I leaned back, pretending nonchalance. “Weareaddressing it. I married her yesterday, didn’t I?”
Lord Brightworthy, eldest of the trio and perpetually unimpressed, arched one silver brow. “Marriage is only the first step. The treaty requires visible unity between your court and the witches.Proofof marital harmony within thirty days, or the alliance, and by extension your reign, fall into question.”
Proof. As if affection came with a ledger and witnesses.
“And how exactly should I provide that?” I asked. “Shall I stand on the battlements and declare my devotion?”
Lady Aragorn’s lips curved in polite disdain. “We expect companionship. Appearances. Shared chambers.”
“She just arrived, and wearesharing a chamber.” I’d made sure of it for this very reason.
Her gaze sharpened. “It would be easier if your bride were one of our own.”
There it was. The insult wrapped in civility.
“You mean someone like Lady Evangeline,” I said.
Rathley nodded, leaning forward in his chair. “Precisely. She’s of noble blood. Of suitable age. The witch is young. Mortal. Emotional. Their kind rarely grasp restraint.”
I’d built an entire kingdom on restraint. It was the armor that kept me standing when grief threatened to crush me. The discipline that preserved our ways when chaos circled like wolves. But one look at Cyrene’s face yesterday and the hurt in her eyes, and my armor melted like ice under the summer sun.
“Lady Evangeline is her father’s spy. You want me to wed poison wrapped in silk?”
Lady Aragorn sniffed. “She’s the daughter of the House of Arclayne.”
“And very much aware of it.”
Lord Brightworthy’s tone remained grave. “Majesty, this alliance was your choice. If it fails, the Houses will move to challenge your leadership again.”
The word landed like an old bruise pressed too hard. I didn’t need the memory to remind me what failure looked like.
“The alliance won’t fail,” I said.
Lars tilted his head. “Then you’ll forgive our insistence on evidence.”
“You’ll have it.”
Lady Aragorn huffed. “If the queen fails to meet our expectations?—”
“She won’t.”
“You sound certain,” Rathley said. “Perhaps when she stops flinching every time you enter a room, we’ll believe it.”
“I was at your wedding reception. We all were. We saw it with our own eyes,” Broadworthy said. “Your Majesty?—”
“That will be all.” The irritation in my voice must’ve sunk in, because they changed the subject, droning on about border patrols, trade quotas, and the dull hum of a thousand duties. I let them talk while my thoughts slid elsewhere.
Cyrene.
My witch.
Six years hadn’t dulled the memories or her scent of wild honey. I could still see her standing beneath the lantern light at the festival, joy glowing through her like sunlight through glass, her laugh the only sound that had ever made me forget what I was. Three days where I wasn’t a prince or a weapon, just a regular person allowed to feel. I’d just been a man, falling endlessly into the warmth of her smile. Then the world ended, and I learned feelings were a liability.
I sent her a letter after the coronation, half apology, half confession. She never replied. Eventually, I decided she’d done the sensible thing and forgotten about me. I tried to do the same. Tried being the key word.
Weeks stretched into months until I stopped expecting a reply at all.
I told myself that witches burned bright, then moved on.
