Chapter 25
The thought of tonight sits heavy in my chest. Pepin. Charles’s firstborn. Inviting him is a step too far, perhaps—but there is no turning back now. I do not know where his loyalties lie. I do not know whether he hates his father, fears him, or longs for his approval, as we all do.
I find Aileen in the courtyard. She takes one look at my face and says nothing, only links her arm through mine and steers me toward the path that leads to the lake.
“What do you know about him?” she asks once we are far enough from the listening walls.
“Pepin?” I say. “Very little that is certain. His mother’s name was Himiltrude. Charles has referred to her as his former wife, but there seems to be uncertainty about the nature of their arrangement. Aynhard calls her his concubine in private.”
Aileen’s eyebrows raise up in surprise. “But that would mean Pepin isn’t legitimate and therefore not his heir.”
I nod. “You already know that Aynhard was close with Queen Hilde and her family. So he might be trying to sow the doubt about Pepin’s legitimacy in order to get Hilde’s children on the throne.”
“But Charles gave him his father’s name. Surely that means he wants Pepin to be his successor?”
I shrug. “One would think so. Pepin is not a small name. It was my father-in-law’s name, the dynasty’s backbone. But some people whisper that it was his mother who chose the name, and Charles went along with it, because he didn’t have other heirs at the time.”
Aileen remains silent.
“The fact that Pepin will be here to conspire against his father is a testament to the rift that has opened up between them. And still I do not know where his loyalties lie. It was a great risk to involve him,” I admit.
We reach the lake. The air is warm, cicadas humming in the reeds as we sit on one of the logs placed near the water.
“Are you feeling better?” Aileen asks and glances at me.
“Yes, thank you. I will be glad to see this meeting over and done with.” I smile.
Aileen looks back toward the villa.
“I should go back.”
I nod. “I’ll stay a little longer, it’s so peaceful out here.”
She squeezes my hand and takes her leave.
I get up and stand alone at the water’s edge, watching the sun sink low, turning the surface of the lake into molten gold.
A sound behind me, footsteps.
I turn—and my breath catches.
Pepin stands a few paces away.
He is tall. Broad-shouldered like his father. His back curves forward slightly, the hunch unmistakable now that he is grown. His face is…pleasant, if one looks only briefly. But there is something in his eyes that makes my skin prickle. Something familiar, too familiar.
“Queen Fastrada,” he says lightly. “You walk alone.”
I bow my head and try to calm my racing heart.
“Pardon me, I will leave you to your solitude,” I reply.
“I was not looking for solitude,” Pepin shoots back.
I try to smile. “Truly, I do not wish to disturb you. I was just leaving.”
“You are not,” he says, still smiling as he steps closer.
A rumble drifts through my body, like a heavy stone landing in still water. A noise from deep inside me, a guttural sound from the depths within. Sweat forms on my top lip, I can taste it.
I remain silent, sometimes it is best to wait and act later.
Pepin stretches and begins loosening the fastenings of his tunic.
I turn away at once.
“Don’t fret,” he says. “It’s only a swim.”
“What a wonderful idea, I will leave you to it,” I say breathlessly.
I turn away, but he jumps forward and grabs my arm.
“You can’t leave yet,” he rasps. “I won’t allow it.”
From this close, I can smell the liquor on his breath.
My heart thuds.
Then another voice cuts in, lazy and amused. “Careful, Pepin. You’re making a poor first impression.”
Tassilo emerges from the trees, Brice at his side.
Relief floods me so fast it nearly makes me dizzy.
Pepin snorts.
“Still hiding behind shadows, Tassilo? Or behind him?” He gestures crudely toward Brice. “Is that still what you prefer?”
I understand then, all at once. What Tassilo meant when he spoke of loves that must remain unseen.
Tassilo only laughs. His gaze flicks briefly to Pepin’s half-undressed state.
“You’re very brave to speak like that,” he says pleasantly, “considering how little there is to boast about.”
Brice snorts.
Pepin’s face darkens. He snarls something under his breath and, with a sharp motion, dives into the lake, water exploding around him.
Tassilo takes my arm at once. “Come.”
We walk away without looking back.
After a few steps, Tassilo slows.
“Fastrada, about what Pepin said…”
I stop him. “I have heard nothing,” I say gently.
He studies me, then smiles relieved.
“Good. The King of Cheese remains safe. I am glad to know you are crust-worthy, Fastrada,” he adds.
Brice winces at my side, and I laugh, freely and loudly, the tension in my shoulders loosening with every breath.
As we disappear into the trees, I glance once more toward the lake.
Pepin is watching from the water.
* * *
There are fewer chairs tonight, and the long table looks larger for it.
Rowan was clear—only selected nobles, senior members of the opposition, those who can be trusted not to sell a prince for favor.
I notice immediately who is missing; the Broker’s chair is empty.
We are kept waiting by Pepin.
At first, no one remarks upon it. The candles burn bright, the night air drifting through the open doors stirs the curtains just enough to cool the room, yet the stillness around the table begins to tighten as the minutes lengthen.
Fingers start tapping against polished wood in uneven rhythms, rings clicking softly with each impatient movement.
One of the older nobles rises under the pretense of stretching his legs and begins to pace the length of the room, his boots whispering over the floorboards as though he cannot bear to sit with his thoughts any longer.
Across from me, a man dabs at his brow with a handkerchief despite the breeze that slips in from the garden; the fabric comes away damp, and he avoids meeting anyone’s eyes.
No one says it aloud, but the delay feels intentional.
It is not the lateness of a careless guest.
It is the lateness of a man who understands that an entrance is a form of power.
And when the door finally opens, the shift in the room is almost visible.
Backs straighten, hands still, the pacing noble freezes mid-step, as though we have all been caught rehearsing our impatience.
Pepin does not apologize.
He walks with that uneven grace of his—the slight curve of his back visible even beneath tailored wool. His eyes scan the room once, calculating.
Introductions are made, though most already know him.
“Prince Pepin,” Sir Philipp says evenly.
“Philipp,” Pepin replies, taking his seat. No title. His gaze drifts around the table, unhurried. “So this is the famed opposition?”
No one answers at once.
His mouth curves, though there is no warmth in it. “A handful of nobles, a bishop, a few ladies gathered in the countryside past midnight. I was led to expect something…larger.”
Aileen’s father inclines his head. “You asked for a smaller council.”
“I asked for fewer leaks,” Pepin answers.
The bishop folds his hands. “You are safe here.”
Pepin’s mouth twitches. “Safety is a relative concept in my father’s empire.”
Sir Philipp leans forward. “Then let us speak plainly. Why now? You have lived at court for years,” Philipp continues. “You have watched our efforts from a distance. Why align yourself with us now?”
Pepin’s fingers drum once against the table.
“Because my father has decided I am no longer useful.”
Aileen’s father studies him. “That cannot be the only reason.”
Pepin’s gaze sharpens. “It is reason enough.”
The bishop intervenes gently, “We require more than wounded pride, my prince.”
The word prince is deliberate.
Pepin’s jaw tightens. “My younger brother,” he says, voice flat, “has been renamed.”
A flicker moves around the table.
“Carloman,” Sir Philipp says.
“Yes,” Pepin replies. “He is Pepin now.”
Aileen inhales softly beside me.
Aileen’s father speaks carefully, “Names carry weight.”
“They carry succession,” Pepin corrects.
The bishop shifts. “It may be symbolic.”
“It is not,” Pepin says. “My father does nothing symbolically.” He leans back slightly, gaze sweeping the room.
“I was raised beside him, named after his father. Presented to nobles as heir in all but declaration.” His voice does not rise.
“Now the court historians whisper of concubines. Of questionable unions. Of deformity.”
Sir Philipp does not flinch. “Do you believe he intends to disinherit you?”
Pepin holds his gaze. “I believe he already has.”
Silence.
Aileen’s father folds his hands. “And that is why you come to us?”
Pepin looks almost bored.“Yes and no.”
The room stiffens.
“I come to warn you that he will require a new oath,” Pepin says. “One that binds every noble not only to him—but to his sons.”
The bishop’s brows draw together. “You are certain?”
“I heard him dictate it,” Pepin replies. “A lifelong oath.”
A bitter edge creeps into his voice on the last words.
Sir Philipp exchanges a look with Aileen’s father. “That consolidates power.”
“It suffocates dissent,” Pepin says.
The bishop leans forward. “You remained loyal through Verden.”
Pepin’s eyes flick toward me, briefly, unreadable, then back to the bishop.
Aileen’s father studies him carefully. “And you believe we can offer something the King cannot?”
Pepin tilts his head. “You offer resistance,” he says. “He offers inevitability.”
“That is not an answer,” Sir Philipp says.
Pepin’s expression hardens. “You want honesty?” he asks quietly. “Fine.”
He leans forward now, palms flat on the table.
“My father grows more extreme by the season. Verden was not a strategy. It was a spectacle.” His eyes flicker, just briefly, toward me again. “He believes fear will secure what loyalty no longer does.”
The bishop’s voice is low. “And you?”
Pepin does not hesitate. “I believe fear rots foundations.”
A long pause follows before Aileen’s father speaks. “If we support you, if we consider you a viable alternative, we must know where you stand.”
“On what?” Pepin asks coolly.
“Religious tolerance.”
“Regional autonomy.”
“The bloodshed in the North.”
Each point lands like a measured strike.
Pepin listens. Then, says evenly: “The empire cannot hold if it devours itself.”
“That is philosophy,” Sir Philipp says. “We need commitment.”
Pepin’s gaze sharpens. “You will have fewer forced baptisms, fewer public massacres.” A beat before he continues, “And fewer wars for the sake of legacy.”
The bishop studies him carefully. “You speak as though you already sit on the throne.”
Pepin’s lips curve faintly. “No.” He pauses. “I speak as though I know it will not remain occupied forever.”
The tone changes.
Sir Philipp’s voice lowers. “We are not speaking of succession by nature.”
Pepin meets his eyes directly. “No.”
I gasp, and Aileen’s fingers brush mine beneath the table.
Aileen’s father clears his throat. “You understand what aligning with us implies.”
Pepin nods once. “Yes.”
The bishop watches him closely. “Then answer me this, plainly.”
Pepin inclines his head.
“Do you seek reform,” the bishop asks quietly, “or revenge?”
For the first time tonight, Pepin hesitates. Only a fraction. Then says, “I seek survival.”
No one speaks after that, but something irreversible settles over the table.
This is no longer about weakening a king, it is about replacing him.