6. Kaedryn
Kaedryn
For a heartbeat, the chamber vanishes. There is only her hand near mine, the impossible recognition of something neither of us asked for.
Then Varek shifts.
Adelina snatches the moment back, lowering her gaze and turning to the contract. Her hand trembles once before she stills it. She hides the tremor well. Not well enough.
She signs her name beneath mine.
Adelina Leora of Dravaryn.
The letters are elegant, controlled, beautiful.
Then the treaty.
When she returns the quill, she is careful not to touch me again.
“With these signatures,” Varek announces, voice warm with triumph, “Dravaryn and Elyrion affirm both alliance and betrothal. Crown Prince Kaedryn of Elyrion and Princess Adelina Leora of Dravaryn are, from this moment forward, promised before crown and court.”
Promised.
A polished word for bound.
The formal acknowledgments follow. I give mine. Adelina gives hers softly, flawlessly, and when the words leave her mouth, I feel the tension in her like I am connected to her.
Varek smiles. “Now, let us move to the dining hall. We have much to celebrate.”
Everyone else shifts. Documents are collected. Guards reposition. Selvara glides toward the door like the evening has unfolded exactly as she intended. Varek speaks quietly to one of his officials. My own men fall into place behind me.
Adelina does not move. She remains beside the table, wings held perfectly, hands folded, gaze lowered.
Waiting.
And not one of her countrymen gives her a second glance.
She signed her life away, promised to wed a complete stranger, and the people around her act like she is nothing.
The realization strikes hard enough that I step toward her before thinking better of it. “Princess Adelina.”
I offer my hand. For one moment, she only stares at it. “Yes, Your Highness?”
“The dining hall,” I say, quieter now. “I will accompany you.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Her wings vanish before she takes my hand.
No flourish. No display. One moment opal light fills the space behind her, the next it is gone, leaving her smaller in the silver dress, though no less striking.
Her hand settles in mine, cold and tense.
I close my fingers around hers, just enough to guide and nothing more.
Even so, I feel the strength difference. Her soft, delicate hands against my larger callused one. We walk from the chamber together.
The corridor outside is narrow enough that the others fall behind, giving us the illusion of privacy though every person within ten paces is listening.
Dravaryn stone swallows sound strangely.
The torches burn low in iron sconces, and the air smells of smoke, frost, and something mineral beneath it.
I should speak, but nothing comes to mind.
I have commanded armies, negotiated border disputes, stood before councils that wanted blood and given them reason instead. Yet walking beside the woman I have just been bound to, I find myself sorting through words like a boy with no training at all.
She saves me. “How are you finding Dravaryn, Your Highness?”
The question is safe. Polite. Perfectly useless.
A laugh nearly touches my mouth. She has chosen the safest possible ground between disaster and dinner.
“Cold,” I say.
Her eyes flick toward me, and for the first time, I see the faintest shadow of amusement before she hides it. “It is known for that.”
“I have been reminded since we crossed the border.”
“Your kingdom is warmer?”
“Much.”
“I have read that Elyrion has forests that remain green even in winter. And deep lakes near the western mountains.”
“You have studied it?”
“I was given histories and formal accounts.”
Given. The word is small, but it tells me more than she intends.
“Then you may know more of its recorded history than many who live there,” I reply.
“That seems unlikely.”
“It depends on how dull the records were, and if you were brave enough to wade through them.”
This time, her mouth softens. My attention drops to it before I can stop myself.
A mistake.
Her lips are a soft rose, fuller than I noticed at a distance, and the thought of them parting around my cock is so sudden and unwelcome that I look ahead before it can become visible.
She’s close enough that I catch the scent of her every time she moves, lavender and something else I cannot name.
Her hand is still in mine. I haven’t let go.
“They were very thorough,” she says.
“Then dull.”
“Thoroughness can be useful.”
“So can brevity.”
“I’m rarely given the choice.” The words slip out. Her fingers tense in mine. “I meant no offense,” she says quickly.
“I did not take any.”
Her eyes dart to me, and her brow furrows in confusion.
I adjust my pace slightly when I feel her stride shorten. Her back is hurting. I’m sure of it now. The way she holds herself is too rigid, and the dress, for all its beauty, is not kind. It makes my temper stir again, but I keep it down.
The dining hall is warmer, louder, dressed in all the formal beauty Dravaryn withheld from the meeting chamber.
Long tables gleam beneath crystal and silver.
Candles burn in tiers, their flames reflected against dark stone.
Food has been arranged with care, roasted game, winter roots glazed with honey, dark bread still steaming, spiced wine poured into heavy goblets.
Musicians play softly from a shadowed alcove, and every courtier present rises as we enter.
The performance resumes.
Adelina sits beside me.
The betrothal has been signed, and now the room must see the couple. Varek sits at the head, Selvara beside him, her smile radiant enough to convince fools that joy has shaped the evening. My men are seated close enough to be useful, far enough not to insult our hosts.
Sylas catches my eye once across the table, his expression bland, but his eyebrow raised.
Later, it says.
Yes. Later.
For now, dinner unfolds. There are toasts first. To alliance.
To peace. To strength against instability.
Zerath is referenced with all the caution of kingdoms not yet ready to name war while seated over wine.
Varek speaks of peace and mutual interests.
I answer with the required language, measured and diplomatic, while trying not to watch Adelina too closely.
I fail.
She doesn’t eat much. She lifts her fork, takes small bites, and lowers it again with practiced timing, a performance. Whenever Varek speaks, her attention goes still. Whenever Selvara says her name, even in praise, the tension moves through her shoulders.
The dress continues to do what it was designed to do.
Without her wings, the exposed lines of her body feel more vulnerable. Her throat. Her shoulders. The upper curve of her breasts when she turns slightly toward a speaker. I notice because she is beautiful, and because whatever this pull is has made not noticing impossible.
I lean slightly toward her when conversation opens around us, giving her the option to ignore me if she prefers. It puts me near enough to watch the pulse move at her throat when she swallows, near enough that her next breath stirs the air between us.
I keep my voice even. It costs me more than it should. “You mentioned histories,” I say. “Were they only political accounts?”
Her fingers pause near her glass before she answers. “Mostly. Some geography. A little on court customs. Elyrion’s founding myths, though I suspect those were edited for diplomacy.”
That surprises me enough that I look at her more directly. “What makes you say that?”
“The older the myth, the cleaner the moral becomes when courts preserve it.”
A faint smile curves across my face before I can stop it. “That is unfortunately accurate.”
She looks down. She has a mind, a sharp one, buried under silence because no one here seems interested in letting her use it.
“What did they tell you about us?” I ask.
“That Elyrion values refinement, knowledge, strategy, and restraint.”
“That is the version we prefer to put in books.”
Her lips soften again. “And the version outside the books?”
“We value those things. We also argue over resources, insult one another in council, produce arrogant scholars by the dozen, and have at least three noble families who believe they are the heaven and sea’s gift to the realm.”
A sound leaves her before she can stop it, close enough to a laugh that my chest tightens. She lowers her gaze, as if laughter itself is risky.
I hate this fucking castle and anyone who made her feel that way.
“What of Dravaryn?” I ask, keeping my tone easy. “What would you say your books get wrong?” The question was meant as a balance. It’s not. I know it the moment she stills.
“I would not presume to correct the official histories of my kingdom.”
A safe answer.
I nod once, accepting it. “Of course.”
Something like an apology moves through her eyes. I don’t want her apology. I want to know who taught her to fear harmless questions and set my shadows loose on them.
The next course is served, and conversation shifts around us.
Varek speaks with one of my envoys about troop movement near the eastern trade routes.
Selvara asks me about my mother with false warmth.
Sylas entertains a Dravaryn official with a story that is only mostly true.
The room loosens by degrees, the ceremony smoothing into dinner, though nothing truly relaxes.
Adelina glances once toward the windows, where night has fully settled beyond the glass.
“Do you fly often?” I ask.
Her attention returns to me, quick and unguarded. “Sometimes,” she says, then catches herself. “Within the grounds.”
“Within the grounds?”
“I have a private garden,” she says. “It is large enough for short flights.”
Short flights. With wings like moonlit glass hidden inside castle walls.
“Not beyond?” I ask.
Her fingers tighten around the stem of her glass. “Not since I was a child.”
There is too much inside that answer. Too many doors I cannot open here.
“Then Elyrion will surprise you,” I say.