Chapter 7
It was a stunning view, and Alaric barely saw it.
He stood at the tall window of his guest chambers, one forearm braced against the cold stone, the other resting at his hip.
The mountain landscape stretched in shades of brown, gold, and white.
Somewhere behind him he could hear the sounds of servants arranging his belongings around the rooms. But his mind was elsewhere.
He let out a slow breath. Warmth was the last thing he’d expected. Royal matches were not spun from affection, and yet, he had hoped for more, and it clung to him like a prophecy already written.
They had a saying for people like her in Varantia: a storm in disguise—the kind that arrived with calm skies and left nothing standing.
Her reputation had preceded her, of course. His advisors had been cautious, all hushed tones and raised brows. Your Highness, perhaps reconsider. The last groom—well, you’ve heard the story.
Yes. He had heard the story. Everyone on the continent had, and everyone had already assumed something about her—cursed, cold, or complicit, depending on who was speaking. He had paid those whispers little mind. He didn’t care what she was, but it was clear what she wasn’t: fond of him.
Alaric rolled his shoulders as he turned from the window and poured himself a cup of wine.
The last of the servants bowed their way out of the chamber, the heavy doors clicking shut behind them.
Alaric shrugged out of his outer coat and shivered instantly, cursing local temperatures.
It was the first week of someris, and yet he felt like lighting a fire.
“Well, that was something.” Cedric’s voice cut through the stillness, as he closed the door behind the servants.
“Would you like me to fetch you a mirror so you can admire your own performance? Or perhaps you’d like a quill and parchment to jot down every word you spewed out there for future generations to study? ”
Alaric let out a long-suffering groan and dragged a hand down his face. “I take it you have a comment.”
Cedric crossed his arms, leaning against the nearest pillar with the ease of a man who had long since discarded the idea of groveling before nobility.
“Comment? Oh, no, my prince. I’m simply marveling at the sheer audacity of your arrogance.
It was like watching a peacock discover its own reflection and fall in love with itself. ”
Alaric smirked, unbothered. “I was merely engaging in diplomacy.” He gestured grandly. “Bridging the cultural divide between our two great nations.”
“It looked more like you were attempting to suffocate the princess with your excessive verbiage. The poor woman barely got a word in before you filled the space with yet another gilded, over-the-top nonsense you lifted from a book.” Cedric sighed, shaking his head.
“Not to mention the complete disregard for etiquette. Do you even know what you did?”
Alaric glanced at him with a slightly guilty smirk. His thumb brushed over his forefinger, as if the ghost of her glove still lingered there.
Cedric leveled him with a look. “You touched her.”
“Yes, well… I didn’t think it would matter as we're engaged.”
“Before the wedding. In public. In a country where that is about as scandalous as setting fire to a temple.” He slow-clapped his hands together. “Bravo.”
Alaric exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “I admit, I might have misjudged that particular custom. But really, must they be so rigid about it?”
“Just because you’re used to touching women whenever you please doesn’t mean everyone else is.”
Alaric huffed. “I don’t touch women whenever I please.”
“No, of course not,” Cedric observed dryly with mock seriousness. “You first deliver a two-minute monologue about the nature of fate, then you touch them.”
Alaric ran a knuckle along his lip. “Alright, point taken. Perhaps I got a bit carried away.”
“A bit?” Cedric lifted an eyebrow.
Alaric waved a dismissive hand. “It’s not as though I offended her beyond repair. She’s rather stiff, wouldn’t you say?”
“Ah, yes, let us criticize the woman who was just manhandled in front of an entire court and is probably still reeling from it.” Cedric shook his head. “It's a miracle she didn't exile you from the country.”
Alaric let out a low groan, tipping his head back to eye the carved ceiling with theatrical resignation. “Yes, fine—I’ll admit it. That did not unfold according to plan. My wits deserted me the moment she raised that brow.”
“Don’t you say,” Cedric pulled out a deep navy sash and tossed it onto the bed next to the tunic. “Speaking of repair… You’ll be covering that—” He gestured vaguely at Alaric’s exposed collar, where the faintest dusting of chest hair peeked through his open shirt.
Alaric rolled his eyes. “If you say so.”
Cedric resumed his methodical arranging of the evening attire.
His servant, if one could even call him that, considering their relationship, was two years older than him, but the years had given him a sharp, dry wit rather than the beaten-down demeanor of most attendants.
He had been in Alaric’s service since the prince was fifteen, though they both knew it was more of a convenient arrangement than an obligation.
Cedric had been plucked from an orphanage by Alaric’s grandfather, raised as a page, then a squire, and finally, placed at the prince’s side.
“What do you think of her?” Alaric asked at once.
Cedric didn’t look up as he smoothed out a wrinkle in the tunic. “She’s beautiful. Smart. She doesn’t waste words, which means she’ll hate every moment of talking to you. I like her.”
Alaric smirked, rubbing a hand along his jaw. “Ah, Cedric. Always a pleasure. I started to wonder if you could take inspiration from the princess’s maid—silent. You should try it.”
Cedric sneezed. “Yes, because what you truly need in your life is another person standing around waiting for you to finish one of your speeches.”
Alaric pushed off the desk and approached the window again. He’d likely receive a similar lecture from his sister. His mother’s version would be colder, more exacting, and somehow still more painful. She had a talent for striking where it bruised beneath the surface.
But neither of them were here.
And thank the stars his grandfather wasn’t either.
If Lucien had been present for any of this, they wouldn’t have made it through the castle gates before being unceremoniously escorted to the border.
He’d always favored candor over ceremony, which was perhaps why Alaric had listened to him more than anyone else.
Lucien didn’t bend for diplomacy. He kicked it in the teeth and kept walking.
Perhaps that was the real rot of it: how unsurprising it all felt. How easily a man could step toward history and realize he was walking it alone.
Duty. Sacrifice. Expectation.
He knew the weight of those words better than most. He just hadn’t expected them to feel quite so hollow when the moment finally arrived.
“It is strange,” he mused. “I stand on the precipice of marriage, of securing an alliance that could shape the course of our imperium, and yet I arrived here with only you as my company.”
Cedric gazed up at him. “Well, let’s be honest, Your Highness. What would their presence have changed? The deal was struck before you even set foot here. They trust you not to make a complete mess of things, which, frankly, is far more faith than I’d place in you.”
Alaric threw him a wry look. “Your confidence in me is touching.”
“Oh, I have confidence in you,” Cedric teased, smirking as he held up Alaric’s tunic with a scrutinizing eye. “I just know you.”
And that was fair. Too fair.
Alaric sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, gaze distant. He’d always assumed he would choose. That he’d find someone on his own terms. Some spark to chase. He’d had his share of dalliances, none of them had lasted.
So, when the letter came, after returning from traveling a few months ago, he had thrown something heavy across the room. He’d argued once, loudly and pointlessly. But he’d known, deep down, that the decision was made. And maybe… maybe that was for the best.
He would be emperor in a time of uncertainty. War stirring in the dark, faith splintering, provinces one bad harvest away from collapse. So no, agreeing hadn’t been that hard in the end. Especially with the Passing of the Sun moved earlier than tradition allowed.
Cedric tossed the tunic toward him. “Cheer up. The second impression is more important.”
Alaric caught it. “I’m rather counting on it.”
Cedric narrowed his eyes. “You’ve got that face again.”
“What face?”
“The one that says you’re thinking,” Cedric replied. “Which is rare enough to warrant concern.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Cedric leaned back. “Are you thinking about what I’m thinking you’re thinking?”
His eyes lingered on the distant arched window, where the light carved slow patterns into the stone. “I’m just wondering if she knows. What Edrathen had once been. Long before the Sundering, the kingdom had been a pioneer in arcane theory and art. Officially, it is all gone—”
Cedric groaned, half in irritation, half in weary inevitability. “You really think the daughter of a kingdom that considers curiosity a crime, is going to hand over the truth behind the Sundering?”
“No,” Alaric countered, and this time his voice was quiet, serious. “I don’t think she holds the truth.”
He leaned back in the chair, thoughtful.
Nothing truly disappeared without a trace. Least of all something as volatile, as hungry, as power-laced as magic. His grandfather believed it too. And so, this marriage, strategic, yes, but also opportune. It wasn’t just about crops or alliances or courtly pageants. It was a door.
He wasn’t foolish enough to think Edrathen would hand over its forgotten truths on a silver platter. Secrets like that didn’t live in scrolls anymore. They lived in people. In what wasn’t said.