Chapter 14
ChApter
Fourteen
I’ve been back at Ivystone for two days, and I haven’t seen Dante once.
Not because I haven’t tried. But because the palace walls have grown thicker in my absence, its halls more crowded with courtiers and guards and attendants eager to keep Dante and me on opposite ends of every corridor.
Things have apparently moved forward quickly while I was away.
The first thing I was told—by Indira, as I’d been stripping out of my gear upon my return—was that the king would be throwing a banquet, and everyone was required to attend.
But it was Nadya who filled me in on how word regarding Dante’s legitimization had traveled quickly throughout Ivystone. Apparently, courtiers love to gossip.
The servants finish styling our hair for the banquet and leave the room. The black mourning dress I’m stuffed into is stifling, but at least I don’t have to wear the half-veil, as it isn’t required at meals.
“Do you think the king is trying to save face by jumping in front of the rumor?” I ask Nadya once we’re alone. “Making it official before the whispers take over?”
I’m relying on Nadya for information, since Indira will only tell me so much, and, I couldn’t even find Ezra to ask him.
Evidently, he’s been sequestered to join the tour to continue my lessons because the king wants my schooling to be finished before the wedding.
So Ezra’s been busy preparing for the new task.
“I heard that most of the other realms sent their nightfeathers rushing back with their responses to King Silas’s request to hold an audience with them. Apparently, they’re all desperate to make peace with Torbin’s passing by welcoming a new heir.”
“Something about that doesn’t sit right with me. Don’t get me wrong, this is good news for Dante, but I feel as if the other realms aren’t blinking twice at sweeping Torbin’s… demise… under the rug.”
“It’s a mad world, I suppose.”
“With even madder kings and queens.”
“We’ll soon see,” Nadya says, checking the back of her dress in the mirror. “We leave for the legitimization tour tomorrow morning.”
Barely enough time to catch my fucking breath.
Half an hour later, we stand at the edge of the banquet hall beneath a vaulted ceiling. The murmur of the crowd presses in on me, causing the same annoyance I feel when an insect flies too close to my ear. Servants approach us and lead us to our table near the back of the hall.
I’m seated nowhere near Dante. The king made sure of that.
I sit with Nadya, flanked by ladies of the court who barely look at me save for brief condolences offered in hollow tones.
I nod in return, grateful I have an excuse not to be lively.
Mourning, after all, doesn’t pair well with wine and conversation.
The king has hidden me in the back because he doesn’t want me seen tonight. Not as anything more than the grieving princess. Not as Dante’s future. That is one rumor we need to keep quiet. Not just for Dante’s sake, but for the legacy of Hedera.
But tonight, I don’t mind being hidden. There will be enough eyes on me in the coming months to make my skin itch. So for once, I’m grateful for his plotting.
I try to catch a glimpse of Dante, but there are so many people in the room, and I’m seated so far away.
I shift slightly, craning my neck to see around the flurry of velvet sleeves and embroidered silk that crowds the high table.
And then a courtier with a tower of hair piled upon her head finally moves out of the way, and I see him.
Dante sits beside the king like a trophy finally brought out for display.
His tunic is black, finely cut and embroidered at the cuffs in gleaming silver thread, with a narrow collar that fastens just beneath his throat.
His dark hair is combed back but remains unruly at the ends.
I can tell he’s putting on a show—most likely as he’s been instructed—with his shoulders broad, spine straight, and polite smile.
But the flicker in his eyes betrays his discomfort.
The king claps him on the back now and then between gulps of wine, loud and proud, as if every gesture is meant to hammer in the claim—mine, mine, mine.
My heart tightens. It’s been more than a week since I last saw him.
He hasn’t returned to the balcony, not since I came back from Delasurvia.
I told myself he’s been busy, kept occupied by the king’s plans, by endless meetings behind closed doors.
But still… I miss him. And when his eyes lift, skimming the room, they find mine in an instant—like a match struck in the dark.
Something pulls taut inside me, sharp and electric.
I want to continue holding the look, but once again, the king pats Dante’s back, and his focus is pulled away.
The banquet hall is filled to capacity. Musicians play a gentle melody in the corner, while servants pass between the rows of long tables with platters of roasted meats, braided breads, and dried fruits soaked in brandy.
Gold light flickers from the hundreds of candles set in polished sconces, and I can’t help but notice how sharply the green and gold banners gleam above the hall tonight—brighter somehow, more triumphant.
The court is dressed for celebration, not grief.
The king stands at his table, and the room goes quiet, the crowd listening with rapt attention.
“As I’m sure you’ve all heard,” King Silas begins, his voice echoing easily through the hall, “the rumors are true. I plan to legitimize my son Dante.”
The room hushes all at once, save for a few gasps and the sound of a goblet being set too hard against wood.
“I am pleased to announce that we have already received word back from four great realms of Terre Ferique. Podrosa, Bastos, Messanya, and Mersos have all accepted the invitation. The legitimization tour will begin tomorrow, with our first stop in Podrosa. From there, we travel to Bastos, then onward to Messanya and Mersos.”
There’s no mention of Alphemra. The land of the fae rarely deigns to host visiting kings. I doubt they’ll make an exception now, even for a legitimization.
King Silas spreads his arms as if bestowing a blessing. “Tonight, let us take joy. Let us raise our cups to strength, unity, and legacy. We feast as we ask the gods for to bless our journey. Tomorrow, we ride.”
But then he pauses, letting the murmurs quiet again.
“This legitimization is more than formality. It is necessity. With my son Dante, the future of Hedera is secured. The Copperhammer name will continue. The bloodline will endure. And through him, our kingdom will not only survive—it will thrive.”
He lifts his goblet. “To Hedera. To legacy. And to the future king.”
A round of polite applause follows. I catch some smiling faces in the court, murmurs of approval and toasts raised.
But there are others—silent, still, unreadable.
I wonder which camp they fall into. Loyalists of the late prince, perhaps.
Or skeptics, unsure if a bastard belongs on the throne at all.
The musicians strike up a more festive tune. Plates are replenished. More wine is poured. Nadya leans over to murmur something, but I miss it because I’m watching the dais, where Queen Eleanor sits beside her husband.
She doesn’t raise her glass. She doesn’t even lift her eyes.
Normally, she comes to life in moments like this—when the court is full, when music swells through the halls and the torches burn high, when there are people to distract her from the isolation of her chambers and the man beside her.
But tonight, there is no brightness in her expression.
No attempt to feign joy. She remains still, her hands folded in her lap, her head tilted ever so slightly toward her goblet, though she hasn’t touched it.
Her hair is pulled back elegantly from her face, but it does nothing to lift the shadows beneath her eyes.
I wonder if this moment feels, to her, like the final blow. Not just the legitimization of Silas’s bastard, but the quiet erasure of the child she lost. As if the court has decided to move on without him—to drink, to feast, to toast a future prince while the memory of the first fades into silence.
My throat tightens. Despite what he became, Torbin had always been kind to his mother.
At least from what I witnessed. Maybe Torbin was the queen’s only joy, her last true tether in a marriage that never offered warmth.
If so, what must it be like to sit here now, surrounded by revelry and flattery, while her grief still pulses like a wound too deep to close?
She doesn’t look toward the guests. She doesn’t look at Dante. She simply stares ahead, as if the flickering candlelight might burn away the ache in her chest.
A part of me aches to rise, to walk to her side, to press a hand to hers and promise that she isn’t forgotten. That I will protect her in whatever small ways I can. That she still matters.
But I don’t move.
I can’t risk what it might mean for either of us to show even that much softness in front of this court.
So I remain seated, watching her as the music begins and the laughter returns to the hall—louder now, gilded with false delight.
And Queen Eleanor remains still. A porcelain figure in a kingdom already rewriting its history.
My goblet is half-full, my food untouched. I toy with a slice of duck, stabbing it halfheartedly with my fork. The conversations around me are a soft murmur, none of them directed at me. I don’t mind.
Not until I hear Torbin’s name. My ears perk up, expecting to hear my name next, but instead of mine, I hear Dante’s.
“—heard he was in the tower that night.”
My head turns slightly.
“Dante?” a young woman whispers, her voice cautious. “Do you think he had anything to do with it?”
“Don’t be absurd,” another says quickly, voice hushed but firm. “He’s to be a prince now. That kind of talk is treason.”
The third woman doesn’t respond. She just lifts her goblet and takes a long drink.
“I used to think he was handsome,” the first woman says. “But he’s a siren, so I think it was just his magic tricking me.”
I stiffen, suddenly remembering the collar sent to me in Delasurvia. A part of me doesn’t want to tell Dante about it, not wanting to add another thing to the list of worries he must already have, but if it was sent as a threat, then he has the right to know.
“Just because he looks fuckable doesn’t mean he’s worthy of being a prince,” one of the women says.
My grip tightens around my fork. I want to turn, to glare, to say something that will make them choke on their honeyed fruit.
But I don’t.
Not tonight.
Not with every move I make watched. Every whisper weighed. Every glance between me and Dante carrying the potential to be catalogued like evidence.
I chew a piece of bread and stare at the tapestry on the far wall. Ivy climbing up a tower of gold, threaded in silver and green. The king jumped to make this announcement so the whispers would stop. If he thinks this court is done whispering, he’s wrong. They’ve only just begun.
When I glance back toward the high table, Dante is no longer seated.
He’s at the king’s side now, moving through the crowd like a dog on a leash.
King Silas wears the expression of a man thoroughly pleased with himself, pausing before lords and counts as if expecting them to fall to their knees as he shows off his shiny, new toy.
And most of them do—bowing their heads, clasping their chests, murmuring greetings with the kind of reverence I’ve never once seen them offer to Dante before.
It startles me, the way they’ve turned so easily.
Some of these same men used to scowl at him from the shadows of council chambers, barely concealing their distaste.
Now, they lean forward to shake his hand, to mutter some respectful phrase or another.
I suppose loyalty bends where power flows.
It all feels like pageantry—scripted, shallow, a show meant for the king’s pleasure more than Dante’s acceptance.
Then come the ladies. A wave of velvet and perfume.
They drift toward him in practiced formation, each one angling to catch his eye, offering the curve of their hands as if awaiting his kiss—which he cleverly avoids by taking their hands and bowing instead.
They laugh at things he hasn’t said, smile too sweetly, tilt their heads just so.
I recognize a few of them. Two of them, at least, once stood at the edge of the royal gardens murmuring that Dante shouldn’t have been allowed to remain in Hedera.
That a true queen would have turned him away. That the court was growing soft.
Now their eyes gleam when he so much as glances in their direction.
I set my fork down. The taste of rosemary and roasted fig has vanished from my tongue. All that’s left is bitterness.
Nadya turns to me, her brows pulled together. “Are you okay?”
“I think I need some air,” I say quietly. “Or maybe just sleep. My stomach’s turned.”
Nadya starts to rise. “I’ll come with you.”
I shake my head gently. “No. Stay. You actually enjoy these kinds of things.” I try to smile, though it feels thin. “Besides, we’ll be stuck together in a carriage for the next few months. I’m sure you’ll get plenty of me soon enough.”
She huffs a soft laugh. “Fair point. Get some rest, then. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.”
She pats my hand, and I rise, smoothing my skirt, careful not to draw too much attention. Most eyes are on Dante, anyway.
At the edge of the room, just before I slip into the corridor, I glance back one last time. He must sense it, because his gaze lifts across the crowd and lands on mine. A pause. Then the faintest of nods, subtle and sure.
It’s not a kiss. Not a word.
But it’s enough.
For now, anyway.