But then he pauses, letting the murmurs quiet again.
“This legitimization is more than formality. It is necessity. With my son Dante, the future of Hedera is secured. The Copperhammer name will continue. The bloodline will endure. And through him, our kingdom will not only survive—it will thrive.”
He lifts his goblet. “To Hedera. To legacy. And to the future king.”
A round of polite applause follows. I catch some smiling faces in the court, murmurs of approval and toasts raised. But there are others—silent, still, unreadable. I wonder which camp they fall into. Loyalists of the late prince, perhaps. Or skeptics, unsure if a bastard belongs on the throne at all.
The musicians strike up a more festive tune. Plates are replenished. More wine is poured. Nadya leans over to murmur something, but I miss it because I’m watching the dais, where Queen Eleanor sits beside her husband.
She doesn’t raise her glass. She doesn’t even lift her eyes.
Normally, she comes to life in moments like this—when the court is full, when music swells through the halls and the torches burn high, when there are people to distract her from the isolation of her chambers and the man beside her. But tonight, there is no brightness in her expression. No attempt to feign joy. She remains still, her hands folded in her lap, her head tilted ever so slightly toward her goblet, though she hasn’t touched it. Her hair is pulled back elegantly from her face, but itdoes nothing to lift the shadows beneath her eyes.
I wonder if this moment feels, to her, like the final blow. Not just the legitimization of Silas’s bastard, but the quiet erasure of the child she lost. As if the court has decided to move on without him—to drink, to feast, to toast a future prince while the memory of the first fades into silence.
My throat tightens. Despite what he became, Torbin had always been kind to his mother. At least from what I witnessed. Maybe Torbin was the queen’s only joy, her last true tether in a marriage that never offered warmth. If so, what must it be like to sit here now, surrounded by revelry and flattery, while her grief still pulses like a wound too deep to close?
She doesn’t look toward the guests. She doesn’t look at Dante. She simply stares ahead, as if the flickering candlelight might burn away the ache in her chest.
A part of me aches to rise, to walk to her side, to press a hand to hers and promise that she isn’t forgotten. That I will protect her in whatever small ways I can. That she still matters.
But I don’t move.
I can’t risk what it might mean for either of us to show even that much softness in front of this court.
So I remain seated, watching her as the music begins and the laughter returns to the hall—louder now, gilded with false delight.
And Queen Eleanor remains still. A porcelain figure in a kingdom already rewriting its history.
My goblet is half-full, my food untouched. I toy with a slice of duck, stabbing it halfheartedly with my fork. The conversations around me are a soft murmur, none of them directed at me. I don’t mind.
Not until I hear Torbin’s name. My ears perk up, expecting to hear my name next, but instead of mine, I hear Dante’s.
“—heard he was in the tower that night.”
My head turns slightly.
“Dante?” a young woman whispers, her voice cautious. “Do you think he hadanything to do with it?”
“Don’t be absurd,” another says quickly, voice hushed but firm. “He’s to be a prince now. That kind of talk is treason.”
The third woman doesn’t respond. She just lifts her goblet and takes a long drink.
“I used to think he was handsome,” the first woman says. “But he’s a siren, so I think it was just his magic tricking me.”
I stiffen, suddenly remembering the collar sent to me in Delasurvia. A part of me doesn’t want to tell Dante about it, not wanting to add another thing to the list of worries he must already have, but if it was sent as a threat, then he has the right to know.
“Just because he looks fuckable doesn’t mean he’s worthy of being a prince,” one of the women says.
My grip tightens around my fork. I want to turn, to glare, to say something that will make them choke on their honeyed fruit.
But I don’t.
Not tonight.
Not with every move I make watched. Every whisper weighed. Every glance between me and Dante carrying the potential to be catalogued like evidence.
I chew a piece of bread and stare at the tapestry on the far wall. Ivy climbing up a tower of gold, threaded in silver and green. The king jumped to make this announcement so the whispers would stop. If he thinks this court is done whispering, he’s wrong. They’ve only just begun.
