Chapter 4 #2
A dramatic sigh came from the boy. “To think a foreign princess has finally sworn to be your wife. May I suggest the lessening of your scowl? Your glower can be rather intimidating. We wouldn’t want her to run screaming from your hall.”
Alexander levelled him with a look. “Enough with your jests, pup. Find my sister. Tell her to begin preparations.”
Conrad’s grin remained intact. “You realize this means Lady Yrenna will have her hands full for weeks? You’ll be lucky if she doesn’t rip your hair out.”
“She’s more than capable.”
“Oh, certainly. But that doesn’t mean she’ll like it.”
Darion shot him a glare. “Best stop flapping your tongue and get to work before she learns you’ve been dawdling.”
Conrad smirked but gave a hasty bow. “As my lord commands, I’ll see to it.”
Alexander’s gaze followed him. The boy’s easy obedience, the simple joy in his stride—this was the fragile peace he wanted to protect, for Conrad and for everyone sheltered by these stones.
He looked up at his keep, a new and restless tension tightening behind his ribs.
Hope.
It was a risk. It was everything.
In the great hall, a merry fire crackled beneath the chatter from long tables.
Cutlery clattered against plates, goblets met wood with a dull thud.
Their evening meal was humble and hearty: roasted venison, dark rye bread, a thick stew of root vegetables.
Nothing but the simple, honest fare of the Tremorian countryside.
It might be plain next to the rich, exotic dishes of Niewberg’s Limyere Palace, but its rustic comfort won out every time.
Alexander sat at the center of the head table, his sister Yrenna beside him on the raised dais.
Below, the hall stretched out in descending rows of trestle tables.
Tonight, she wore the same emerald dress he’d seen season after season.
Once, he’d thought it her favourite. Only later did he notice the frayed seams, the thinning fabric, and realize it wasn’t fondness but necessity that kept her reaching for it.
“You’ll need to prepare proper rooms for your bride,” she said, slicing her meat into dainty bite-sized pieces. “And before you protest—no, your current chambers won’t do.”
He tensed, masking it with a measured sip from his cup. “Why not? There’s a bed, a tub, and a wardrobe.”
Conrad snorted from his seat beside Yrenna. “Solthar forbids an Imperial Omega be subjected to your drafty rooms, my lord.”
Yrenna shot the boy a warning look before turning back to Alexander. “I mean it, brother. Your room is cold, old, and hardly fitting. You should move into our parents’ rooms. They’re the only ones grand enough for a princess.”
The suggestion sent a prickle of old anger down Alexander’s spine. That suite, with its dark memories, was the last place he wanted to inhabit.
He set his goblet down. “No.”
Yrenna sighed, flaxen brows knitting together. “You cannot avoid it forever.”
“I can, and I will.”
She set her cutlery down, eyes—that same shade of blue as his—searched his face. “It’s been twenty-two years since his death, Alexander. You are the Lord of Blackwood-Veyrde now. It’s your right, and your future bride’s, to take their rooms.”
Their rooms. The very words were a lockbox of grief. He remembered the oppressive silence that had settled there—the slow suffocation of his mother’s spirit as she grew increasingly ill, another casualty of his father’s mistakes. To take over that space would be akin to inheriting a curse.
“Father lingers in every poor decision I must now correct.” His jaw clenched, looking back at her. “I’ll not live in his shadows any more than necessary.”
Yrenna sighed, shaking her head. “Then, what? You expect the princess to nest in your room?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
She scowled. “You expect her to pick a corner and lie down in the dust? She’s not a barn cat! She’s leaving her home and loved ones to live here. You need to provide a warm, comfortable, and welcoming space for her. I hear Nests are extremely important to Omegas.”
Alexander stabbed a piece of venison with his knife and answered with as much patience as he could muster, “I know they are.”
But his hands paused. A Nest was primal safety for an Omega, but his rooms looked more like a soldier’s barracks than a place of comfort. The mismatch sent a jolt of panic through him—he’d have to remake everything.
“There has to be something we can do,” Yrenna insisted.
Before a word could leave his lips, the great doors swept open. A hush fell over the hall, rolling from the entrance inward, as Lord Bertrand Fortier entered.
A man of the land in his prime, his bearing was one of easy, ingrained polish—the unconscious grace of someone who moved through gilded halls as readily as crossing his own fields. His cloak of fine heavy wool swayed with every stride, the luxurious fox fur at its collar catching the torchlight.
Alexander’s fingers curled around his knife.
Bertrand spread his arms, face breaking into a grin.
“Alexander.” His voice was warm, almost fatherly.
The sort of warmth that beckoned even as it set Alexander’s instincts on edge, pulling him between courtesy and recoil.
“I heard the news from court and came at once to offer my congratulations. A match with an imperial princess . . . How I wish your father could see you now. How proud he would’ve been. ”
With a force, Alexander released the knife and stood. “Lord Fortier. Excuse us. We weren’t expecting a guest tonight.”
There had been a time when Bertrand required no invitation, when his place in Parandor’s halls was as certain as family. He’d been Teodor Wulfbane’s closest ally and friend, his partner in overseeing the Crown’s mines, a man Alexander and Yrenna once called ‘Uncle.’
But after Teodor’s fall, the old king had handed those mines—their primary source of income—into Bertrand’s keeping. Authority once theirs was now his, and Alexander was still learning how to accept that arrangement without letting it bend his spine.