Chapter 9
The castle buzzed with the kind of pointless busyness that only nobles could inspire; the wedding was two weeks away, and apparently, the candelabras needed fluffing.
Her thoughts, unhelpfully disobedient, drifted to Alaric. Currently housed in the best chambers of the west wing. Her own windows faced east. She told herself it was symbolic. Sunrise and sunset. Restraint and recklessness. Duty and... whatever it was he brought.
Swagger, mostly. That, and a smile too quick to be trusted.
By the time she reached the staircase, the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread was rising through the air.
The dining hall awaited, set with polished trays of honeyed figs, steaming bread, and rich, spiced meats laid out like a bribe.
A royal welcome for a man who, thus far, had made every nerve in her spine stand at attention.
Her father sat at the head of the table; his gaze flicked up at her entrance but gave nothing away. Seated at his right hand was Thalen with barely contained excitement written all over his face despite his best attempt at a serious, kingly expression.
Evelyne took her place to the king’s left, beside Ysara, draped in pale blue silk and wearing the same gently overwhelmed look she always did at formal meals.
Beside her brother, Alaric rose as she entered. Mercifully, fully dressed in something resembling court-appropriate attire. Navy tunic, crisp white shirt, high collar fastened. No chest hair. A win for diplomacy if ever there was one. Thalen beamed at him like they were already brothers-in-arms.
“Princess Evelyne,” he greeted smoothly, waiting for her to take her seat before lowering himself back into his own.
She returned a delicate nod and took a slow sip of her wine, and folded each of the day’s revelations into a small locked box somewhere deep within her mind. Her body would mistake it for peace. That would have to be enough.
Her father’s voice broke the quiet. “Your lessons went well, my daughter?”
Evelyne set her goblet down. “Yes, Father, as always.”
“Lessons?” Alaric exclaimed, turning to face her fully. “Such as?”
“Diplomatic tactics, foreign negotiations, and a continued study of trade agreements between our nations.”
His smile widened. “So, I am the subject of your careful observations? I had no idea I warranted such academic scrutiny.”
“Hardly, Your Highness. I’ve been studying Varantia.”
A chuckle rumbled from Alaric’s throat. “I confess I’d mistaken the two. How humbling to be so thoroughly corrected.”
Evelyne’s lips barely curved at the corners. “Apparently.”
Before Alaric could respond with another well-polished quip, Thalen piped up from his seat. “I studied Varantia too! I read that your navy has over sixty vessels, and that you have olive trees that grow even in nivalen.”
Alaric turned to him with a grin. “That’s true, though the olive trees tend to be more stubborn than miraculous. And yes, we do have a navy. Would you like to see the schematics for one of the ships?”
Thalen's eyes widened. “Really? Can I?”
“Of course,” Alaric declared with a solemnity that mirrored Thalen’s own princely posture. “Every future king should know the strength of his allies. I’ll bring the ship schematics to the library after your lessons. Perhaps your tutor can join us.”
Evelyne paused, spoon poised above her soup.
Her father remained quiet, watching the exchange without comment.
She blinked, slow and suspicious. But as Thalen leaned in to whisper something to Alaric, and Alaric listened with the full focus of a statesman receiving grave intelligence, Evelyne felt her stomach tighten. She glanced at Ysara, who observed them with a faint smile.
Rhyssa preserve us. He’s winning over the boy. And he hasn’t even used sweets yet.
Alaric turned to Rhaedor. “Forgive my inquisitiveness, but I find myself wondering about the traditions surrounding betrothals here in Edrathen,” he began. “Are there particular ceremonies or customs to celebrate the upcoming union?”
Rhaedor dabbed at his lips with a napkin before replying. “There is one official ball,” he explained, tone steady and precise. “A formal occasion to present the betrothed to the court and key nobles. There will also be a military parade two days before the wedding. What about Varantia?”
“We host several events. Feasts, yacht racing, and games.
A time, ostensibly, to strengthen bonds between families, though one could argue it's merely an excuse for revelry.” Alaric paused thoughtfully.
“Of course, some gatherings have become creative over the years.
Young nobles recently took to hosting what they call a 'Final Freedom Feast'—an irreverent farewell to bachelorhood.”
King’s brow arched. “Fads come and go; we see no need to indulge fleeting trends.”
Alaric nodded, swirling the wine in his goblet. “Of course, of course,” he murmured. “I am merely an observer. It is my duty to understand the tensions that shape my lands.” He glanced at Evelyne then, something knowing in his expression. “And yours, of course.”
Rhaedor took a measured sip of wine before speaking again. “Tradition is the pillar of stability. Without it, a nation fractures.”
“And yet,” Alaric mused, “nations do change.”
“Change is inevitable,” Evelyne admitted. “But control over how and when it happens determines whether a kingdom thrives or collapses.”
Alaric let out a small laugh. “A measured answer, Princess. You truly have been studying diplomacy.”
“And what of your own lands, Prince Alaric?” Rhaedor asked, a faint smile curving his lips, though his eyes held no warmth.
“You speak of change and shifting tides, but Varantia is not without its shadows. Whispers reach our borders. Some claim there are those in your kingdom who seek to revive what should remain buried.”
The effect was immediate. The playful glint in Alaric’s eyes dulled, his smirk cooling by degrees. Even the servants, trained to remain invisible, faltered. Ysara’s fingers tensed around her goblet, though the gesture dissolved into elegance again.
Evelyne felt it like a spotlight pinned to her chest. The back of her neck prickled as if every eye in the room had turned on her.
Rhaedor sipped on his wine. “We remember where such prying leads. The Assembly’s ledgers still list the names. All ended the same. In the gutter.”
Alaric’s gaze flicked to Evelyne for a fleeting moment. “Ah, yes,” he finally said, voice softer now. “Those particular whispers do find their way into conversation.”
He turned back to the king, setting his spoon down.
“Fear makes for excellent politics, doesn’t it? A kingdom surrounded by drought and unrest is easier to govern when its people have something dark to fear. The idea of a blasphemous scholar in some crumbling tower gives a shape to their unease. A name to hate.”
He let that linger, just long enough.
“And stories, as we all know, travel farther than soldiers.”
Evelyne felt that more than she liked to admit.
His goblet touched the tablecloth with a soft click.
“Of course,” he added more lightly, “Varantia is committed to peace. We root out extremism where it festers. But we’d be fools to think the past lies as still as we pretend.”
Evelyne tilted her head slightly. “What does that mean?”
Alaric’s eyes sparked. The kind of satisfaction that came from being heard in the exact way he wanted.
“There’s a scroll in the Archives of Solmara,” he recounted, “written during the first century after the Sundering.
King Adravan the Penitent of Edrathen, once a mage himself, denounced magic as divine punishment.
Claimed it was torn from us because humanity had strayed.
That god's absence was the price for our sins. History is filled with men who mistook silence for proof.”
Evelyne’s gaze slid sideways to her father. Rhaedor’s jaw had set in that particular way it did when someone mentioned this. Edrathen was not proud of this chapter.
Alaric tapped his fingers against the rim of his goblet.
“I think that people long for what they do not have,” he continued. “Magic was once a force that shaped kingdoms and changed the course of wars. And when something so powerful vanishes, it leaves behind… a kind of emptiness.”
“A void for superstition,” the king waved a hand. “Men who do not understand history speak of its return because they do not comprehend its end.”
“And you, Princess?” Alaric asked. “What do you think?”
Her mind flicked through the histories she had read.
Accounts of the Sundering, of entire cities lost to magical devastation, of the desperate measures taken to end it.
The magic disappeared long before she was born, but its shadow remained in stories and books.
There had always been two camps: those who argued that magic, if controlled differently, could return to serve rather than destroy; and those who believed it should remain buried, a mistake not to be repeated.
“I think that power never truly vanishes. It only changes hands.” She paused, glancing toward her father before returning her attention to Alaric. “But I believe its time has passed. As you said yourself, the world changes. Perhaps this is one tradition we are better off leaving behind.”
Alaric rested his elbow against the armrest, fingers trailing thoughtfully along his jaw, the hint of a smirk playing at his lips as he regarded her with unmistakable interest. His signets gleamed in the candlelight.
“Is it?” he countered. “After all, tradition was once a change that succeeded.”
“You seem fond of these debates,” she remarked. “Do you always engage in such discussions over supper, or is this a special occasion?”
Alaric chuckled, leaning slightly back in his chair. “Oh, I assure you, Princess, this is a pastime I indulge in regularly. Questioning is, after all, one of my most important duties as a future emperor.”
Rhaedor rested his forearms against the table. “Speaking of emperors… how are they faring?”