Chapter 65
By the time Alaric finally slipped from his chambers, Isildeth was already inside. He’d lingered longer than planned—long enough to watch Evelyne stir, tease her, and leave her with a kiss pressed to her brow. Then the Silverwards closed the door behind him, and the castle’s rhythm reclaimed him.
Cedric was waiting, striding toward him with an expression that practically radiated unsatisfied curiosity.
“Your Highness,” Cedric greeted, his voice thick with barely restrained amusement as he gave a mock bow. “The king summons you to his solar.”
“Thank you, Cedric,” he said smoothly. “How thoughtful of you.”
There was a beat of silence as they stood there, the weight of Cedric’s stare growing heavier by the second. The man lasted precisely three heartbeats before he blurted, “Well? Tell me how it was!”
Alaric smirked as he turned towards the king's study.
“She is a lady, Cedric,” he explained, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “I won’t satisfy your curiosity with details.”
Cedric groaned. “Come on, Alaric. I endured your brooding, your pacing, your ‘what if she doesn’t even like me’ dramatics for a week. I think I’ve earned at least a hint.”
Alaric exhaled through his nose, feigning deep contemplation. “Hmm. Let’s see. I would say… the princess is content.”
Cedric squinted at him. “Content?”
“Content. Pleased, even.”
Cedric folded his arms, narrowing his eyes. “Pleased.”
Alaric stretched his arms. “Very pleased.”
Cedric groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “By the gods, you are insufferable when you’re happy.”
Alaric smirked wider. “Well, then, brace yourself, my friend—because I plan to be happy for a very long time.”
Cedric groaned. “Oh, that’s disgusting.”
“What?”
Cedric gestured at him, exasperated. “That ridiculous look on your face. You’re neighing like a fool.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” Cedric confirmed, shaking his head. “And it makes you look unintelligent.”
Alaric merely shrugged, entirely unaffected.
It was still early, though the sun had already begun to slant through the high windows, painting pale gold onto the stone floors of the corridor. The staff moved slower than usual, as if the celebration had sunk into their bones.
But the question was, why had the king summoned him?
There were options, of course. The man could be preparing to offer a hand-worn pearl of wisdom, passed down from generations of grim-faced monarchs who’d confused silence with depth.
Or, alternatively, he might simply threaten to remove Alaric’s head from his shoulders.
It really could go either way. That was the problem with men like Rhaedor—they rarely announced which version of themselves you were about to meet.
At last, they arrived at the guarded double doors. The two Silverwards shifted aside in perfect sync, pulling them open without a word. Alaric crossed the threshold, leaving Cedric behind in the corridor.
The scent of ink and aged parchment met him like a wall.
The king was sitting behind an oak desk, signing reports, then gestured for Alaric to sit in the armchair across from him. He bowed, then lowered himself onto the firm, uncomfortable seat, resisting the urge to shift.
He folded his hands together, keeping his expression neutral. “Your Majesty, you wanted to speak with me. Is something wrong?”
The king leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.
“No,” he said at length, voice calm. “Nothing is wrong. I wanted to speak with you about last night.”
A pause followed. He glanced toward the window, then back at Alaric. “Was the marriage… fully formalized?”
Alaric barely kept his expression in check, but his jaw clenched.
By the stars, this man wasted no time. He wasn’t asking if Evelyne was happy, if she was comfortable. No, he just wanted to know if the royal transaction had been completed.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he lied evenly, though he had to force the words out through gritted teeth.
Relief washed over the king’s face, and that nearly made Alaric vomit. The sheer absurdity of this moment, the fact that this was the conversation they were having, as if it were a military campaign that needed a status update.
“Good, good,” the king murmured. “I just wanted to be certain. I know my daughter is… a little different. I think you’ve noticed that by now.”
Different? Alaric nearly scoffed.
“She is very special,” he said carefully. “And incredibly dedicated to her responsibilities.”
“My daughter has always been like that,” he explained at last. “Ever since she was a little girl.”
Alaric said nothing. He simply waited, letting the silence do the coaxing.
The king's gaze dropped to the long stretch of oak between them.
“I couldn’t talk to her after her mother died,” he murmured, not quite meeting Alaric’s eyes.
“She was eight. Didn't cry, not once. She just stood beside the casket, still as ice. People praised her composure. Called it royal. I didn’t realize until later that she thought she’d be punished if she didn’t behave that way. ”
The words landed heavier than Alaric expected.
“Then came the engagement. She’d known Dasmon since childhood. He died, and again she never cried in front of anyone.”
Rhaedor sighed heavily and leaned back in the chair.
“I know I ask too much of her,” he went on, finally meeting Alaric’s gaze. “But she was born into a kingdom that doesn’t forgive softness. They don’t treat her kindly because I didn’t teach them to. Because if she ever truly tasted freedom, every duty after would feel like a shackle.”
Well. That explained a great deal.
He looked at Rhaedor and wondered whether the man knew how much he had just revealed. Whether he understood the kind of scars he’d helped shape in the daughter he claimed to protect by restraint.
Perhaps he did. Perhaps that was what made it worse.
“One person she opens up with is her maid,” the king stared down at his clasped hands.
“The same one who served her mother before she passed. She's always been that way—selective. She doesn't let people in easily. She prefers her books and her paintings...” His voice faltered for a beat, something tightening at the corners of his mouth. “And when she does get excited about something, it’s almost… as if she doesn’t know what to do with it.”
“I see,” Alaric said, keeping his voice even. “But I don’t understand why you’re saying that to me.”
The king didn’t answer right away.
He looked toward the tall windows in his right, where the morning light filtered through the leaded glass in muted streaks of gold.
“She wouldn’t hear it from me,” Rhaedor admitted at last. “Not the way she needs to.”
Alaric studied his profile. How many sons and daughters of crowns walked through life having learned how to negotiate treaties before they’d learned how to name their own feelings?
“She might surprise you,” Alaric murmured, though he wasn’t sure whom he meant to comfort with the words. “If you spoke plainly.”
Rhaedor offered a quiet huff. “That’s not our way in Edrathen.”
“Then maybe it should be.”
Because what kind of man builds a fortress around his daughter and then complains that she doesn’t let anyone in?
Alaric knew the power of influence well. Lucien taught him to ask what’s worth sacrificing. He used to think the answer was anything. Now he was not sure that was true.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. “What do you want from me? To fix what you helped shatter?”
Rhaedor met his gaze again, and for a moment the old king looked very tired. “No,” he responded quietly. “I want you to be the one thing I’ve never been able to be for her.”
Alaric’s brows lifted. “Which is?”
“Safe.”
Alaric sat back slowly, dragging in a breath that scraped against something in his chest.
Safe. It was so simple. And so impossible. Because safety, in a world like theirs, was never a guarantee—it was a vow made in defiance of everything that threatened to undo it. And yet, for Evelyne, it felt less like a burden and more like a vow already written into his bones.
He gave a single, deliberate nod.
“I’ll do my best.”
The king gave a nod, rose from his chair, and crossed to the tall windows; his arms folded behind him.
“She always says she’s fine,” he murmured. “That she understands her duties. And I know she does. She’ll do fine.”
A pause. A shift in tone—like steel sliding beneath velvet.
“But I don’t want her to just do fine.”
Alaric turned slightly, studying the older man.
“I can see that you care about her,” Rhaedor remarked, finally meeting his gaze. “That means a great deal to me. You seem like a kind man. Patient. I can see you’re fond of her.”
Fond. What an insultingly small word.
“And I’m glad for that,” Rhaedor added. “I hope that in time, you develop a true connection. You’ll both need a friend, considering the responsibilities that await you. Being a ruler is difficult. Trust is rare. I wish that for both of you.”
Alaric cleared his throat, surprised by the hoarseness in his voice.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said carefully. “I promise I’ll do my best to take care of Evelyne.”
The king let out a quiet breath. He turned from the window, crossed the room and lowered himself into the chair.
“Those are just words, Prince Alaric.”
The sentence landed with the soft, deadly elegance of a snowflake that knew it would become an avalanche.
“Words are the cheapest currency in court,” the king continued, gaze sharp beneath lowered brows.
“You may believe we are hidebound. Stuck in customs you think are outdated. That we are rigid. But it is that very rigidity that has kept us standing while others fell. It has shielded us from war, scandal, and delusion that the world is soft and forgiving.”
Alaric said nothing.
“I did not agree to this match for coin or land,” the king went on. “Not for alliance, not even for the convenience of a trade route. I agreed to this because I am preparing for the world that is coming. Not the one we wish for.”
He paused, his eyes, pale as early frost, locked onto Alaric’s. “She is my daughter. And if anything happens to her—if she returns to me not as an empress but as a discarded wife—know this.”
Another pause. The king leaned his left elbow on the armrest and pressed fingers of his right palm into the desk.
“She will return with her head high, and her place at this court untouched. She is my blood. And those who think they can turn her into anything less than what she is will find they’ve made a ruinous miscalculation.”
Alaric breathed slowly through his nose, keeping his face still.
“You have my word,” he promised. “Your daughter isn’t going anywhere.”
A long beat passed before the king gave a single, quiet nod.
“See that she doesn’t.”
He couldn’t say how it always went with men like this, that you always knew when the conversation was over. Alaric dipped his head respectfully, stood up, ready to move back through the corridors of polished stone, to find Evelyne and—
The bells rang.
It started with one. Deep, low, ominous. Then another, joining the first in a disharmonious clamor. Alaric froze, the sound vibrating down the marrow of his bones before his mind could catch up to it.
The door slammed open. A breathless boy staggered in, his hair damp with sweat.
“Your Majesty!” he cried, almost stumbling over his own feet. “The princess and heir—they are gone!”
Alaric’s heart didn’t stop.
It plummeted.