Trying to clear my head from the glorious feel of Dante’s body pressed into me, I take a breath and a much-needed step back. “So, what do you think of Podrosa?”
“It’s as stiff and unforgiving as I remember.”
“You’ve been here before?” I know he must have traveled through Podrosa when he moved from Messanya to Hedera, but that didn’t mean he’d spent any time here.
“On a couple of occasions,” he says “But never for long.”
I almost ask him if he’s ever bedded any women here, but I decide I don’t want to know. Instead, I sway the conversation elsewhere. “The king and queen seemed open to welcoming you. I wonder what this ‘main event’ they spoke of entails.”
His chin dips a bit, his eyes far away for a moment, and I wonder if he’s worried about making the right impression on the tour. “I’m sure it’s nothing extraordinary. Podrosa doesn’t care for veering from the norm.”
“I’ve noticed.” I offer him a supportive smile. “In any case, I’m sure you’ll win them over with your charm—magical or otherwise.”
The corner of his mouth inches upward, but before he can reply, Sir Holden enters the room. “Sorry to interrupt, but Sir Donovan is headed this way.”
I give Sir Holden a thankful nod.
Dante takes my hand, surprising me when he lifts it to his lips and gently kisses my knuckles. “I’ll see you at dinner, Highness.” He releases me and quickly turns, leaving me in the sun-warmed silence.
ChApter
Twenty-One
The grand dining room of Podrosa is as severe and disciplined as the rest of the castle. The vaulted ceiling arches high above, its heavy beams polished to a near-black sheen. No elaborate chandeliers hang here. Instead, wrought-iron sconces line the walls at even intervals, casting a clean, bright light without a hint of warmth. The walls themselves are slate grey, unadorned but for a singular crest of Podrosa displayed above the far wall—a silver sword and black thorns on a field of crimson. Precision defines everything in this space. The long dining tables, crafted from solid oak, are arranged in rigid lines, their polished surfaces free of any embellishment beyond the crisp, white linens. Servants move about the room with quiet efficiency, their faces expressionless as they place silverware with near-mathematical exactness. Not a movement is wasted. Each step they take is practiced, as if choreographed.
A subtle tension tightens across my shoulders the moment I notice the arrangement of the tables. Men occupy one side of the room, while women sit separately on the other, divided by a narrow aisle. It strikes me as strange—outdated, even—but here in Podrosa, the adherence totradition is as unyielding as the stone walls around us.
We step farther into the dining hall, the air heavy with the scent of roasted meats and boiled potatoes. Men and women already file into their assigned places.
Nadya leans toward me, her brows raised in disbelief as we approach the table reserved for women. “I take it back,” she murmurs under her breath. “This place isn’t a rulebook. It’s a prison sentence.”
I stifle a laugh, biting the inside of my cheek, until a familiar voice halts me mid-step.
“Princess Celeste.”
I turn.
Lord Marcos Trevose stands just to my left, his crisp attire immaculate, the dark blue of his coat lined with silver embroidery that matches the signet ring on his finger. He looks every inch the polished nobleman, yet there’s a flicker of warmth in his eyes that softens the sharpness of his features.
“My condolences,” he says, bowing his head slightly. “I cannot imagine the weight of your losses.”
I incline my chin, keeping my expression appropriately solemn. “Thank you,” I say gently, the words stiff in my throat. “It’s been… difficult.”
His eyes study me for a beat too long, as if searching for the truth beneath my carefully composed exterior. “If you ever find yourself in need of someone to speak with, I hope you’ll consider me.” He pauses, then adds, “My best friend died in the southern campaign last year. It changes you—grief. Leaves a mark no one else can see.”
The honesty in his voice catches me off guard.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, meaning it. “I hadn’t heard.”
He gives a faint smile. Tired, not bitter. “Few did. He wasn’t a prince or a commander. Just someone who mattered to me.” He straightens slightly. “Loss can be… easier when it’s shared.”
Something in my chest tightens. I realize he’d been grieving when his family proposed our engagement, and I probably didn’t make things better by rejecting him. I don’t know how to respond to him, so I simplynod.
Behind him, movement catches my eye. Dante sits at the king’s table, facing me. His gaze is fixed on Marcus for a moment, but his expression is unreadable. The flicker of a raised brow is the only indication he’s watching. No rigidity in his shoulders, no twitch in his jaw. But I know him well enough by now to recognize the restraint in his silence.
I force my expression to remain neutral. I am mourning. And I’m not supposed to be gazing at the future prince.
Marcos follows my gaze, and when he sees where it’s landed, his brow lifts slightly—not in amusement, but in curiosity. Luckily, Dante has already turned his head, answering some question Ezra has asked.
