Chapter 60
It was remarkable, really, how many people could laugh while bracing for the end.
The cheers had faded, replaced by the clatter of silver and the hum of courtly performance.
Laughter a little too loud, smiles stretched just a touch too wide.
It all clung to him like a poorly tailored second skin when he stepped into the ballroom with Evelyne.
Overhead, chandeliers spilled golden light across crimson and blue banners bearing the crests of Edrathen and Varantia. Silver platters passed between clusters of nobles: honey-glazed quail, figs stuffed with spiced cheese, bread still warm from the ovens.
On the other hand, there were tasters at the high table; Silverwards at balconies. Servants wove through it all like thread through a needle, refilling goblets before they could empty.
Alaric pulled out her chair by the long royal table at the raised platform, then sat beside her. Now, with their hands apart and the performance underway, he found himself glancing sideways.
The red veil still framed her silhouette, catching the firelight. She looked beautiful, as always. But a breath apart. From the crowd. From him.
A statue holding its breath.
She was bracing. And why wouldn’t she be?
It hadn’t gone well the last time. And she was just a hair's breadth away from repeating the story. He’d been terrified. Gut-level, blood-cold terrified.
She must have been too.
But they were here. No blood on her gown.
No madman chanting ominously in the background.
So far, a success. He fought the urge to say something foolish—something like “let’s run away and become goat herders in the North.
” She wouldn’t appreciate it. Not now. Her walls were up, and besides he had a feeling she hated goats.
And probably lilies too, judging by the way she was glaring at the centerpiece as if it had personally offended her lineage.
He tore a piece of bread in two and offered her half—something to steady her hands. He hadn’t expected her to accept it. She hesitated, fingers suspended for a heartbeat, then took the piece in silence.
He leaned in. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Her gaze flicked to his, sharp and unreadable. “I assure you; you don’t want to hear that.”
The corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Try me.”
He expected the usual retreat: a lift of the chin, a perfectly timed deflection. But her gaze held, and for a moment, he saw it—that flicker behind her eyes.
“My priest wasn’t there,” she explained at last, low enough that only he could hear her. “The one who was meant to bless the ceremony. They replaced him.”
That was strange. Alaric had grown used to ceremony shifting hands for politics, but to change such a core figure without notice? Especially now?
That wasn’t just oversight.
He leaned closer. “He’s trustworthy, this Halwen?”
She nodded once. “The most.”
“Then I’ll ask after him. If something’s wrong, we’ll find out.”
She turned to him. “Thank you.”
A smile curved at his mouth.
The music dimmed to a hum as the king stepped onto the dais. Conversations died mid-sentence. The hush was instant—anticipation tightening the air like drawn bowstrings. He cleared his throat.
“Good evening, lords and ladies, noble guests and honored allies. Tonight, we bear witness to an alliance that will forge a path toward a greater future for our kingdoms.”
“For generations, our lands have stood strong. Through battle and blood, we have ensured that our banners never falter. We have survived wars, prospered through hardships, and thrived where lesser nations would have fallen to dust.”
A murmur of approval rippled through the gathered nobility, heads nodding, glasses raised.
“Strength is the pillar upon which our legacy is built. Strength of steel, strength of will, strength of memory. And tonight, we reinforce it in its most sacred form—a bond between two sovereign houses.”
He turned his gaze from guests to them.
“Together, these two shall stand as a testament to the strength of our realms. Their union ensures prosperity, stability, and a future that will see our legacies endure. Let this night mark the beginning of a new era—one of fortitude, dominion, and triumph.”
A swell of applause followed. A well-rehearsed display of approval.
Alaric in contrast stayed light. Made jokes about conquests and wedding speeches. Not because he wasn’t keenly aware that something could go wrong at any moment, but because if he let his own tension bleed through, she would feel it.
Thalen pushed through the crowd with more determination than direction. Ysara trailed behind him in polite alarm, her hand outstretched as if she might catch him mid-charge, but wisely let him go. The boy had made up his mind.
He stopped in front of the high table, brushing an errant lock of hair from his brow. His gaze flicked between them and he gave a sharp, dignified bow.
“Your Highnesses,” Thalen drew himself up to his full height. “As your future king, I offer you both my blessing.”
Alaric bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” Alaric said with matching gravity, offering a respectful incline of his head. “May your reign be as wise as it is charming.”
That earned him the briefest flicker of a grin—quick, crooked, and immediately suppressed.
Thalen cleared his throat and leaned in slightly. “Have you seen Lady Vesena anywhere?” he asked, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to conspicuously formal.
Evelyne tilted her head. “She’s probably nearby. Or she might’ve gone to the kitchens. Why do you ask?”
Thalen’s cheeks flushed in a slow, spreading bloom. He looked down at his boots, then back up with visible effort. “You’re leaving tomorrow,” he said, as if that explained everything. “I just… wanted to talk to her. For a moment.”
Evelyne’s face did something so soft and so heartbreakingly tender that he couldn’t take his eyes off it. The corners of her mouth curved, her eyes shimmered, and for a split second he saw her chin trembling.
Thalen cleared his throat, shifting to face Alaric with his shoulders set—more soldier than child. “I hope you’ll keep your word, prince Alaric.”
Alaric’s smile faded, just slightly. He met the boy’s gaze without flinching.
“I intend to,” he promised simply. “Every part of it.”
There was a beat of silence, short but weighty. Then Thalen nodded once and turned on his heel with the self-importance of a crowned eagle. Ysara, eyes wide with maternal apology, gave them both a helpless little bow and followed after her son, barely suppressing a smile.
Alaric reached for his goblet, less from thirst than to give his hand purpose. When he glanced back, Evelyne was watching him, one brow arched in wry suspicion.
“What was that?” she asked quietly.
Alaric raised his glass in mock salute. “Your brother just knighted me in the name of truth and consequences.”
Evelyne’s gaze lingered a moment longer before she looked away, but not before he caught the corner of her mouth curling.
Before Alaric could speak again, the king’s voice cut clean across the ballroom.
“It is time for the dance,” he declared, and just like that, the hall stilled.
Alaric’s gut coiled. Their last dance had been a ritual of avoidance. All precision, no touch. This one? Three sanctioned points of contact.
Edrathen and its gods-blessed customs.
He masked his sigh behind a winning smile and rose, extending his hand, palm up.
“Let’s go, then, my wife.”
Evelyne’s rolled her eyes, the faintest exhale slipping from her nose as she rose beside him. He led her onto the polished floor, their fingertips barely brushing as the musicians struck the first chord. A hush fell over the hall, thick with breathless anticipation.
First touch.
He caught her hand, spun her. Silk flared like a sigh, her skirts blooming with light.
Touch gone.
They drifted apart once more, a graceful orbit marked by the sweep of her gown between them. Her chin stayed lifted, composed. Yet he caught the faint flutter of her lashes when his attention lingered past decorum.
“So…” his voice was low, meant only for her ears. “How was the kiss? Did I meet your expectations?”
She looked at him sharply, blue eyes glinting. “It wasn’t terrible.”
“Glowing praise.”
Second touch.
His hand settled on her waist. Her hand found his side on the other side. They locked gazes swirling in slow motion.
She arched her brow, half-amused. “Don’t look so happy with yourself.”
“Oh, I am happy,” he murmured. “And ready to kiss you again just to provoke a gasp from Lady Malren.”
Her lips twitched, something between amusement and disdain. “Men are so easy to please.”
“Whereas women,” he mused, “enjoy watching us struggle.”
She swirled once, twice in his arms as he guided her in circle, as though they had danced together a thousand times before. “Because we have standards and dignity.”
“Ah, yes, of course. How foolish of me to forget. Standards and dignity, the bane of men everywhere.”
Evelyne rolled her eyes.
“You certainly love rolling your eyes at me, don’t you, my wife?”
“It seems to be an unconditional reflex in your presence. You’re talking nonsense.”
“I thought my words were pure poetry.”
She snorted. A sound he could get addicted to. “My Prince, I am afraid you’re delusional.”
“I pour my heart and soul into my words, and all I get is ridicule.”
“Better get used to it. I am supposed to be honest, to advise you, to question your judgment. That is the role of an empress. If you crave flattery, you’d best hire a bard.”
His smile widened, the dance brought them apart.
A sweeping motion, a turn. They circled one another, step by deliberate step, skimming the edge of the dance floor like stars caught in slow orbit.
Her veil flowed behind her like a ribbon of blood and silk.
He watched her with something almost reverent, eyes never straying from her face, even as the music lifted them into another arc.
Then the pattern shifted once more, drawing them back to the center, palm meeting palm, air shared between them.
“Hire a bard, you say?” He murmured, his voice a playful drawl. “Or… perhaps you could offer a healthier remedy for my wounded ego. A simple compliment, for example.”
“If you earn it,” she quipped, “you might get lucky.”
Third touch.
His fingers ghosted up the curve of her shoulder, to the soft warmth of her neck. He felt her shiver.
“Is that so? I quite like that, actually.”
She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. Still fire. But softer now. Unsteady in a way she likely hated.
And all he could think was: Let me see that again.
Let me earn that again.
The music fell into its final notes, sweet and slow. But neither of them moved to let go. Alaric held her gaze, heartbeat thunderous behind his smile. He wondered if she felt it too.
The polite applause of the crowd faded to a blur in his ears; his focus was hers alone.
Alaric extended his arm, fingertips grazing her wrist before enclosing her hand in his.
She didn’t withdraw—only offered a faint smile, her attention shifting aside as though she wasn’t ready to meet his stare. Her face hardened immediately.
He traced the direction of her focus. Across the ballroom, her father stood among the highest lords, his expression radiant with triumph.
Alaric’s jaw ticked.
If that were his daughter, he thought, he’d be looming behind her like a shadow, daring the husband to so much as breathe the wrong way. Instead, Rhaedor looked like he might burst into song at any moment.
Meanwhile, Evelyne, the one who mattered, was likely mentally rehearsing traditional postures for optimal conception and probably been drinking herbal tinctures for fertility all month while her father toasted prosperity.
And Alaric hated it.