Her attention fixes on the steps, on Sevrin, on everything at once. There is an intensity in it that presses outward, something watchful and possessive that lingers longer than it should. Sevrin feels it. The woman adjusts the child against her shoulder and continues to watch.
Asharin steps forward again and comes to a stop before the palace. Before him. The courtyard quiets and Sevrin steps forward. His chest feels light. He does not care that she may hate him, that his brother has likely come to usurp him. None of it matters.
She is here. And she will be his.
Before he can speak, her attention shifts. He follows her line of sight.
Yvara.
She stands near the edge of the steps, positioned just behind the Princess of Yorali, composed and restored. The gown she wears is deep violet, fitted cleanly to her frame. Her hair is arranged high, dark curls pinned into place as though she had never been confined at all.
Sevrin goes still. He had given permission for her to be brought out for tea whenever the harki infestation ceased. As though reading his thoughts, Corafar whispered. “The caremaster issued approval that she was cleared of the harki just this morning. She was washed and sent for tea but before she could sit with the Princess, your brother and his procession arrived and everyone rushed out.”
Yvara steps forward. Certain. "I see you have recovered nicely, sist?—"
Light tears through the air.
A crack echoes across the courtyard and Yvara's body is thrown forward, striking the ground before she can finish the word. Gasps break from the crowd as she scrambles to push herself upright, her breath uneven, her composure gone.
Silence follows.
Yvara looks up, panic breaking through as her eyes find Sevrin. "Majesty," she says. "She assaulted me. Guards?—"
Asharin speaks before the command can carry.
"When I was last here," she says, her voice clear enough to reach every edge of the courtyard, "my sister led me to my death under false pretenses."
The guards hesitate. Every eye turns.
"I was beaten so badly I nearly lost my children." The words move through the space without rushing. "I, the Princess of Veynar, was assaulted so badly that I had to flee to another country for safety."
A ripple moves through the crowd. Sevrin feels it go.
Asharin shifts slightly as Colsar places a hand on her shoulder. "But it seems that in Veynar, crime is rewarded." Her voice remains even. "While you labor and follow the laws of this kingdom, my sister may attempt to harm me and still stand before you in silk, untouched by consequence."
Sevrin feels the subtle but unmistakable turning of the crowd, the way attention moves away from Yvara’s protest and toward Asharin’s words as though drawn there by something stronger than curiosity. He could answer. He could say that Yvara had been confined, that punishment had already been carried out within these walls, that what remained would have been worse had Asharin not returned. He had intended it. He had delayed only for her.
But the explanation stays where it is, unspoken, because he knows the moment for it has already passed.
Yvara finds her feet and pushes forward. Her mouth is now covered in blood, and Sevrin wonders if she has lost a tooth. Her voice breaks through the air in a way that draws attention back to her only briefly. “That is not?—”
“She approaches me as though nothing has passed between us. As though we are equals,” Asharin cuts in with a harsh laugh.
The courtyard absorbs it all, the silence that follows thick with tension, or anger, Sevrin cannot tell which. A man steps forward from Asharin’s side, his presence immediate in a way that draws Sevrin’s attention without effort, the distance between him and Asharin close enough to register, close enough to provoke a quiet irritation in him.
“I am General Trophisan of Alarna. Under Alarnan law,” the man says, his tone composed, “the offense described is not a private matter. The accused should be punished according to our laws and returned with us as a prisoner.”
Asharin smiles up at him. “The lightcraft we possess is quite strong, Majesty. The undead tremble in its presence. Would you risk the potential for an alliance forthis?” She nods with disgust toward Yvara.
The words leave little room for interpretation. Yvara turns, whatever composure she had managed to gather slipping again as panic takes hold in full. “No,” she says, her voice rising as she looks toward Sevrin, toward the one figure who still has the power to change what is unfolding. “No, that is not how this works. You cannot take me. Sevrin?—”
He steps forward then, his voice carrying across the courtyard with the authority it has always held. “This is a matter best discussed in council.”
The statement draws a boundary, restoring a measure of order without denying what has been set before them. The Alarnan man inclines his head slightly. “Only if our Queen agrees,” he says, his tone unchanged. “If she declines further discussion and finds your dungeon insufficient, then Yvara becomes our prisoner. Or Veynar may choose to make us its enemy.”
Asharin smiles. “I will speak with you directly on the matter, King Sevrin. And if your response displeases me I will act accordingly. Yvara Dyvarin’s fate is not worthy of discussion in council while a war actively threatens this country. My time is precious, and Veynar deserves better.”
Murmurs of approval ripple through the courtyard. Colsar smiles, a look of what appears to be pride crosses over his face.
