Chapter 17
The door to the castle kitchens slammed open with enough force to jostle the herbs strung overhead.
Cedric stormed in, boots thudding, his cloak dusty from the garden paths.
He nearly clipped the edge of the counter, sending a stack of plates wobbling.
Vesena caught them one-handed without even blinking.
He noticed a man in a broad hat speaking with a young woman beside him, her long blond braid slipping over one shoulder. Their eyes flicked toward him as he entered, before they both returned to their work.
“Cedric,” she warned. “Try not to destroy the kitchen.”
She was arranging a tray with her usual precision—vegetable stew, warm bread with a suspiciously perfect sheen of butter, a plate of sliced fruit that looked like it belonged in a still-life painting, and a teapot that smelled of calm and lies.
“Vesena, we need to do something,” he exclaimed, hands thrown up in exasperation. He glanced at the tray. “That for the princess? Might want to add something stronger than tea.”
Vesena calmly poured the hot brew into a porcelain cup. “What happened?”
The place bustled with quiet coordination: knives chopping in rhythm, copper pots clanging, the occasional murmur between servants. Everything ran like a well-oiled machine, crisp and exact. Edrathen was like that—impressive to the point of suffocation.
“Alaric and the princess happened,” Cedric groaned, leaning against the counter. “You saw it. I swear, war will come sooner than peace at this rate.”
Vesena tilted her head, lips curving into a faint smile. “I wonder whose fault it is, then?”
Cedric opened his mouth to protest but hesitated.
“Mostly the prince’s,” he admitted. “Didn’t think it was possible, but someone finally outmatched that silver tongue of his.
” He paused. “Almost. Except now I’ve got a prince who thinks he can charm his way through a stone wall and a princess who’s got said wall reinforced with steel. ”
Vesena chuckled, shaking her head as she arranged a small dish of fruit on the tray. “He always did have a talent for talking himself into corners. But I guess they figured it out eventually, didn't they?”
“Maybe. But does he listen? No. I tried telling him—give her space, let her set the pace—but you know Alaric. Patience isn’t his strong suit. Even if he thinks otherwise.”
Vesena glanced at him with a knowing look. “And yet, you’re here venting to me instead of making sure he doesn’t do something foolish.”
Cedric rolled his eyes. “Because if I don’t take a breath, I’ll wring his royal neck.”
Then, almost as an afterthought, Cedric reached into his pocket. “Before I forget,” he muttered, his tone utterly casual. “Saw this in the gardens earlier. Figured it might survive the trip better with you than trampled under some noble’s boot.”
He offered a single bloom—an alpine blossom, pale violet with a silver throat. A mountain flower. Fragile-looking, but stubborn by nature. The kind that didn’t grow in Varantia.
Vesena blinked, the briefest flicker of surprise breaking through her usual reserve. Her fingers brushed his as she took it. “You remembered.”
Cedric shrugged and turned back to the trays like it meant nothing. “You always dry them. Seemed a waste to leave it.”
She tucked the blossom into the corner of her apron pocket, then fussed with the linens, studying him from the side.
She cleared her throat and lifted the silver tray. “Anyway. Time will tell. But I wouldn’t bet against either of them. They’re both too damn stubborn.”
“Gods help us all, then.”
“Indeed,” Vesena agreed, heading toward the door. “And for now? I have a princess to feed.”
Cedric fell into step beside Vesena. The silver tray in her hands trembled just slightly with the weight of the teapot, bowl of stew, and side dishes. Without a word, Cedric reached out and gently took the teapot from the tray. Vesena shot him a sideways glance.
“Thanks,” she muttered.
“No problem.”
The hallways stretched ahead, lined with sconces casting flickering amber light across the polished stone floors. The rich tapestries hanging on the walls depicted ancient battles and regal ceremonies.
“So,” Cedric began, his voice casual but laced with purpose, “what do you suggest?”
Vesena lifted a brow. “What do I suggest?”
“Yeah,” Cedric said, glancing at her as they turned down another hallway. “We need to somehow fix... them.”
Vesena snorted. “Fix them? You make it sound like they're a pair of broken tools.”
He gave her a dry look. “You know what I mean. They're getting married. Might as well help them get along. Unless you want to witness a diplomatic disaster every day for the rest of our lives.”
“I'm not sure meddling in their personal matters is wise,” Vesena replied, adjusting the tray. “It’s not our place. They're adults. Royals. They should figure it out themselves.”
Cedric sighed and stopped at a corner, reaching for the heavy wooden door that led to the next hallway. He pushed it open and gestured for her to pass. “And yet, here we are, carrying tea and dinner to a princess who faked illness to avoid her future husband. Very adult behavior.”
Vesena stepped through the doorway. “I'm saying involvement could backfire. Royals don’t appreciate interference.”
“Still. Someone's got to nudge them in the right direction. Left to their own devices, they'll either kill each other or die of awkward silence. Although, I doubt Alaric would allow that, he'd probably talk her to death. And I think he actually wants her to like him. That might be the worst part.”
Vesena exhaled. “I'm not promising anything. But... if there’s a way to ease things without them noticing, I’ll consider it.”
Cedric grinned. “That’s the spirit. Quiet sabotage in the name of peace.
A happy master is a happy servant. I don’t want to spend the next however many years listening to Prince Alaric complain about how his wife looks at him like he’s a piece of overly salted meat.
You and I both know who ends up cleaning that mess. Us.”
“So, your solution is to... what? Play matchmaker? This isn’t some tavern romance story, Cedric.”
“Not matchmaker,” he corrected, pushing open the door to the next hallway and holding it for her.
“Facilitator. Encourager of harmony. I just want them to get along so they leave us alone. If they’re busy.
.. with other things,” he added with a sly grin, “they won’t have time to be at each other’s throats.
Less work for us, more peaceful days. It’s practical. Self-preservation, really.”
They approached Evelyne’s chambers. Vesena paused, set the tray down on a marble ledge, and crossed her arms. There was a pinch between her brows, the thoughtful kind.
“If Prince Alaric wants to reach her heart, he needs to earn it. No shortcuts.” Her voice softened with conviction. “Instead of talking, he should listen.”
She glanced around to ensure no wandering ears lingered nearby. “Their worlds are different. Edrathen clings to traditions older than the Sundering, afraid of repeating past mistakes. Prince and Princess need to move past that.”
Silence stretched again, comfortable this time. Vesena adjusted the tray, gaze distant.
Cedric nudged her elbow gently. “vAnd you? How are you holding up with all... this? Are they working you too hard already?”
Vesena offered a faint smile. “It’s a lot. But I’ll manage. Besides... She's kind. I think she just needs time.”
“Time’s a luxury in politics,” Cedric muttered, but his gaze was understanding. He set the teapot back on the tray. “Still... good to hear you’re settling in. Not everyone can handle a job like this. I wouldn’t trust half the castle to fold linens, let alone serve royalty.”
Vesena was just about to answer, when a dignified little grunt cut off his genius.
Cedric turned—and there it was. The end of peace.
Thalen Tresselyn, royal menace incarnate.
“Ilmora save me,” Cedric muttered.
The boy strode forward with a practiced bow. “Lady Vesena,” he greeted, straight-backed and grave. “It’s an honor. I’ve seen you walking with my sister.”
Vesena inclined her head, amused. “Prince Thalen. A pleasure.”
Cedric gave her a pained glance that said I hate everything.
Then, with perfect form, he turned to Cedric with bright-eyed earnestness, “Sir Cedric.”
“…I’m not a— never mind.”
Thalen, with all the courage of someone who had not yet learned shame, turned to Vesena, and remarked, “You look like someone who knows how to win a fight.”
Vesena blinked.
Cedric blinked harder. Then turned to her with the exact same expression, now upgraded to what in every flaming realm was that.
“Is it true,” he asked, voice pitched low like he was letting her in on a secret, “that you know ten languages and can pick locks?”
Vesena raised a brow. “Where did you hear that?”
“I have sources,” he explained gravely.
Cedric snorted.
“And is it true,” Thalen pressed on, undeterred, “that you once caught a thief with nothing but a sewing needle?”
Vesena smiled. “That one’s exaggerated. It was two needles.”
Thalen’s jaw dropped slightly. He turned to Cedric, eyes alight. “She’s amazing. You’re very lucky.”
Cedric blinked. “I don’t—she’s not—” He floundered, then settled for glaring at the ceiling. “She sharpens my razors. That’s the extent of my luck.”
Thalen was back to staring at Vesena. “How did you become a maid? What does the inside of Varantia look like? Do they really put cinnamon in everything?”
“I like this one,” Vesena murmured to no one.
Thalen beamed with such sincere delight that Cedric visibly winced.
Then, as if remembering his purpose, the boy straightened. “But I do have to speak with Sir Cedric in private.”
Cedric immediately looked at her, wide-eyed and pleading like a hound facing bathwater.
But Vesena only picked up the tray and said serenely, “Of course. I’ll take dinner to the princess.”
Cedric felt a spike of genuine betrayal.
“Vesena,” he hissed under his breath.
She didn’t look back. Just lifted her chin, serene as a swan, and walked.
But just before she vanished, he caught it.
The twitch at the corner of her mouth.
The smirk.
She was enjoying this.
Fine.
Fine.
He would remember this moment. She would pay. A knife ever so slightly dull. A pillow mysteriously missing its corner tassels.
Revenge, after all, was a dish best served mildly inconvenient.