Chapter 20
Evelyne hadn’t slept much. Best not to provoke whatever had visited her in the dark by acknowledging it in daylight.
She had not seen Alaric all morning and afternoon. He had been occupied with negotiations and the final arrangements for their impending wedding. It was not unexpected. Her father’s council would see to it that every last term of their union was as beneficial as possible.
Not that she’d been idle herself.
Her desk had been buried under papers since dawn. She’d gone through notes and memories, filling nearly half her journal.
No clarity came. Just the same old lies rearranged into new sentences, as if she could trick meaning into appearing by endurance alone.
Now she sat in the antechamber outside the grand ballroom, spine straight, hands folded. The murmur of the reception bled through the doors: clinking glasses, ceremonial laughter. It had all begun.
The engagement gown was in a dark, regal blue that pooled elegantly around her feet. The color choice was deliberate, gold embroidery wove along the blue bodice in delicate patterns reminiscent of sun rays meeting ocean waves, catching the candlelight with every movement.
Out of equal respect, she knew that Prince Alaric would wear garments of red and silver.
Vesena stood a few steps away, watching with keen eyes. “Shall I bring water, my lady? Or wine?”
Evelyne shook her head. “No, thank you.”
She stilled her hands on the arms of the chair, fingers curling just slightly—just enough to feel the pressure of her own skin.
The door creaked open, and Evelyne turned just as Alaric stepped inside. There was no teasing smirk on his lips, no playful glint in his eye. No thread on his neck. Instead, he greeted her with a polite nod, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Your Highness,” he greeted smoothly, his voice steady.
Evelyne rose from her seat, tilting her head slightly. “Prince Alaric.”
His gaze lingered on her, slow and deliberate, tracing the line of her gown before meeting her eyes. “You look breathtaking,” he said softly. “Our colors were made for you.”
Evelyne paused for a beat before offering the courtesy in return. “And you wear our formal robes well too.”
It was true. The combination of red and silver did not clash with the warmth of his olive skin as she had anticipated. In fact, it suited him.
And yet... it wasn’t him. Not truly. The colors suited him, but they didn’t belong to him. There was something about the rich blue and gold of his own kingdom—that aligned with the man she had begun to observe.
At the doors to the ballroom, the chamberlain lifted his staff and prepared to make the announcement.
Alaric extended a hand in a sweeping gesture toward the doors, his expression warm. “My lady.”
Evelyne gave a small nod, gathering the folds of her gown as she stepped forward. Instead of offering his arm, he fell into step beside her.
Chamberlain's voice rang out, clear and commanding as the double doors began to open before them.
“Presenting Her Highness, Princess Evelyne of Edrathen, the Jewel of the North, Daughter of King Rhaedor. Accompanying her, His Highness, Prince Alaric of Varantia, Heir to the Throne of the South, Son of Emperor Emrys and Empress Aurevia!”
Evelyne and Alaric entered the grand ballroom. Hundreds of nobles, chancellors, advisors, and foreign emissaries stood gathered beneath the glittering chandeliers. The king stood at the far end of the grand chamber. When his eyes met Evelyne’s, he gave a small nod.
The ballroom unfolded before them like something out of a dream carved in gold.
Tall arched windows lined the walls, their panes catching the last light of day and scattering it across polished stone in soft glints.
Dozens of chandeliers hung above like constellations suspended in motion. Evelyne always liked them.
When they finally reached her father, Evelyne made an elegant curtsy.
“We welcome you both,” the king greeted. He inclined his head slightly toward Alaric. “Prince Alaric, you honor our court with your presence. We trust Edrathen has treated you well.”
Alaric, standing tall beside Evelyne, bowed his head respectfully. “Your Majesty, your kingdom’s hospitality has been most gracious,” he replied smoothly. “I am honored to be welcomed among you.”
The court watched them like predators who had already tasted blood. Glamour poised perfectly atop judgment. And suddenly, that judgment had two targets.
It had always been her: the Cursed Bride, the daughter of a cold throne and colder traditions. Poor thing, dangerous thing, wrong thing.
But now Alaric stood beside her.
She wondered if he realized yet. If he understood that marriage to her came with more than iron, duties and the diplomatic thrill of alliance. That the stench of gossip clung like smoke, and no matter how golden his crown might gleam, it would follow him too.
She knew for a fact that nearly half the invited nobility had sent regrets, wrapped in ribbons and empty pleasantries. And those who had come? They stood in tight clusters, watching them like hawks.
Rhaedor walked to the center of the raised dais, his silver crown catching the light. The murmurs quieted at once. His gaze swept the room.
“We gather tonight not only in celebration, but in recognition,” he intoned, his voice steady. “My daughter, Princess Evelyne of Edrathen, stands tonight beside Prince Alaric of Varantia. This is more than an engagement. It is a union of realms. Of futures. Of strength.”
He paused, letting the words settle.
“So let us celebrate—because this is a momentous occasion. And the beginning of something history will remember.”
Polite applause followed—refined, measured, exactly as court etiquette demanded.
Evelyne dipped her head; Alaric offered one of his more diplomatic half-smiles.
Together, they descended into the sea of nobles.
One by one various voices offered practiced congratulations, and names she had memorized since childhood reintroduced themselves with fawning warmth.
“Your Highness, it is an honor to witness such an alliance,” a middle-aged nobleman from Seralyne’s Landing greeted them, bowing before addressing Alaric directly. “I trust you will bring great prosperity between our lands.”
Alaric inclined his head. “That is my greatest intention, Lord Mera,” he replied smoothly. “I look forward to learning much from my future queen and her people.”
She noticed how the ladies of the court reacted to him—the slight flush in their cheeks, the lowered gazes, the stolen glances as they curtsied.
Especially Lady Malren.
She leaned in just slightly when she addressed him. “Prince Alaric, it is truly a delight to finally make your acquaintance. I have heard so much about your land’s hospitality. I do hope we will see much of you in court before you take our princess away.”
Evelyne’s eyelid twitched. Look at her—two days ago, she was implying he wasn’t pure-blooded and spouting half the nonsense her husband feeds her, and now she’s batting her lashes like a debutante.
Unbelievable. Her gaze drifted around the circle, finding the other women from the Veiling. Except Ariste. Odd.
“Lady Malren, I can see why your court is known for its grace,” Alaric murmured.
“I assure you; I will be in Edrathen’s halls as often as duty allows.
And as for taking the princess away…” He turned his head slightly, glancing toward Evelyne with warmth in his gaze.
“I believe it is I who must earn my place beside her.”
Lady Malren, much to Evelyne’s amusement, blinked in mild surprise before recovering with a bright laugh. “Men from the south truly are different,” she remarked. “Such words would never pass so smoothly from the tongues of our northern lords.”
“One cannot resist, in company of his beautiful, future wife,” he replied, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Now, if you excuse us…”
Evelyne felt the warmth of his palm at the small of her back. It wasn’t a touch, not quite, but close enough that it guided her forward all the same.
She caught Lady Malren’s speechless expression over her shoulder and felt a wild flicker of satisfaction.
They moved further through the court, exchanging pleasantries, ensuring that all saw them as the united front they were expected to be. And through it all, Alaric played his role perfectly.
This was exactly what she had wanted, wasn’t it?
A prince who respected her country, who understood her customs, who acted with the utmost decorum.
And yet, something about it unsettled her.
She recognized it for what it was, carefully measured and deliberate, a performance meant to please. It was too polished, too practiced.
Too much like her.
“You seem troubled,” Alaric’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Or are you simply focusing on the next round of questions?”
Evelyne glanced at him. “Hardly. I was merely assessing how well you’re adapting.”
He arched his brow. “And? Do I pass your examination?”
She studied him for a beat, tilting her chin just slightly. “So far.”
Alaric smirked. “Then I shall endeavor to continue meeting your high expectations.”
“My expectations,” she replied, “are not particularly high.”
“Is that so?”
She smiled at the passing Lord. “Personal culture, Prince. It's not an aspiration. It's the bare minimum. I simply wasn’t sure if you’d managed to locate it.”
That earned her a quiet laugh.
“Oh, it's there,” he murmured. “But you’re generous to admit it. I suppose I should feel honored that you’ve placed me slightly above a table knife.”
Her lips twitched at the corner. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves. The knife at least doesn't talk back.”
He chuckled, unbothered. “But it also wouldn't know which wine to pair with flattery.”
She snapped open her fan to cool her cheek and hide the very real and ridiculous smile threatening to betray her composure.