After a few steps, Tassilo slows.
“Fastrada, about what Pepin said…”
I stop him. “I have heard nothing,” I say gently.
He studies me, then smiles relieved.
“Good. The King of Cheese remains safe. I am glad to know you arecrust-worthy, Fastrada,” he adds.
Brice winces at my side, and I laugh, freely and loudly, the tension in my shoulders loosening with every breath.
As we disappear into the trees, I glance once more toward the lake.
Pepin is watching from the water.
* * *
There are fewer chairs tonight, and the long table looks larger for it.
Rowan was clear—only selected nobles, senior members of the opposition, those who can be trusted not to sell a prince for favor.
I notice immediately who is missing; the Broker’s chair is empty.
We are kept waiting by Pepin.
At first, no one remarks upon it. The candles burn bright,the night air drifting through the open doors stirs the curtains just enough to cool the room, yet the stillness around the table begins to tighten as the minutes lengthen. Fingers start tapping against polished wood in uneven rhythms, rings clicking softly with each impatient movement. One of the older nobles rises under the pretense of stretching his legs and begins to pace the length of the room, his boots whispering over the floorboards as though he cannot bear to sit with his thoughts any longer.
Across from me, a man dabs at his brow with a handkerchief despite the breeze that slips in from the garden; the fabric comes away damp, and he avoids meeting anyone’s eyes.
No one says it aloud, but the delay feels intentional.
It is not the lateness of a careless guest.
It is the lateness of a man who understands that an entrance is a form of power.
And when the door finally opens, the shift in the room is almost visible.
Backs straighten, hands still, the pacing noble freezes mid-step, as though we have all been caught rehearsing our impatience.
Pepin does not apologize.
He walks with that uneven grace of his—the slight curve of his back visible even beneath tailored wool. His eyes scan the room once, calculating.
Introductions are made, though most already know him.
“Prince Pepin,” Sir Philipp says evenly.
“Philipp,” Pepin replies, taking his seat. No title. His gaze drifts around the table, unhurried. “So this is the famed opposition?”
No one answers at once.
His mouth curves, though there is no warmth in it. “A handful of nobles, a bishop, a few ladies gathered in the countryside past midnight. I was led to expect something…larger.”
Aileen’s father inclines his head. “You asked for a smaller council.”
“I asked for fewer leaks,” Pepin answers.
The bishop folds his hands. “You are safe here.”
