Chapter 63
So they talked.
For a long time, actually. They sat on a rug, the fire popping beside them, casting gold and shadow over her cheekbones. The wine helped, she had abandoned formality somewhere around her third sip. And so did the silence, which came and went without awkwardness.
They spoke about Varantian customs that made her roll her eyes, and Edrathen traditions that made him laugh. About council meetings he barely remembered and tutors she despised. About books, maps, futures that might or might not happen.
They didn’t speak about tonight. Not directly. The present was too fragile, too close. Best to leave it untouched.
He watched her from the corner of his eye as she poured another glass. She moved more comfortably now, less like she was bracing for impact and more like she was figuring out what shape her own skin took when no one was watching.
Alaric leaned back on one elbow. The fire had burned lower, but neither of them had moved to stoke it.
“You’re staring,” she remarked, not looking at him.
“I am,” he replied. “Undeniably. Unapologetically.”
She gave him a look. Her signature. “Is this the part where you make another over-dramatic declaration?”
“Only if you're in the mood for something breathtakingly poetic and just a little self-indulgent.”
“I’m not.”
“Pity.” He took a sip of wine, “That means I’ll have to improvise.”
She rolled her eyes, but it lacked heat. If anything, she seemed tired. That kind of tiredness that settles in after too much holding yourself together for too long. He recognized it because he knew it himself.
“Do you think it’s possible,” she began, eyes fixed on the hearth, “to want something and not know what you’d do with it once you had it?”
“Yes,” he said, voice quieter now. “Constantly.”
He set his glass down slowly, letting the silence sit a moment before speaking again.
“I usually chase what sparkles.” He glanced down, rubbing his thumb across his knee, as if polishing away some memory.
“I find excitement in the corners of things. The sharper the edge, the more interesting the game. Women, truth, purpose, places.” He looked up again, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I love the thrill of it. And the moment it all clicks into place? Stars, that’s the best feeling a man can experience for himself. ”
He paused, exhaling softly through his nose.
“But it was never enough. I was always hungry for more.” His hand opened on his knee, palm up, then closed slowly. “Strange how much has changed in so little time.”
He stopped to think, realizing how distant it seemed now, as if that version of himself belonged to another life entirely.
“I must’ve been terribly annoying then,” Evelyne said dryly.
He laughed, full and genuine, the sound loosening something in his chest.
“Well, I must admit, your rules were different from the start. You don’t entertain for the sake of entertainment. You mean things. Every word. Every silence.”
He paused, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “But in the end, it turned out that instead of showing our polished selves through the performances, we managed to show our worst.”
“That indeed,” she murmured.
She smiled and shook her head, swirling the wine in her glass—and gods, there it was. That flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, sharp as flint and just as quick to hide.
Alaric felt something twist in his chest, sweet and unbearable.
“It’s late,” she murmured, and he could already see the armor returning in her eyes. “I should go back to my chambers.”
Her words tasted sharp. He couldn’t tell if he’d blundered—or struck too close to the mark.
“You can stay here.”
“It’s not appropriate,” she scoffed. “Isildeth is waiting for me.”
Alaric sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Of course.
“Evelyne, forget about Isildeth and propriety,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You don’t have to leave just because the court expects it. You can stay here. If you want.”
Her brows drew together, that precise, controlled furrow that usually signaled political displeasure or intellectual offense. Her teeth pressed lightly into the inside of her cheek.
“I promise not to snore,” he added.
That earned a sound. A soft, unladylike snort that escaped before she could catch it.
“Alright,” she murmured at last. “But only because I’m in a season of dignified rebellion.”
Alaric’s stomach did something silly.
“But I don’t want Isildeth to wait for me,” she added after a breath. “She was told to stay outside. She should rest.”
Alaric nodded. “Of course.”
He rose from the rug with a sigh, brushing off his palms. Then—without the slightest preamble—his fingers moved to the fastening of his shirt.
Evelyne made a startled noise. “What are you doing?” she blurted. Her hands flew up, covering her eyes in a way that was so earnest it was almost sweet.
Alaric couldn’t help the smirk that crept across his face as he pulled the shirt over his head. “Preparing an alibi,” he explained, far too casually. “You know, for the benefit of the royal bloodline and the castle gossip.”
He heard her mutter something under her breath—probably a prayer for patience—and decided not to press.
Trousers went down next. Then he grabbed the nearest sheet from the bed and wrapped it around his hips.
“You’re absurd,” came her voice, muffled behind her hands.
“Yes, but helpful,” he replied, already making his way toward the door with deliberate purpose. “And tragically good-looking, so you’ll have to forgive me.”
Behind him, he caught the sound of her trying—and failing—not to laugh. A choked sort of noise that made his chest warm in the strangest, gentlest way.
He pulled open the door.
The dimly lit corridor stretched before him, and sure enough, Isildeth stood nearby, her posture straight but the slight slump in her shoulders betraying her exhaustion.
“Isildeth!”
His voice made the maid turn quickly, surprise flickering across her face when she took in his appearance.
“Yes, Your Highness?” she said, masking her reaction with well-practiced politeness.
Alaric beckoned her closer.
Seven guards exchanged a look so weighted, that Alaric had no doubt it would echo through these halls by morning, and probably pick up a few embellishments along the way.
“You can go to sleep now,” he replied. “The Princess will be staying here tonight. You don’t need to wait for her. Come back in the morning.”
Isildeth blinked—first in shock, then with a flush of embarrassment rising to her cheeks. Curiosity crept in, easing the lines of her brow, softening into something close to tenderness—until she pulled herself back into control. Her attention flicked toward the chamber, then returned to him.
“Of course, Your Highness,” she said after a pause, bowing her head slightly. “I will return in the morning. Is the princess… well?”
Alaric softened just a fraction.
“She’s fine,” he replied. “Go get some rest, you look exhausted.”
Isildeth hesitated for a brief moment. Then, from inside his chamber, Evelyne’s voice called out.
“I’m fine, Isildeth. You may go.”
That appeared to satisfy her. Isildeth gave a final nod, dipped into a bow, and swept away down the corridor. Alaric shut the door with a muted thud and faced the room once more.
Evelyne angled her head aside, an exhale slipping sharp through her teeth. “For Rhyssa’s sake, get dressed,” she muttered.
Alaric laughed. “I thought I was a vision.”
She didn't answer, though he caught the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth. It was the kind of expression that shouldn’t be remembered this clearly.
The kind that belongs in paintings, not memory.
The kind that makes you believe that maybe Gods aren’t so special after all.
That maybe there’s something holier in her smile than in all stars combined.
Her robe had fallen slightly off one shoulder, and she hadn’t bothered to fix it. That, more than anything, told him she was tired.
He pulled on his trousers and then approached slowly, crouched beside her. Reached out. His fingers found a loose strand of hair and brushed it from her face.
He let his fingertips linger for a breath, brushing along her cheek, then down the line of her jaw. Her skin was warm, her breath a little uneven. His pulse kicked up in response, because of course it did.
Alaric exhaled slowly, the fire in his veins demanding more, but she needed something else right now.
“We should sleep,” he said softly.
She gave a small nod. He remained still for a beat, then offered his hand. She accepted with care, and he helped her up without effort.
They lingered there, unmoving. His hands settled lightly at her waist before gliding upward—unhurried, measured—until they came to rest at her shoulders.
She didn’t recoil. She simply looked up at him.
Then he leaned down and kissed her forehead.
She tilted her chin up, not much, but enough to say yes, even if her mouth didn’t form the word. When he pulled back, her eyes stayed closed for a heartbeat longer than his.
He guided her toward the bed, slowly, giving her space to stop him if she wanted to. She didn’t. She sat carefully at the edge. After a pause, she drew her legs up and slipped beneath the covers. She lay on her back as if her body hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that she was here.
He moved slowly, crouching as if not to spook her, reaching for the blanket at the floor. “I will sleep down here,” he offered softly.
“No, stay here,” she said quickly. “I just… you are the heir to the throne; you should not sleep on the floor.”
He raised his brow, the corner of his mouth tilting. He turned to her, and her eyes were wide. Surprised, yes, but not afraid.
“Of course. We wouldn't want me catching a cold.”
She looked away, her voice was quiet. “No. We don’t.”
After a few heartbeats he approached slowly and sat at the other edge of the bed, turning his back to her. Something about looking at her right now felt too intimate. The sheets rustled as she shifted behind him.
Evelyne shifted first, leaning toward him with quiet hesitation before settling beside him.
Alaric lay back, letting her come to him, and when she finally rested against his chest, he wrapped an arm around her.
She was tense for a moment, unsure, but he didn’t move—only breathed her in and pressed a lingering kiss to the crown of her head.
Her kiss came like a question: soft, barely there. Just the brush of her lips against his collarbone—testing.
Alaric froze from the sheer, breath-catching tenderness of it.
His pulse stuttered somewhere stupidly close to his throat.
Without thinking he pulled her tighter into his arms. He could feel the storm in her bones—the way her fingers clenched in the fabric of the sheet like she was afraid it would disappear.
But maybe this will work. Not because they were perfect.
But because they’d started with the truth.