10. Kaedryn
Kaedryn
The first sign that something is wrong is Queen Selvara’s smile.
I notice it the moment we enter the breakfast room.
It is polished and serene beneath the pale morning light, too carefully arranged to be simple courtesy.
Dravaryn has a talent for making cold, cruel things look elegant, and the room is no exception.
Frosted glass windows line the outer wall, turning the world beyond them into a blur of white and gray.
A long table sits beneath a hanging fixture of carved crystal and silver, already laid with dark bread, smoked fish, winter fruit preserved in honey, and tea steaming in porcelain cups so thin they look breakable.
Varek sits at the head of the table, looking well rested. Selvara sits to his right. The chair to his left remains empty.
Adelina’s chair.
I don’t let myself look at it for too long.
Giving the empty space my attention too quickly would reveal too much, and I haven’t survived court or war by letting the first thought in my head reach my face.
Instead, I greet the king and queen as protocol demands, take the seat arranged for me across from Selvara, and let my men settle nearby with the same quiet awareness they carried through the corridors.
Sylas notices the empty chair too. I feel it in the slight shift of his attention, though he says nothing.
Rowan sits with one arm resting along the carved edge of his chair, looking bored enough to fool anyone who hasn’t seen him draw a blade in less time than it takes most men to blink.
Soren is quieter beside him, eyes lowered toward his cup, though I know he has already counted every exit and guard in the room.
Merritt settles with restless ease, while Kellan goes still near the edge of his chair.
“Your Highness,” Selvara says, her voice warm enough for any court poet to turn into a memory. “I trust your rooms were comfortable?”
“Comfortable enough.”
That is generous.
Her smile remains fixed. “Dravaryn can be difficult for those accustomed to softer climates.”
“Cold is useful.”
Varek lifts his cup. “Only useful?”
“It preserves things.”
His gaze meets mine over the rim of his tea, and I briefly think he understands exactly what I mean. Cold strips away performance if a man stands in it long enough. It leaves what is real.
Selvara reaches for a piece of preserved fruit as though nothing sharp has passed between us. “I hope last night’s ceremony didn’t weigh too heavily on you. These arrangements can feel abrupt, even when necessary.”
Abrupt. The word lands like a blade wrapped in silk.
I let a beat pass before I answer. “Necessary doesn’t excuse careless.”
Sylas goes still beside me. Across the table, Selvara’s smile thins by the smallest degree. Varek lowers his cup, his expression composed in a way that tells me I’ve found the edge of something.
“Careless?” he repeats.
“You know my meaning.”
“I know you expressed concerns last night.” His tone remains mild, but there is nothing soft beneath it. “I assumed you would have had time to reflect.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“My conclusion didn’t change.”
The room tightens, though no one moves. Servants continue pouring tea with practiced hands, but I hear the change in their breathing, the faint pause before one reaches for the honey pot, the quiet shift of fabric near the wall.
Varek watches me for a long moment before his mouth curves. “Perhaps breakfast isn’t the place for such discussions.”
“Perhaps not.” I take a sip of the black coffee in front of me.
Selvara sets her cup down with a soft click. “Adelina is often slow in the mornings. She has always been delicate after an event.”
The explanation is offered too smoothly. My attention moves to the empty chair then, because pretending not to notice it any longer would be more revealing than looking.
“She’s joining us?” I ask.
“Of course,” Selvara says.
Varek says nothing.
I look back at him. “Has she been told her presence is expected?”
A faint tension appears near his mouth. “My sister is always informed of what is expected of her.”
That isn’t an answer.
The meal begins anyway, because royalty has always been skilled at placing food over rot and calling it diplomacy.
Plates are served. Cups are refilled. Conversation drifts to neutral subjects, to weather, supply routes, the upcoming public announcement, and the timing of our formal departure.
Varek speaks as though the day has unfolded precisely as planned.
Adelina does not appear. Five minutes pass, then ten, and the empty chair grows louder with every untouched plate.
I try not to think about the way she looked when Varek called her my future wife. The shock she swallowed before it could become a sound. The tremor in her hand when she signed beside me.
The pull beneath my ribs has not loosened since last night. I had thought the dark hours might dull it, that distance and discipline might manage what refusal could not. They have not. It is still here this morning, quieter, patient, threaded through me like something that means to stay.
So I keep it off my face. Whatever else this room costs me, Varek and the queen do not get to see that.
Selvara dabs delicately at the corner of her mouth. “It seems she is taking longer than usual.”
Varek’s eyes flick toward one of the guards near the door. “Send for the princess.”
The guard bows and leaves. The room does not relax after he is gone.
No one names the unease, but every person at that table begins counting.
I know because I’m counting too. One minute.
Two. Three. By the fifth, Sylas leans back in his chair, looking perfectly at ease, though he is anything but.
Rowan’s hand remains loose on the arm of his chair, but his attention is on the doors now.
Soren has gone quiet in the way he does when he is listening beyond what the room offers.
Varek’s fingers tap once against the table.
The guard returns alone. He bows lower than before. “Your Majesty, the princess does not answer.”
The silence that follows is delicate enough to cut.
Varek’s expression remains composed, but something beneath it sharpens. “Then enter.”
The guard swallows. “Her nurse refused, Your Majesty. She says Her Royal Highness is unwell and sleeping.”
Selvara’s face softens for the room. “Poor thing.”
I don’t believe a single note of it.
Varek rises, and every servant in the room lowers their gaze. “Excuse me,” he says, though the words are not meant as a request.
I stand as well.
His gaze cuts to me. “That won’t be necessary.”
“My betrothed is unwell enough to miss the first breakfast after our contract was signed,” I say. “I’ll accompany you.”
Something flashes in his eyes. Calculation.
Selvara’s hand settles lightly on the table. “Your concern is appreciated, Your Highness, but Adelina is easily overwhelmed. A crowd may distress her.”
“Then we’ll keep it small,” I say.
Varek smiles without warmth. “This is a family matter.”
“She became part of mine last night.” The words leave my mouth before I decide whether diplomacy approves them.
They are true. They are also dangerous.
A different kind of silence falls. I feel Sylas look at me, but I don’t turn.
Varek holds my gaze, and for one long moment I think he will refuse in front of every witness present.
Then he seems to reconsider. Perhaps he remembers the ink on the contract.
Perhaps he remembers that Elyrion’s delegation is not a minor inconvenience he can dismiss.
Perhaps he simply decides there is more advantage in seeming gracious.
“Very well,” he says. “You may come.”
Selvara stands with him. “I’ll come as well. Adelina responds better to gentleness.”
The lie is so elegant it almost impresses me.
We leave the breakfast room in a narrow procession that pretends not to be one.
Varek leads. Selvara follows. I walk beside Sylas, with the other four close enough to follow but far enough back to pretend this is still a family matter.
Dravaryn guards fall into place along the corridor, their boots quiet on stone.
The castle is different in daylight. The carved walls show old victories and older kings, all hard faces and harder hands.
Frosted glass windows spill pale light across the floor.
Servants disappear into side passages before we reach them, lowering their eyes so quickly it feels less like respect than survival.
We climb one level, then pass through a set of doors guarded by men in black and gold.
A private wing. Adelina’s wing.
The moment we cross into it, I understand more than I want to.
The corridor is wide, well kept, and beautiful in an untouched way.
Thick rugs. Polished lamps. Carved panels along the walls.
Painted screens. Vases of pale flowers arranged in alcoves where no guest would ever see them.
It has the appearance of luxury, and beneath it, the unmistakable shape of confinement.
A gilded cage is still a cage.
At the far end, two guards stand outside a set of carved double doors. One of them looks uneasy.
Varek sees it. “What is it?”
The guard bows. “Your Majesty, Nurse Freya will not open the door.”
Varek steps forward and knocks once, a warning more than a request. “Freya.”
There is a pause from the other side. Then an older woman’s voice answers, muffled but steady. “The princess is resting, Your Majesty.”
“Open the door.”
“She is unwell.”
“Open the door now!”
The next pause lasts too long. I feel it then, somewhere deeper than sound or logic, along that impossible thread beneath my ribs.
Something is wrong.
Before Varek can knock again, I step closer. “Open it.”
He turns his head slightly. “This is not your chamber to command.”
“No,” I say. “But if she is unwell, delay serves no one.”
Selvara’s eyes flick to me, sharp beneath the softness. “You seem very certain she needs assistance.”