Chapter Seventy-Five
Not King Yet
He stood in the storm, beads rattling, mask unbroken. Not king. Not yet.
Xavien stood at the chamber’s center. Waiting in the storm.
He would not move. He would not break.
His breath became his anchor.
In—two, three, four. Hold—two, three, four. Out—two, three, four.
The rhythm steadied his pulse, masking the restlessness that clawed beneath his skin. His fingers itched to straighten the fall of his sleeve, to trace the beads at his shoulder, to count each one until the chamber blurred away. But he forced his hands still. He would not show them his cracks.
A voice broke over the chaos.
“You offend this chamber, Xavien! Dangling the halfling on your arm.”
The prince shifted only his eyes to spy his opponent—an elf older even than King Yethule.
Senator Idrel.
“Where is your wife, Xavien?”
The room hushed, every gaze cutting toward him.
Xavien lifted his chin, speaking to the mass.
“Would you show no mercy to a homesick bride—torn from her children, self-exiled by the very compulsions you forced us to obey?”
“You are not free to arrange your next marriage,” Senator Idrel warned. “You bury the body before it is even dead. Shalorien ven dravak. Shalorien ven kin.” (Shame on your soul. Shame on your line.)
Xavien strode up the steps, each movement precise, every twitch of his hands buried in the sweep of his mantle. At the top he turned sharply, a practiced flourish.
“Will we truly let a decree of marriage—a single piece of parchment—threaten the safety of our realm?”
He descended again, steps striking like drumbeats.
“Casqadia will fall. There is no stopping it now.”
His arms flung wide, as if to show the chamber the ruin he alone could see.
“Our own soldiers defy the stubbornness of this council. More every day leave our ranks to join Commander Storne at Fort Sevrak.”
He pressed his hand to his heart, a gesture both vow and restraint.
“Let me ease our suffering. Let me elevate the impressionable halfling to her rightful place as queen. From the rubble of her ruin we shall fashion a Casqadia prostrate before Elváliev.”
Senator Idrel’s glare cut deep.
“You were not here when Gearíya was won.”
“I am the reason Gearíya was won!”
The words ripped from Xavien, his hands twitching, unruly—cracks in the calm mask he wore. His beads rattled faintly, revealing his fight for order.
He drew a shuddering breath, forced stillness into his frame.
“And if Gearíya be lost to us now, so be it. We have Casqadia to gain.”
His gaze swept the senators.
“Will you cling to the old ways until the prize of the realm slips through your fingers?”
Senator Idrel dropped his gilded envelope onto the iron altar.
“I vote to elevate the halfling,” he said, gravel low.
“But I will not grant you divorcement. We cannot lose Gearíya.”
A flood of ayes washed through the hall.
Xavien’s eyes shuttered.
Out—two, three, four. Hold—two, three, four.
He would not be free of Kastalya.
But Amerei would be named Casqadia’s queen.
And Viktor had sworn to protect the realm—so long as he ceased courting her, until she bore crown and command.
Xavien lifted his hand.
“Let there be no misunderstanding of our support for the halfling. Grant her five hundred of our finest soldiers.”
“No.”
Senator Idrel’s head shook, slow.
“We will not send our sons to bleed for her. Commander Storne must win Casqadia on his own.”
“One hundred,” Xavien pressed, voice steadier than the pulse hammering in his throat. “Send one hundred, as token of goodwill. Casqadia must remain in our favor—”
“One hundred!” King Yethule’s voice thundered, sudden and raw.
Xavien’s beads snapped across his shoulder as he turned, breath locking.
He met his father’s gaze.
A light long absent flickered there.
“I give,” the king declared, “one hundred soldiers.”
Xavien bowed, slow and measured, before rising with renewed control.
“The king, in his divine wisdom, gives one hundred archers to the Queen of Casqadia! Sa laeris velyn Elváliev!" (Swift is the arm of Elváliev!)
The senators dragged their hands across their chests in solemn unity.