38. Kaedryn
Kaedryn
Ihave commanded men in battle with less care than it takes to knock on Adelina’s door. The realization irritates me enough that I almost turn it into anger, but anger has already done enough damage between us.
So I stand in the corridor outside her suite, formal dinner waiting below, the castle moving around me with polished urgency.
But here, outside her door, the air is still. I haven’t visited her since we arrived in Elyrion because I thought my presence would do more harm than good. I force my hand to lift slowly enough that the knock will not sound like a command.
Servants move through the halls with covered trays, polished decanters, and silver candlesticks, their footsteps quiet against the white stone.
Lanterns have been lit along the walls, each magical flame enclosed in warded glass etched with the Elyrion crest. The banners hanging from the upper arches stir faintly in the evening draft. Hunter green. Navy blue. Silver.
Our colors. The colors she will wear tonight.
That thought settles somewhere beneath my ribs with a weight I do not care to examine.
Mine! The bond screams at me.
This dinner was meant to be a controlled introduction, large enough to matter.
Council families. High nobles. Marriage witnesses.
A few envoys from Maralis. Enough people to study her, measure her, and decide whether the northern princess now under our roof is fragile, ungovernable, a threat, or already broken to my hand.
My mother took her to the garden this morning.
I know because three different servants found reasons to mention it without sounding like they were reporting to me.
She planted the ice orchids. She walked back quietly.
She ate half a roll at midday, two slices of pear, and enough broth that Maelin did not threaten anyone.
Small victories, apparently.
Ridiculous things to count.
I count them anyway.
The guards outside Adelina’s door straighten when I approach. They stand far enough from the entrance not to make the door look like a cell, but close enough to remind anyone in this wing that her privacy is no longer something a careless person may breach and survive.
I stop before the door. For one moment, I consider sending Linnea to tell her I am here. Then I knock myself.
A soft sound comes from inside, then footsteps. Linnea opens the door. “Your Highness.”
“Is she ready?”
Linnea hesitates. “She is dressed,” she says.
Dressed. The distinction lands.
“May I come in?”
The pause comes again. Then she nods and steps back. “Of course, Your Highness.”
Adelina steps out of her bed chamber in a gown of deep navy silk before anyone can announce me, and Linnea scurries aside.
The color is dark enough to make her silver hair look almost luminous where it falls over one shoulder.
The bodice is embroidered with hunter green vines and tiny silver stars, subtle from a distance, intricate up close.
The sleeves fall soft around her wrists.
The skirts move like water when she shifts.
Someone has braided small silver ornaments through her hair, and a delicate circlet rests above her brow, not heavy enough to overwhelm her, but clear enough to remind anyone with eyes that she is a princess.
She looks like moonlight taught to stand still.
Beautiful.
Her hands are folded. Her shoulders are set. Her chin is lifted at the exact height courtesy demands. Nothing in her face gives away pain, nerves, hunger, fear, or anything else a room full of nobles might try to use.
She is breathtaking. She is also hiding.
I take a deep breath. For a second, I forget what I came to say.
Her lashes lower first. “Your Highness.”
The title drags me back. My jaw flexes before I can stop it, not with anger, though she may not know the difference.
“You look beautiful,” I say.
Her hands flatten against her skirt, a fraction too deliberate. “I’m pleased the gown is acceptable to you.”
“That is not what I said.”
A faint flush touches her cheeks. Then whatever emotion she had disappears beneath obedience.
“Forgive me.”
I should have expected that, but it still sends guilt flooding through me.
“There is nothing to forgive.” I keep my voice low, measured, though every instinct in me wants to step closer. “The gown is more than acceptable. But you are beautiful.”
This time she does look at me, long enough for me to see the confusion in her eyes before she lowers them again. She does not know what to do with a true compliment. That realization sits in my chest like a stone.
Linnea remains near the dressing room door. Mirelle hovers by the table with gloves and a folded wrap.
“I came to speak with you before dinner,” I say.
Adelina goes still. “Have I done something incorrectly?”
“No.” The answer is too fast, too sharp.
She freezes.
I soften my tone. “No. You have done nothing wrong.”
She watches me, trying to decide whether the sentence has a hidden second half.
I gesture toward the chair near the hearth, then catch myself before the motion becomes a command. “You may sit if you want.”
“I’m fine.”
I nod once and remain standing too. “The dinner tonight is larger than I would prefer so soon after your arrival,” I say. “My father has limited the guest list, but it will still feel like court.”
“I understand.”
“The nobles will watch you.”
“I expect so.”
“Some will be polite because they are decent. Some will be polite because they are cowards. Some will be polite because they are waiting to learn where to strike.”
Her eyes lift a fraction.
Good. Honesty reaches her better than softness.
“I am not telling you this to frighten you,” I continue. “I’m telling you because I would rather you hear it from me before you enter that room and feel it from everyone else.”
Her fingers relax slightly against her gown.
I step closer, only one pace, and stop well outside her reach. “There is something I need you to understand before we go down.”
Her expression shutters. I hate that my words still do that.
“Yes, Your Highness?”
“You cannot call me Your Highness every time you address me.”
Her brow draws together. “I cannot?”
“No.”
“But you are.”
“I am the crown prince of Elyrion,” I say. “You are Princess Adelina of Dravaryn, heir to the throne until your brother produces an heir of his own. You are my betrothed. In that room, the only people above you in rank are my father and mother.”
She looks down.
I continue before she can retreat into apology. “When you call me Your Highness, it tells the court you stand beneath me. They will believe what they see. If they see distance, they will use it. If they see fear, they will use that too.”
Her face pales a little. I curse myself silently.
Too much.
I adjust, forcing the next words gentler. “You are a princess, not a submissive servant.”
She watches me, brow furrowed, trying to decide where the strike will come from.
“You may call me Prince Kaedryn if that is easier,” I say. “Or Kaedryn.”
Her lips part slightly, then close.
I wait. I do not prompt her.
After a moment, she says, very softly, “I understand, Prince Kaedryn.”
My name in her voice is careful, almost fragile. But hearing it from her lips undoes something in me. The bond flares again, screaming at me to touch her. But I don’t.
“Yes,” I say, and my own voice comes rougher than I intend. “That is acceptable.”
Color warms her cheeks again, faint but real. She looks away first. The bond surges with the violent urge to press her against the wall and claim her here and now. I lock the instinct down before I can act on it.
Mirelle lowers her eyes, pretending not to notice. Linnea busies herself with the wrap.
Adelina’s fingers smooth the front of her gown. “Your mother told me I should not worry about what the nobles might say because I outrank them.”
“You do.”
“I do not feel as though I do.”
That is the most honest thing she has said to me in days.
I hold myself very still. “Feeling it is not required tonight. Only remembering it.”
She looks at me again.
I choose the next words with more care. “It is important that we send a clear message tonight. To both kingdoms. To Zerath. To your brother.”
Her lashes lower. “I understand, Your—I” She freezes, her eyes widening. “Prince Kaedryn.”
I glance toward the gloves on the table. “Do you have questions about the dinner?”
She shakes her head quickly. I lift a brow.
Her fingers knot together before she says, “I have studied the seating customs, the expected order of address, the blessing before the meal, and the acceptable forms of refusal if I am offered wine or food I do not want.”
I stare at her for half a second. “Of course you have.”
A flash of worry crosses her face. “Was I not supposed to?”
“No.” I temper my voice before it can sound like rebuke. “That was not criticism.”
“Oh.” The word is small.
I drag a thumb along the side of my forefinger, resisting the urge to close the distance between us.
“I will try not to disappoint your family,” she says.
I do step closer then. “You are not an offering to my family.”
Her breath catches.
I hold her gaze. “You are becoming a part of my family.”
The mask falters. I see the fear underneath, and the exhaustion, and the fragile confusion of someone who has been given a place at a table and cannot decide whether the chair is another form of restraint.
Before either of us can say more, Sylas appears in the sitting room doorway with exactly the expression of a man who has never respected solemnity in his life.
“Not to disturb whatever emotionally constipated diplomacy is happening in here,” he says, “but Mother has delayed dinner as long as she can. Father is now discussing grain tariffs with Lord Edrin, and several innocent people are suffering.”
Adelina blinks. That tiny, startled movement pulls some of the tension out of the room.
Sylas bows to her with absurd elegance. “Princess Adelina, you look radiant enough to make every woman in the hall furious and every man too stupid to speak properly. Please use this power responsibly.”
Her face flushes, not with fear this time. “Thank you, Prince Sylas.”
“See?” Sylas says, glancing at me. “Already devastating.”
I should tell him to behave. But all I manage is a grunt.
Linnea brings Adelina’s wrap, a soft silver-blue fabric that settles around her shoulders without hiding the gown. Adelina accepts the gloves from Mirelle and slips them on carefully.
I offer my arm slowly. “It will show unity before the court.”
Her gaze drops to my arm. The room quiets around us. For one breath, I think she will refuse. I would let her.
Then she places her fingertips lightly on my sleeve. I do not cover her hand with mine.
“Ready?” I ask.
Her shoulders lift with a slow breath. Then settle.
“No,” she says. The honesty is so quiet I almost miss it.
I look down at her.
She keeps her eyes forward, but her fingers remain on my sleeve. “No,” she repeats, softer. “But I will go.”
Something in me shifts painfully. “Then we will go together,” I say.
And when we leave her rooms for the watching court below, I make sure my pace follows hers.