Pepin’s eyes flick toward me, briefly, unreadable, then back to the bishop.
Aileen’s father studies him carefully. “And you believe we can offer something the King cannot?”
Pepin tilts his head. “You offer resistance,” he says. “He offers inevitability.”
“That is not an answer,” Sir Philipp says.
Pepin’s expression hardens. “You want honesty?” he asks quietly. “Fine.”
He leans forward now, palms flat on the table.
“My father grows more extreme by the season. Verden was not a strategy. It was a spectacle.” His eyes flicker, just briefly, toward me again. “He believes fear will secure what loyalty no longer does.”
The bishop’s voice is low. “And you?”
Pepin does not hesitate. “I believe fear rots foundations.”
A long pause follows before Aileen’s father speaks. “If we support you, if we consider you a viable alternative, we must know where you stand.”
“On what?” Pepin asks coolly.
“Religious tolerance.”
“Regional autonomy.”
“The bloodshed in the North.”
Each point lands like a measured strike.
Pepin listens. Then, says evenly: “The empire cannot hold if it devours itself.”
“That is philosophy,” Sir Philipp says. “We need commitment.”
Pepin’s gaze sharpens. “You will have fewer forced baptisms, fewer public massacres.” A beat before he continues, “And fewer wars for the sake of legacy.”
The bishop studies him carefully. “You speak as though you already sit on the throne.”
Pepin’s lips curve faintly. “No.” He pauses. “I speak as though I know it will not remain occupied forever.”
The tone changes.
Sir Philipp’s voice lowers. “We are not speaking of successionby nature.”
Pepin meets his eyes directly. “No.”
I gasp, and Aileen’s fingers brush mine beneath the table.
Aileen’s father clears his throat. “You understand what aligning with us implies.”
Pepin nods once. “Yes.”
The bishop watches him closely. “Then answer me this, plainly.”
Pepin inclines his head.
“Do you seek reform,” the bishop asks quietly, “or revenge?”
For the first time tonight, Pepin hesitates. Only a fraction. Then says, “I seek survival.”
