Chapter 29
Alaric had never experienced a migraine in his life. He’d fought battles hungover, debated philosophy while nursing sword wounds. But this… this was new.
Lord Ciriad of House Mera had been speaking for thirty-seven minutes.
Alaric knew this because he had begun counting around minute six, when the conversation had shifted from standard floral arrangements to the symbolic language of bouquet composition.
Apparently, the placement of a third Zhareshian nightbloom could ‘soften the austerity’ of the dais.
Alaric wasn’t sure if he was the dais in this metaphor or if the entire kingdom was. He also wasn’t sure he cared.
Lord Mera was lavish in both vocabulary and fragrance. He somehow smelled of lavender, cinnamon, and disappointment. Unlike his infamous friend Evan, who offset cologne with charm, this man managed only the former—by the gallon.
Alaric, for his sins, had listened. Because he was polite. Or at least because he hadn’t yet found an escape route that wouldn’t end with someone fainting dramatically into a hydrangea.
To his misfortune, he’d been caught off guard. The man had approached while Alaric was still waking up, mentally and bodily, and before coffee. Not real coffee, mind you, the castle’s offering was a bitter, chalky concoction masquerading as something from the Velross Archipelago.
So, when Mera had pounced with, “Your Highness, if I may trouble you for just a moment about the entrance arrangements,” Alaric, blinking slowly and already regretting breathing through his nose, had nodded. That had been his first mistake.
Cedric, of course, had immediately disengaged.
The luxury of not being a prince. He stood to the side with an expression of dutiful boredom, which Alaric envied deeply.
His eyes, however, kept drifting toward the woman standing behind a Lord Mera.
She was young, likely common-born, blonde, and standing behind her lord with her gaze dutifully fixed on the floor.
“And of course, Your Highness,” Lord Mera was saying now, sweeping one bejeweled hand, “the red freyara petals placed inside the arch will echo Princess Evelyne’s veil. They were very hard to source, but naturally I spared no expense.”
Alaric began mentally cataloguing potential exits: feigned illness, sudden diplomatic summons, spontaneous sword duel. He hadn’t ruled any of them out yet.
“—and of course the freyara petals will line the eastern corridor, just before the great doors, creating what I hope is a gentle olfactory transition from the sharper notes of the entryway to the warmth of the hall itself.”
Alaric blinked, hoping it might shake the fatigue from behind his eyes. It didn’t. “Forgive me,” he said, finally breaking in. “We’re talking about the wedding day arrangements, yes?”
Mera brightened. “Why, yes, Your Highness.”
Alaric nodded slowly. “Right. I assume Princess Evelyne provided the instructions?”
He hoped she had.
“Well,” Mera said, tone softening into something chiding, “traditionally, the arrangements include lilies. Always lilies.”
Alaric stared at him. Just for a whisper of time. Not long enough to cause offense. But long enough to make it very, very clear he was reevaluating the purpose of this entire conversation.
He sighed, rubbing at his temple and offered a tight, tired smile. “Lord Mera, thank you for the… story. But forgive me—how can I be of service, exactly?”
The lord’s expression brightened. “Only this, Your Highness—if the arrangement meets with your approval, House Mera would be honored to provide the floral design for your coronation in Varantia. As a gift, naturally.”
There it was. The pitch.
Alaric stared at him for a beat, balanced on the edge of irritation and awe.
The man was good. It wasn’t about flowers.
It was about influence. If House Mera couldn’t marry into the old blood or vote on council matters, they would settle for something more subtle.
Gifts that could whisper in court halls long after the giver had bowed out.
Alaric nodded, polite as ever. “How generous. I’ll be sure to pass that along to the Varantian court florist—she’s very territorial.”
Lord Mera hesitated, smile still intact but just a hair too fixed.
“I’ve taken the liberty of preparing an early draft of potential color harmonies for the coronation procession,” he said, producing a velvet-bound folio as if unveiling state secrets. “Nothing formal, of course. Merely humble inspiration.”
Alaric raised a brow. “Naturally.”
“Thessa,” Lord Mera barked. “Stop fidgeting. Fetch the documentation. Now.”
She bowed—deeply—as if the floor might swallow her whole, and hurried off with her gaze locked firmly to the tiles.
Lord Mera turned back to him with that same crooked grin. “Forgive her, she’s new. We try to offer opportunities where we can, of course.”
“I can see that,” Alaric said, his voice mild, but dry enough to parch. “You speak to her like she’s a trained hound.”
Mera hesitated. “Ah—well. She’s from the low quarter,” he said lightly, as if that explained everything. “Good girl, though. Eager to learn.”
“Mm,” Alaric murmured. “Interesting teaching method.”
There was a pause. Mera straightened, smile still fixed, but thinner now. “One must maintain a certain order, Your Highness. Otherwise—chaos.”
“Funny. I’ve always found that people use ‘order’ to explain things they don’t want to feel guilty about.”
Mera didn’t respond immediately. He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, then chuckled as if a joke had been made.
Alaric didn’t believe in miracles. But the moment he spotted Ravik emerging from the far end of the corridor, he was willing to reconsider.
The Grand Marshal moved with his usual rigid grace, flanked by the High Preceptor of Orvath, whose bald head caught the flicker of the wall torches like polished marble. The man was glowing, though Alaric couldn’t decide if it was divine light or just an unholy reflection.
What a joyful pair, Alaric thought dryly.
Still, it was better than being trapped in another half-hour lecture on the symbolic resonance of freyara petals.
He lifted a hand in greeting. “Marshal Ravik. High Preceptor. What a welcome coincidence.”
The two men approached with the reluctance of men already regretting the next five minutes. Ravik’s eyes flicked immediately to Lord Mera, whose smile widened.
“Your Highness,” Ravik said, offering a crisp, shallow bow. As he straightened, his eyes flicked sideways to where Cedric was examining his nails. The Preceptor gave a stiff incline of his head. He did not smile. Alaric wasn’t sure the man could.
“We were discussing the finer details of the wedding,” Alaric said, injecting just enough weariness into the word finer to make it sound like a disease.
“How fortunate,” Ravik murmured. “It must be important.”
Lord Mera, oblivious or pretending to be, turned to them with bright enthusiasm. “Then you’ll be thrilled to hear I am extending an invitation to the gentlemen’s club tomorrow evening.” He beamed. “You must come.”
Alaric felt a sigh bloom somewhere behind his eyes. Gods help me, it gets worse.
“I’m a priest,” the Preceptor said flatly, as if Mera had suggested he host a brothel in the cathedral. “And I also fast.”
Alaric resisted the urge to thank the man for his piety.
“Regrettably, I have matters to attend to. But the prince—” Ravik turned, meeting Alaric’s gaze just a beat too long, “—surely has time. I’ve heard he’s been gifted with an abundance of free hours.”
“I’m flattered by how closely you keep track of my schedule, Marshal.”
Ravik wasn’t a fool. If anything, the man was irritatingly perceptive. He knew Alaric was sniffing around. Maybe he hadn’t pinned down what yet, but the scent was there.
Alaric, of course, loved alibis. Loved laying the polite bricks of a lie with just enough truth between them to make them unshakable. And tomorrow, he had plans—real ones. Plans involving a discreet detour into the tunnel beneath Orvath’s chapel.
So the club wasn’t a burden. If anything, it was a gift.
He’d stop in. Flash a grin. Let half the nobility see him accept a drink and listen to Lord Mera describe the emotional significance of orchid placement. And when someone inevitably asked where the prince had been that night, they’d say—with great certainty—“The prince was at the gentlemen’s club.”
A perfect cover. Almost too easy.
Alaric tucked that knowledge into his pocket and turned once more to Lord Mera. “A generous offer,” he said with practiced charm. “Let me see if my schedule survives it.”
Lord Mera clasped his hands together, clearly pleased with himself. “Wonderful,” he said. “I shall see to the preparations myself. Though I must find that lazy girl first. Gentlemen.” He drifted off in a cloud of fragrance and silk.
Alaric watched him vanish around the corner, then pivoted to face his new companions. An awkward silence settled over the stone hall like morning fog. The High Preceptor regarded Alaric with the stillness of an icon before finally breaking the hush.
“I heard from my brother,” he said, voice as dry as an unwatered shrine, “that you’ve expressed an interest in the doctrine of service. Might we expect your presence at the next gathering?”
Ravik raised a brow, watching Alaric with a kind of idle curiosity that never quite felt idle.
He cleared his throat and tried to sound casual. “Yes,” he said, giving a slight nod. “I’ve always been interested in the structure of all faiths.”
The Preceptor gave a small nod. “Orvath welcomes all who are willing,” he said, as if quoting from scripture. “And the upcoming service is special. A Rite of Shar’Deren.”
Alaric tried not to visibly react, but he felt the tension in his jaw anyway.
Shar’Deren. The ritual of cleansing through discipline. Self-flagellation, in less delicate phrasing.
A shadow of a smile crossed Alaric’s face. “I fear I may not be worthy of such devotion.”
The High Preceptor returned the smile—or rather, a version of it. “All are unworthy,” he said, voice soft as a scalpel. “That is why we must be cleansed.”
That landed with the thud of judgment wrapped in blessing.
Then, with a final parting nod to Ravik—and none to Alaric—the High Preceptor turned and swept away down the corridor like a storm cloud retreating to sermonize somewhere else.
The silence that followed was heavier. Ravik didn’t move. Just watched Alaric, as if he were reading not the moment, but what came next.
At length, Ravik broke the silence. “Shar’Deren is not a performance. It’s not meant for observation.”
Alaric tilted his head. “I wasn’t planning to bring a sketchbook, if that’s your concern.”
Ravik didn’t blink. “It is not.”
There was a pause, filled only with the subtle hiss of torchfire and the soft tread of distant boots far down the corridor.
“You still have time,” Ravik said, after a beat. “To excuse yourself. From whatever it is you think you’re learning.”
Alaric met his gaze. “I’m a curious man, Marshal. Ask anyone.”
“Curiosity,” Ravik replied, “is not an excuse. Not here.”
Alaric smiled, slow and careful. “It seems a bit contradictory to discourage someone before they’ve even sinned.”
“It’s not faith I’m warning you about,” Ravik said, gaze narrowing.
“Then what is it?”
A flicker passed then—so brief Alaric almost missed it.
A hesitation in Ravik’s breath. And just before he spoke again, his gaze slid once more to Cedric.
Apparently, the high-ranking ones in Edrathen didn’t just reserve their scrutiny for foreign princes—they extended it freely to anyone who hadn’t been born under the right banner or into the right blood.
It irritated him more than it should have.
He knew half the palace staff in Varantia by name. Many of them were sharper, kinder, and infinitely more bearable than most high-born men he'd ever met. Cedric, for all his dry wit and selective obedience, had stood by his side longer and truer than any lord ever had.
“You won’t find answers in the rite, Your Highness.” Ravik said finally. “Only consequences. Perhaps you should consider a pilgrimage. Since you’re so eager to learn.” A pause. “I’ve heard it strengthens the spirit.”
Alaric’s fingers stilled, but he didn’t look away. He knew exactly which pilgrimage Ravik meant.
The Path of Binding.
A once-yearly ordeal through the northern Drometh Wastes. Walked barefoot. No food or water. The destination: The Bound Vigil. A weather-carved sculpture of two massive stone hands straining from the earth, wrists shackled together by a rusted iron chain.
Not all returned.
“I’m afraid I’m not headed south,” Alaric said smoothly. “And I have a terrible sense of direction. I might get lost and never find my way back.”
The Grand Marshal did not smile.
Alaric took one last glance down the hall. “I’ll see you at the council, Marshal. I heard it’ll be quite the event.”
And then, without waiting for permission or protest, he walked away, with Cedric at his side.