Chapter 6
The Castle of Edrathen rose from the hillside, pale limestone caught the sun, each tall sash window flashing like a drawn blade.
At its heart, a grand portico unfurled with quiet authority, framed by columns that cast long, dignified shadows across the stone.
Red banners of Edrathen stirred in the breeze.
At the center of the portico was the broken statue.
Massive, half-crumbling, its pedestal worn smooth by time.
No one repaired it. It didn’t resemble a person or animal, only an entanglement of shapes.
Ivy curled through its crevices. Moss clung to its base.
Rain had carved streaks down what might once have been limbs or wings. It had been left that way deliberately.
Down the sloped path, the wrought-iron gates were open. On either side, statues of stags stood with their focus set toward a distant horizon.
Evelyne lifted her gaze as the castle entrance loomed ahead.
The sight before her came into full view—several carriages, their lacquered dark wood glinting in the morning sun, the banners of Varantia hanging proudly from their sides.
A golden sun rising over deep blue waves.
Servants busied themselves unpacking chests and crates and the Varantian guards watched the surroundings.
From the side, overseeing the entire operation with the air of quiet command, stood footman George.
Middle-aged, or at least, he had always looked that way, and polite to a fault, with perfectly combed silver hair that had never seemed to change.
Evelyne couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t been in the castle.
Her attention shifted, landing on a figure standing near the largest of the carriages, watching the statue with quiet interest. The moment she laid eyes on him, she knew.
Prince Alaric Soleranos.
The Golden Boy they mean to anchor to me.
His frame was tall, relaxed, and confident—athletic, but not overly so. His dark brown hair, long enough to brush his collarbone, were slightly tousled, and a short beard traced the sharp angles of his jaw. His expression flickered with curiosity, as he turned and met her gaze.
As she approached, he gave a deep, confident bow.
She clutched her fan, her jaw locked in a quiet war with herself, betrayed by the controlled breath she hoped no one would notice.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness,” he recited when she approached, his voice low. “Prince Alaric. Scholar, equestrian, and, if the court is to be believed, a rather dashing conversationalist.”
Then, with a glance that was entirely too knowing, he added, “And now, in the presence of such grace, I fear my own reputation for eloquence may falter.”
A pause followed just before footman George gave a respectful nod and turned, retreating toward the castle. A few servants followed, murmuring softly among themselves as they carried ledgers and linen bundles, no doubt headed to supervise the arrangement of Prince Alaric’s chambers.
A smile curved Alaric’s mouth with the ease of someone accustomed to being liked.
His attire was what truly set him apart.
Unlike the men of her court, whose tailored garments were stiff with elaborate embroidery, his clothing spoke of a different world.
He wore brown trousers and an ivory shirt cut from a lighter, more natural fabric.
The collar hung open, and—to her great dismay—his olive skin and the faintest trace of chest hair was visible at the opening.
Her lips pressed into a line, willing herself not to look again.
“Princess Evelyne,” she intoned, while making a shallow curtsy. “An honor, Your Highness.”
Well. He appeared tolerable enough. Nightmares, accounted for. An ill-timed conversation, endured. A minor incident at breakfast, survived. Surely fate would grant me a pleasant—
Without a warning, Alaric reached for her gloved hand. Before she could react, he planted a delicate, lingering kiss to the back of it, his eyes never leaving hers. Heavy signets pressed into her skin—one bore the Soleranos crest, the other a symbol she didn’t recognize.
The courtyard seemed to fall away—the chill air, the murmur of guards, the scent of horses and frost. For a moment, all she felt was Dasmon’s cold palm, slick with blood.
Such a gesture was unthinkable. In Edrathen, only a husband touched his wife, and even then, only in private. Public affection belonged to ceremony, to script, to duty.
But he was a foreigner. That would be the excuse. Different customs. Different rules. Perfectly understandable.
Her palm turned to ice in his grasp. Panic surged clean and sharp.
Her lungs refused to move; breath caught behind her ribs.
Her heart pounded too fast, each beat drumming against the stillness.
She didn’t flinch, but her skin burned beneath the glove, that sick, familiar heat crawling up her arm until even the winter air felt suffocating.
Control. Calm. Focus.
She latched onto the ritual like a lifeline, directing her thoughts into the details of what had been violated rather than what it felt like.
The impropriety. The breach of protocol. Yes. That was easier than admitting the truth.
She lifted her fan, shielding the tremble in her lip.
Alaric straightened leisurely, fingers uncoiling from hers as if savoring the moment. Evelyne resisted the urge to shake out her hand.
Behind him, his servant stared at him with wide eyes and mortified expression. He had short, brownish-red hair and stubble on his chin. His fair skin was tanned from the Varantian sun.
Evelyne cleared her throat lightly, reclaiming what little control the moment had allowed to remain.
“The journey must have been long,” she commented, tone polished, and perfectly neutral. “I trust your retinue was not too inconvenienced by the weather?”
Alaric exhaled dramatically, as though the very memory of mild hardship offended him.
“Ah, the weather,” he began, voice lilting with theatrical dread. “Snow that bites like a jealous lover. Winds sharp enough to skin a man alive. Your western passes are quite the experience. I do believe one of my guards attempted to bury himself beneath the luggage to escape the cold.”
He spoke with gestures that bordered on performance, and words dressed in just enough flourish to feel intentional. Evelyne watched his mouth, but saw Dasmon’s carved lips behind her eyes.
Her hand nonetheless felt phantom-warm where he had touched it. Her pulse still spiked beneath her corset in a beat she couldn’t seem to smooth.
Evelyne blinked once. “How enterprising of him.”
Unfazed, he pressed on. “I can’t say it wasn’t a memorable experience. Nothing awakens the senses quite like frostbite and a mule with a death wish.”
“I was told frostbite had better aim. Yet I see that you survived.”
The words left her before she could stop them. She hadn’t meant to bite. But something in her wanted noise to match the storm inside her.
To her surprise, he didn’t bristle—he gave her a rakish smile that might have been charming under different circumstances—or to a different woman.
“Barely. But I would suffer far worse for the privilege of standing here.”
She swallowed hard and resisted the urge to smooth her skirts.
“I’m sure Edrathen is honored by your... perseverance.”
“Your kingdom is colder than I thought,” he mused, casting a glance at the towering stone walls. “But I suppose that’s part of its charm. Or is the chill simply a test of character?”
“It builds discipline,” Evelyne replied. “And discourages loitering.”
That earned a surprised, delighted laugh. Was that a dimple in his cheek?
Breathe in. Breathe out. The corset got tighter by the second.
He gave a mock bow. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a warning,” she replied, already turning toward the steps leading into the castle. She needed a moment. A second to refocus.
“A well-phrased one,” he called, falling into step beside her with far too much ease. “But I should warn you—I’m very bad at heeding warnings.”
“Therefore, you’ll fit in here perfectly,” she stated without looking at him. “We’ve a long tradition of men ignoring sense.”
Isildeth would scold her for that. She was sure of that.
He lifted an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips as though she’d just delivered the punchline to a joke only he found hilarious.
The audacity.
Evelyne glared daggers at him, until a delicate clearing of a throat broke the spell. Alaric straightened immediately, his smirk softening into something more measured. He turned to greet her father with a courteous bow.
“Your Majesty,” he exclaimed. “It is an honor to finally set foot in Edrathen. I have long admired the fortitude and legacy of your kingdom.”
Evelyne nearly rolled her eyes.
Rhaedor merely nodded. “Prince Alaric,” he greeted in return. “Welcome to Edrathen. I trust your journey was smooth.”
Alaric offered an easy smile, gesturing subtly with his hands as he spoke.
“Indeed. The roads through the mountains were well-kept, a true testament to your kingdom’s dedication to infrastructure, something I have always found to be a mark of a well-maintained and well-governed land.
And as a scholar, I must say, it raises fascinating questions about the strategic placement of—”
Evelyne watched the exchange, arms lightly folded, her expression flat. Her father was politely listening, but she could see the faint glimmer of annoyance in his expression. Of course, he expected a simple ‘yes’, but the prince was laying it on thick.
She didn’t turn her head, but her gaze slid toward Isildeth. A silent, eloquent look. The kind that said: Are you hearing this?
The older woman responded with the barest twitch of an eyebrow. A veteran’s acknowledgment of shared suffering.