Chapter 17 #2
At the heart of the room hangs the largest of them all.
Stenric, unmistakable, looms proudly at the center.
Yet this time his queen is gone. Beside him stands Korrin with a stern bride in deepest gray, the lines of her gown as severe as her expression.
Their sons flank them, younger than they are in the great hall, their eyes bright with a gentler, eager fire.
Closer still stands Thalen and his wife. There is tenderness even in the paint—the way her hand brushes his arm, the subtle lean of his body toward hers.
“They look so in love,” I say in a low voice, caught by it.
“They were.’ Ace says, his smile soft with memory.
“Thalen had the rare privilege of a second son. He could marry for love instead of alliance. Stenric’s queen was a gift from the frozen north, and Korrin’s bride came from the Black Coast of Keltharun—both marriages forged in politics, not passion.
But Thalen and Sylara…” He exhales through a small laugh.
“They chose each other. Daughter to a valley noble, she met him young—and refused to be parted since.”
The affection in his voice gentles the air. Then his tone shifts, becoming quieter.
“Love and duty need not always be at odds,” he muses. “But they seldom walk easily together. Many say Stenric carried a broken heart after Eirlys passed. And Korrin’s widow returned to her homeland after the wars—cold as the cliffs she came from.”
Standing next to Thalen and Sylara, at the farthest end of the portrait, figures draw my eye.
A woman with the same onyx-threaded hair and moonlit gaze as the rest of Stenric’s line, yet her smile is wild, untamed.
Two young boys—nearly mirror images, full of mischief—stand before her. Recognition catches in my throat.
“Is that…?”
Ace’s grin turns rakish. “You’ve a keen eye. That would be none other than tall, dark, and brooding—plus yours truly. We may be cousins but often acted more like brothers.”
His laugh carries warmth, though there is a crack beneath it. “Gods, we were wild then. Once, when my mother brought me here for a visit, Grandfather swore he’d have us thrown in the dungeon if we didn’t learn some manners.”
The mirth in his voice doesn’t quite hide the affection beneath. For all his teasing, the pride in his bloodline shows clearly—and for me, this room ties every story I’ve heard to the man I love, threading duty, love, and legacy into one living whole.
I linger on the next portrait—Ace beside his mother, Stenric’s youngest, his father, and a quartet of sisters who look equal parts radiant and troublesome. The brushwork itself bears the mark of another land, its strokes bolder, brighter, as though freedom of color runs in their blood.
I laugh softly. “You all look like trouble.”
Ace grins. “Oh, we were. Still are, some of us.”
That laughter fades as I turn toward the last painting.
“That is the final one with Grandfather,” Ace says. “Just before he abdicated to Thalen.”
Ever the warrior, Stenric stands tall—but grief has hollowed his eyes. Beside him, Vale bears the stiff posture of duty already settling on his shoulders. At his side, a wisp of a girl with sunlit auburn hair and eyes green as the valley itself.
“Vale’s sister…” I breathe, reaching out but stopping short of the canvas.
“Aurienne,” Ace says softly. “She was the beacon of hope when we needed one most. Too bright, maybe, for a world gone dim. She was also a sign of how much we lost. For a time she seemed as frail as our kingdoms were after so much heartache. She’s well now—by the southern shore with her husband.
A scholar, of all things. The sea air suits her. ”
His voice shifts again—lighter, teasing, as though refusing to linger on sorrow. “You know, if we stay here much longer, I’ll end up weeping in front of my own ancestors. And that would be quite the scandal.”
I smile faintly. “I wouldn’t want to endanger the crown.”
He presses a hand to his heart. “You wound me, my lady. Come, then—let me show you where we cause the most trouble. If you’re to know Caerhollan, you ought to see the places we are explicitly told to avoid.”
I arch a brow, feigning caution. “This doesn’t end with me in the dungeon, does it?”
“Only if we get caught.” His grin is pure mischief as he offers his arm. “And between you and me, I’ve always been remarkably fast when fleeing consequences.”
Laughter escapes before I can stop it, echoing down the marble corridor. The sound startles me—too alive for these halls—and I don’t try to swallow it. We disappear toward the armory, where history gives way to living joy.
We tumble into the hall with an unholy racket, the clang of steel and our laughter chasing each other through the air.
Ace clutches dramatically at his side, staggering backward as though struck by fate itself. “That very well may leave a mark, m’lady!”
“You told me to strike as hard as I could!”
“I did, and I’m positively delighted to survive it.” He groans theatrically, straightening with a wince. “I should know you are a force to be reckoned with. Remind me never to test you again—unless there’s proper padding and a healer on standby.”
Our laughter echoes through the vaulted corridor—real, reckless, unrestrained. It feels like sunlight breaking through stone.
The merriment is cut short at the sound of a heavy door swinging open.
Ace freezes mid-bow. I half-expect a reprimand, but the pit in my stomach dissolves the instant I see who emerges.
Vale stands there, arms crossed, an unreadable look shadowing the curve of his mouth. Not anger—curiosity. Amusement, even.
“How am I supposed to get anything done with you two stirring up chaos outside my council chamber?”
I blink, realizing too late that we’ve wandered right up to the door. “We didn’t mean to—”
He moves toward me in long, sure strides that steal the rest of my breath. In one motion I am in his arms, skirts catching air as he spins me, my laughter reborn in a startled gasp.
“Vale!” I squeal, half scolding, half bliss.
He sets me down gently, glancing both ways down the hall as though the walls themselves might tattle.
“Ace,” he says without looking away from me, “I may have to steal her for a moment.”
“By all means, my king.” Ace’s grin is nothing short of conspiratorial. “I’ll be just outside—licking my wounds and my pride.”
Vale takes my hand, already leading me down the corridor. We run, laughing under our breath like children escaping their tutors, until he pulls me into the small alcove I remember from my first day in the High Hold—the one where the light always seems to find us.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His lips meet mine, and the laughter that carries us here melts into something softer, slower. He draws me close, his forehead resting against mine, his breath still uneven from the run.
“Your laughter,” he murmurs, smiling against my mouth, “is precisely what I need.”
I trace the edge of his jaw, still flushed from the chase. “Then I’ll have to make sure you hear it more often.”
His reply comes in a kiss that is all warmth and mirth and unspoken promise—the kind that reminds me that even kings can crave something as simple as joy.
When he finally draws back, I am breathless from more than just the run. “You’ll ruin your reputation if anyone sees you smiling like that,” I tease, brushing a lock of hair from his brow.
He feigns offense. “I’ve endured worse. I am told I’m terrifying when I smile.”
“Only to your council,” I say, laughing softly. “The rest of us might find it… devastating.”
“Devastating?” he echoes, the smirk returning. “Should I take that as encouragement to practice?”
“By all means,” I say, lifting my chin in mock challenge. “Though I should warn you—I’m not easily impressed.”
He tilts his head, eyes glinting with mischief. “A dangerous claim, little flame.”
Then—before I can retort—he kisses me again, quick and stolen, the sort of kiss that leaves a woman grinning through her protest.
“You see?” he murmurs, voice low against my ear. “Evidence would suggest otherwise.”
I swat lightly at his chest. “You’re insufferable.”
“Ah, but happy.” His grin softens into something that isn’t just laughter but peace—rare and startlingly tender.
The sound of distant footsteps reaches us then, echoing faintly down the corridor. Vale’s expression flickers, only for a breath, as if remembering where he is meant to be. But instead of retreating, he leans forward once more and whispers,
“Let them wait just a moment longer.”
He kisses me again—slower this time, but no less full of light. And for that heartbeat between duty and desire, between laughter and legend, the world feels almost merciful.