Chapter 9 #2
Alaric put on a rehearsed smile—one Evelyne recognized instantly, because she wore it often.
“My father has been feeling unwell,” Alaric explained, just a touch too smooth. “My mother now tends to the country’s matters.”
Rhaedor hummed, low and noncommittal. “Something serious?”
A pause. Small. Then: “No, not like that. He fell ill during the Second Crimson Plague. From time to time, the aftermath returns.”
“I hadn’t realized the Second Plague reached Varantia,” Evelyne observed.
“Not like in Edrathen,” Alaric admitted. “But yes, in parts. That’s why certain arrangements were made quickly. There were… contingencies to consider.”
Rhaedor nodded once, slowly. “And a coronation in six months. I found your succession process quite interesting.”
Alaric didn’t miss a beat. “Ah, yes. The Passing of the Sun. Varantia practices a different kind of heredity. Unlike Edrathen, where the crown passes only after the sovereign’s death to a male heir, we follow a system of abdication.
The ruling couple steps down, and the new pair rises together.
The former emperors join the advisory circle.
It was designed to prevent stagnation, and allow succession to be a choice rather than a reaction. ”
Evelyne’s jaw softened, though her mind did not. She was no longer nineteen. Courtiers whispered of the ‘uncertain season.’ They both will be expected to act swiftly—especially with unrest at the Vaelmont-Kaer’Vosh border.
Rhaedor, ever the strategist, gave a thoughtful hum. “So. A time of change.”
Alaric inclined his head. “Indeed.”
A beat of silence passed between them. The king finally shifted his attention back to his plate, signaling that the conversation had, for now, reached its end.
Evelyne’s hand closed around the stem of her wineglass, her fingers cool against the delicate glass, but she did not take a sip. Instead, she felt it—the unmistakable weight of Alaric’s gaze lingering on her.
She did not look at him, not immediately.
She had imagined her future husband a dozen different ways—but never like this.
And now, here he was. Alive with contradictions.
A foreign prince. Her betrothed. A man she had spent last month imagining in faceless, vague shapes, existing only in words spoken by ambassadors and letters exchanged between rulers.
Reckless. Impertinent. She had half-expected a wild-eyed madman with a crown too loose on his head and a taste for theatrics.
And in truth, he was half of that.
Alaric was warm in his speech, playful even, but his mind was always working. He adapted, shifting between sincerity and provocation, never lingering too long on either.
And she had no idea what to make of him.
Evelyne finally lifted her gaze to meet his—steady, unreadable.
She arched a single brow, the gesture quiet but deliberate.
Alaric’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile before his gaze slid to the bowl of figs. He paused, reconsidered, and instead reached for a cut of meat, setting it on his plate with careful indifference.
Evelyne turned to her meal.
Her stepmother was quiet. A royal wife was expected to smile softly, speak rarely, and never offer more than what was asked.
Evelyne had watched it for years and now she knew that it would not be her path.
She was the exception. The only woman in the realm permitted a full education in statecraft, politics, and law.
The one lucky enough to say something that perhaps someday will be heard.
Thalen had angled eagerly toward their father, animatedly recounting some fact he’d read about Varantia. Alaric nodded solemnly at first, then leaned in with a dramatic gasp and a whispered correction that made Thalen erupt into laughter.
Gods, he looked so proud. Like he’d just debated the council into surrender.
Her attention lingered a breath longer than intended before she forced it away.
The main meal had come to an end, and as the last of the silver platters were cleared away, servants carried in the final course. Evelyne recognized the delicate scent even before she saw it. Strawberry tarts, her favorite. Thalen grabbed for it at once, too quick to bother with manners.
The golden pastry was crisp, the fruit glistening with syrup. It was a small comfort; one she had always associated with home. She had eaten them since childhood, stealing bites between lessons. Tonight, however, the familiarity did little to soothe her.
Her father broke the silence, his voice even. “The ceremony is arranged. I have exchanged letters with Emperor Emrys, and all will proceed as planned.”
Alaric merely nodded, taking a slow sip of his wine. “I’m sure my father has been thorough. He does like things in order.”
The king gave a short nod. “As do I.”
A servant leaned in to refill the king's goblet. “After the ceremony, you will leave for Varantia. I expect the journey will take no longer than two weeks, provided the weather holds.”
“The official contract will be signed two days before the ceremony,” Rhaedor continued. “It will outline the expectations and obligations on both sides.”
Alaric leaned back slightly in his chair. “A charming way to define a marriage.”
“Marriage is an alliance, first and foremost. I expect the terms to be honored, as does your father.”
Alaric exhaled lightly. He tapped his fork against the edge of his plate once. Then again. The muscle along his temple twitched.
“Naturally,” he said at last.
“Details of the dowry have already been agreed upon,” her father announced, waving off the servant. “Edrathen will provide the materials and resources as arranged. The stone and iron shipments have been prepared. Varantia will ensure food provisions and trade routes remain open to our merchants.”
Alaric hummed. “A fair exchange. Stability for prosperity.”
Evelyne set her fork down without touching the tart. They were speaking of her life, as if it were a crate of trade goods to be loaded onto a Varantian ship. Calculated to the last coin.
Her lips tugged downward in the faintest motion. Thalen, mid-chew, caught her expression and offered her a small smile from across the table. Evelyne returned it.
The king nodded. “Edrathen keeps its word. My daughter will uphold her role.”
Alaric’s eyes flicked toward Evelyne.
Her corset pinched higher beneath her ribs. She found herself retreating from it, withdrawing into the quiet space of her own mind. She exhaled slowly as she let her gaze drift across the dining hall, seeking the one thing that always brought her a sense of stability—her maid.
There, near the far wall, Isildeth stood with her usual calm presence, her hands clasped in front of her. But tonight, she was not alone. Standing just beside her was another young woman, listening intently as Isildeth murmured something to her.
Evelyne immediately understood. The girl had to be the one who would take care of her in her new home.
She was young, perhaps only a few years Evelyne’s junior. Her features were soft and pleasant. Her skin was a deep, warm brown, her dark curly hair gathered neatly at the nape of her neck. She was short and slim, with a quiet poise that made her seem smaller still.
She was from the South. A lady’s maid chosen from the prince’s homeland to ease her transition. It was practical. Logical. And yet, it was another silent reminder of how much she was leaving behind.
Alaric’s voice cut through the moment. “Are you all right, Princess?”
Evelyne turned her head slightly, realizing that she must have drifted off enough for someone to notice. His expression was genuine, but she had no interest in entertaining unnecessary concern.
“I am well, Your Highness,” she replied evenly, offering him a smile.
She held his gaze for a moment longer. Then, smoothing the fabric of her gown, she stood up from her seat.
“If you will excuse me, I believe I shall retire for the night,” she said.
Isildeth immediately stepped forward from her place. Evelyne had barely pushed her chair back when her father gave a brief nod.
Alaric immediately rose. “Before you go, Princess,” he began, “taking the circumstances into account, I wonder if you still might find a moment for me tomorrow. A tour of your home before you leave it.”
Evelyne hesitated, her fingers tightening ever so slightly at her sides.
“Of course, Your Highness. I shall send a messenger in the morning.”
Alaric’s smirk deepened slightly. “Then I shall await your summons—eagerly, of course.”
He held her gaze for a second longer than necessary. “Good night, Princess. May your rest be peaceful.”
“Good night, Evie!” Thalen chimed in with the unfiltered cheer.
Ysara gave her a gentler smile, one hand resting lightly on the tablecloth. “Sleep well, my dear.”
Evelyne smiled, then turned on her heel. Her maid followed close at her side.
She didn’t look back. Not when she reached the tall doors, not when the soft hush of them closing behind her swallowed the great hall in silence. But she felt his persistent gaze on her. Like the brush of fingers just above her skin, never quite touching.
She walked for a while before turning down a narrower hall, one rarely used by courtiers. Stone cooled by shade, the walls less polished here. Through the arched windows she caught glimpses of the servants’ courtyard below, where life moved at an entirely different rhythm.
Kitchen maids scrubbed pans with sleeves rolled high and collected the peels into cloths. A boy, no older than six, slipped behind a cart and swiped a handful of bread crusts. He was gone in a blink.
This alliance meant bread. Trade. Less silence in soup kitchens.
A cook looked up as Evelyne passed. She had a blond braid and honey-toned skin. She lowered her gaze instantly, but not before Evelyne saw the tension in her jaw, the way she hid a basket with leftovers behind her.
Evelyne paused, her gaze lingered a beat too long on the young woman. Her irises—green, ordinary at first glance—caught the light in a way no eye should. As if, for a heartbeat, something inside them had shimmered.
Isildeth tapped her arm.
“It’s time for bed, milady,” she urged.
Evelyne blinked a few times, then gave the faintest nod. When she glanced again toward the courtyard, the woman was gone.
She made a mental note to ask Isildeth for a stronger tea that evening.