Chapter 19
Dawn spilled gold across Edrathen’s peaks—jagged and unyielding, catching the light like blades.
Inside, Alaric sat behind his desk, a robe hanging open at the collar, half a dozen reports spread before him.
Ink stained the edge of his thumb where he’d been signing treaties and annotating the brittle scrolls he’d smuggled from Varantia—fragments about the Sundering, the kind of history no one here cared to read.
A cup of tea sat cold at his elbow, and he glared at it as though it had personally betrayed him. Another thing to add to the list of what he hated about Edrathen. And, perhaps, himself.
The hearth crackled weakly. Someone had brought damp logs again; they smoked more than they burned. Cedric had warned him about asking for firewood—apparently warmth was an indulgence here.
He leaned back in the chair, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Somewhere in this stone labyrinth, she was probably already awake. Reading. Planning. Avoiding him.
He replayed their walk again, every word, every hesitation.
He was too much. Too loud in a court that whispered. Too comfortable in a place that bowed to formality. And worst of all, too earnest for a woman who had never been taught what living tasted like.
He’d pushed. Again. When had that ever worked for him?
He exhaled, the breath fogging faintly against the glass.
“And I laughed at my sister for her foolish optimism.”
Because here he was, performing, trying to dazzle someone who didn’t want fireworks. She wanted quiet. Respect. Maybe a partner. Maybe not.
And what had he offered?
Masks. Flourishes. The polished shell of a man who had learned that charm was armor, and words were easier than commitment.
He desired the truth most without offering it in return.
Why did he always do this?
Because you are the future emperor. Because people didn’t want a boy who read myths at midnight.
They wanted confidence. Fire. Command.
He signed one last page, the quill scratching through the silence, and pushed the document aside. The mountains didn’t care who ruled them. Neither, he suspected, did she—unless he gave her reason to.
A knock at the door snapped him back into himself.
“Enter,” he called, straightening.
Cedric stepped in, looking absurdly awake for this hour, a leather-bound folder under one arm and his usual half-amused, half-long-suffering expression on his face.
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything meaningful,” Cedric drawled, eyeing the cluttered desk. “Like your eighth existential monologue of the morning.”
He dropped the folder on the desk with a soft thud. “Border watch reports and wedding logistics, as requested. Don’t say I never get you anything.”
Alaric glanced at the folder, then at his empty plate. “You didn’t bring me breakfast.”
“I brought you national security. You can’t eat that, but you can lose sleep over it.”
Alaric flipped the folder open, scanning the first few pages with a furrowed brow. After a few minutes, the furrow deepened.
“…That’s strange,” he murmured, tapping the side margin of a patrol report.
Cedric tilted his head. “What?”
“There’s been minimal guard rotation along the northern pass. That stretch near Kelvar’s Cross. It borders the high valley, doesn’t it?”
“Remote, cold, empty. A dream vacation spot,” Cedric offered. “Not much happens there. Wolves, maybe a trader or two.”
“Exactly,” Alaric murmured. “Which is why it’s odd they’ve pulled back guard presence without redirecting patrols to compensate.”
Cedric crossed his arms. “You’re thinking it’s deliberate.”
“I’m thinking it’s worth a conversation,” Alaric rose from his chair. “I’m meeting with their Grand Marshal and High Preceptor in a few minutes.”
Cedric sighed. “Of course you are. Can’t just enjoy the fresh air and pending nuptials, can you?”
“I have a feeling my future bride doesn't want to see me now. And something smells off.”
“Could just be the tapestry. Everything smells like old iron here.”
Alaric let out a soft chuckle. Cedric plopped unceremoniously into one of the room’s high-backed chairs, withdrew a small carving knife from his belt, along with a scrap of wood he’d probably stolen from the kindling basket, and began whittling.
Alaric exchanged his navy robe for an open-collared linen shirt, well-worn trousers, and the soft leather doublet that smelled faintly of cedar and sea salt.
Home.
As he reached for the door, Cedric added, a little too casually, “Brace yourself. You’ve got lessons at noon.”
Alaric turned just enough to squint over his shoulder. “Yes, I remember.”
Cedric only smiled. “Try not to sprain anything. I hear footwork’s important when one is being watched by an entire kingdom.”
Alaric smirked, gathered the folder with a sharp flick of his wrist, tucking it beneath one arm, and stepped into the corridor.
He didn’t miss the way the servants stiffened when he passed. Not impolite, but cool in that uniquely Edrathen way, like they weren’t entirely convinced he was real. Or worse, that he belonged.
He asked two footmen and a steward for directions to the Council chamber. Each gave him the same pointed smile before gesturing the opposite way he’d been headed.
By the time he turned the right corner, he was already late. They would be thrilled.
Gods, he hated this place.
It wasn’t just the cold. It was the stares.
The quiet judgment. The stone walls that watched you.
He could take the frost on his breath, the lack of vineyards, even the daily assault of boiled root vegetables—but the way they looked at him?
Like he was a spoiled souvenir from the south that someone had forgotten to return.
He stepped into the council chamber and schooled his expression into something polished but not too smug. King Rhaedor stood by the cold hearth with two men—one figure carved from war, the second from order.
“Ah, Prince Alaric,” the king greeted him with that steely voice that managed to sound both polite and vaguely disappointed at all times. “This is Grand Marshal Ravik Kordane. He’ll be overseeing all security measures for the wedding.”
Alaric extended a hand. Ravik did not shake it.
The general simply inclined his head with the kind of discipline that looked painful. His hands were folded behind his back. Probably welded there at birth.
“Grand Marshal,” Alaric greeted smoothly, lowering his hand. “A pleasure.”
“And High Preceptor of Orvath,” the king added, gesturing to his left.
The man was bald, with a severe, angular face in the color of the sand, every feature sharpened by age and disdain.
Deep lines bracketed his mouth in permanent judgment.
His grey robes fell in heavy folds, the hood resting against his back.
A black, thick chain draped over his shoulders like a mantle of authority.
“Your Highness,” the Preceptor murmured. His voice was low, drawn-out, and nasal.
Alaric inclined his head. “High Preceptor.”
The King made a sound like a cough and gestured curtly toward the long, ironwood table at the center of the chamber. It stretched beneath the high-arched windows like a scar across the room, each chair as stiff and humorless as the man who had likely commissioned them.
Alaric slid into one and placed his folder on the polished surface. The High Preceptor sat beside him. Ravik remained standing for a moment too long before taking the seat opposite.
The meeting was... informative. In the same way a formal duel was informative. You learned the other man’s reach, his preferred weapon, and how often he went for the throat.
“Units one through twelve, will be posted at the inner gates,” Ravik explained.
“The cathedral entrance will be watched at all times. All rooftop access points are sealed. Barricades at Market Row. Tower snipers remain in place from dusk. Every dignitary has been flagged. Anyone not listed will be detained.”
Alaric nodded slowly, then met the general’s eyes. “You understand that this is a wedding, not a siege.”
Ravik didn’t flinch. “The name may differ. The consequences are not.”
Rhaedor leaned back in his chair, “Because of last year, we’ve increased the security threefold.”
“Indeed. The Maroon Slaughter has changed protocol.”
Alaric’s fingers resumed their tapping, a touch faster now. “I read the reports,” he admitted. “Sparse security. Hardly anyone stationed inside the chapel, no alerts until it all went to hell.”
“We will not repeat the oversight.”
“And yet,” Alaric said, “I wonder if choking the ceremony in blades and silence is any more effective than leaving it unguarded.”
That earned him a flicker of something from Ravik—not quite irritation, not quite amusement.
Alaric leaned back slightly, the edge of his chair catching. “The Annals of Tel Verun describe the Mirror Wedding of Myceanos as having over four hundred armed guards stationed throughout the city. Still, the bride never made it to the altar. All it took was a vial in a wine cask.”
Ravik remained silent, but Alaric could see it—the faint stiffening of a man forced to tolerate theory where he preferred command.
“I’m not asking you to lower your guard, Grand Marshal. I’m asking you to remember that this day is supposed to mean something other than fear.”
Across the table, the High Preceptor turned slightly toward the king, his voice a low thread Alaric couldn’t catch. Ravik leaned forward to brace his hands on the table. He regarded Alaric steadily, measured patience over rising irritation.
“Poison-tasters will rotate every course. Food will be sealed since delivery. And I’ve posted additional guards behind the draperies.”
Alaric raised an eyebrow.
Ravik’s mouth twitched. That, from him, Alaric assumed, was practically a grin. “You’ll thank me if one of them catches a Kaer’Vosh’s dagger before it lands in your bride’s back. Or yours.”
That cooled whatever retort Alaric had queued behind his teeth.