks across the side of his neck. If I even so much as mention the burn, let alone ask what happened, he would send me to my bedchamber without supper. Sometimes I would purposefully ask to get out of mind-numbing social events.
“My apologies,” I say meekly, stepping away from my brother. I straighten out my gown and square my shoulders, standing with the perfect poise that he expects of me.
My father huffs an annoyed breath in response, turning his attention to my brother. “My beloved son.” His tone lightens as he addresses Valentin. “You have done House Valantis a great honor by recapturing Crossgate.”
“Thank you, Father,” Valentin replies, bowing his head.
Ulrik has ruled over the kingdom of Cathros for over thirty years. During his rule, he has allowed our kingdom to flourish, expand, and endure through the hardships of war. Soon, the title of king will pass to Valentin, who has been preparing to rule his entire life.
Turning my attention to the room, I see King Olav Friedrich of Avelisar. I did not know that he would be in attendance tonight. It is rare for visitors from other kingdoms to come to court, as traveling can lead to a potential ambush by the Elvarrans.
As I study Olav, it becomes clear that the years have not been kind to him. His hair has thinned, showing several bald spots. The king’s teeth have yellowed, and his skin is saggy and hollow-looking. He appears to be holding on by mere threads, on the edge of necrosis.
“Thank you all for joining me in welcoming my son, Prince Valentin Valantis of Cathros, home,” my father announces. “Aswell as welcoming our guest, King Olav Friedrich of Avelisar!” He raises his glass, allowing the rest of the court to do the same. “Please enjoy yourselves!”
“Hear, hear!” Many people begin cheering, and several move around to start their conversations.
I spot my best friend and lady-in-waiting, Lady Lydia Leonora, in the crowd. She’s standing with her father, Duke Raoul Leonora, who is chatting with a duke from Avelisar. Lydia’s expression is unamused as she silently nods along to the conversation. I will have to tear her away later to find some relief from the placations of socializing.
“Come, we shall get some wine,” Valentin says, taking my arm in his as we walk down the platform and through the crowd.
“You must tell me of your travels,” I implore him.
Listening to his tales of battle is my favorite. They are just like the tales I read in my favorite book, The Warlord Chronicles. Each page is brimming with daring exploits and strategies, as well as advice on crafting the perfect plans.
Not that I ever have the chance to plot anything. My father wouldn’t allow me to set foot in the war room while they work. If he did, I would share my plentiful ideas, such as cutting off resources for the Elvarrans, leaking fake plans to throw them off, and even sending a spy to the north.
“We spent many weeks defending the border at Liora. Those Elvarran bastards travel through the Northern Alps frequently; drawing them out is much easier than crossing into the mountains,” Valentin begins, guiding me through the crowd.
