Chapter 19 Favor and Steel
The lists breathe.
That is the only way I can describe it: the great stretch of sand and timber feels alive beneath the morning sun, pulsing with anticipation.
Dust hangs in the air like a held breath, catching the light as banners snap overhead.
Crimson. Gold. Deep blues embroidered with sigils of ancient houses that still believe bloodlines matter more than bones and blood.
The crowd is already restless.
Vendors shout over one another, hawking sweet wine and honeyed nuts. Children sit on shoulders, waving small flags. Nobles laugh too loudly, their voices sharp with the hope that today will distract them from court politics and whispered treasons.
I rest my hands against the carved railing of the royal canopy, leaning forward despite myself.
I have always loved this.
Not the violence, not entirely, but the clarity of it. The simplicity. Two riders. Two lances. Skill, courage, balance. For a moment, titles fade beneath armor. A man is only as good as his sword, his strength, his nerve.
Once, I used to wish I could be one of the princesses leaning from balconies, silk trailing from my wrists as I handed out favors.
Scarves kissed and tied.
Ribbons knotted with laughter.
A promise of luck whispered into steel.
Once, I wanted to choose.
But I was betrothed before I could fully understand what the word meant. Before I knew how to resent it.
It was decided early that I would not give favors. That it would be disrespectful to the future prince consort. That my smile belonged to diplomacy, not desire. That my presence was already promised, there was nothing left to offer.
I push the thought away.
Alexander sits several rows below, flanked by his advisers, dressed in immaculate silks meant to suggest refinement rather than weakness. He claps when others clap. Smiles when expected. He does not wear armor.
Of course, he doesn't.
I doubt he knows how to strap it on.
My gaze drifts back to the field as knights assemble, the thud of hooves and clatter of armor creating a rhythm that settles deep in my chest. One by one, noble ladies descend the steps, laughter trailing like perfume, tying favors to arms and lances.
Scarlet ribbons.
Ivory lace.
Colors chosen carefully to be seen.
Each knight bows low, reverent, some flushed beneath their helms, others solemn as if receiving a blessing rather than a scrap of silk.
And then—
I notice what isn't there.
At the far edge of the lists, where the sun struggles to reach, a single knight sits apart from the rest. No lady approaches him. No squire hovers nervously at his shoulder.
His helmet rests beside him on the ground.
He is polishing his sword himself.
The cloth moves slowly, methodically, along the blade. He sits on a low log, one knee raised, forearm resting casually against it. His armor is well-kept but plain—no gilding, no unnecessary ornament.
No favor.
The horn sounds once, signaling the final call.
Still, no one approaches him.
Something tightens in my chest.
Before I can overthink it, I straighten.
Murmurs ripple as I step away from the canopy. Guards tense immediately, hands hovering near hilts.
"I'll be on the ground," I say evenly. "Here."
They hesitate, then part.
The descent feels longer than it is. Stone steps give way to packed sand, the heat of the day rising to meet me. Conversations falter as I cross the field, my presence pulling attention like gravity.
I do not look at them.
I look only at him.
He senses me before I speak, of course, he does.
Dante lifts his head as I stop a few paces away, dark hair damp at the nape of his neck, eyes narrowing slightly against the sun.
"Well," he drawls, lips curving lazily, "this is unexpected."
"You know," he adds, flicking his gaze to my boots, "people usually announce themselves before sneaking up on armed men."
"I've been stabbed before," I reply dryly. "I survived."
His mouth twitches. "Bold strategy."
My eyes drop to the blade in his hands. "Why are you polishing your own sword?"
He looks down at it as if only now remembering it exists. "Because it needs polishing."
"Don't you have a squire?"
"I do," he says easily. "I just don't like him touching my things."
I huff a quiet laugh despite myself and glance around. "You didn't receive a favor."
"No," he agrees.
"Why?"
He studies me for a moment, then chuckles. "Well, it's simple, my stupid queen."
I arch a brow. "Careful."
"My reputation precedes me," he continues, unbothered. "Brutal tyrant. Blood-soaked king. Ruiner of men. Apparently, noble ladies prefer knights who don't collect skulls."
"I doubt that's the official reason."
"Official reasons are rarely honest."
He rises smoothly, sheathing the sword with practiced ease. He rolls his shoulders like a man entirely comfortable in his body, in his strength.
"But don't worry," he adds lightly. "I don't need luck."
"Everyone needs a little good luck."
He scoffs. "Luck is for men who plan to lose."
"Confidence," I counter, "is for men who haven't been humbled yet."
That earns a real laugh, low, warm, unexpected. It ripples through him, softening something sharp around his eyes.
"Careful, Your Majesty," he says. "That almost sounded like concern."
I do not answer.
Instead, I reach up.
The scarf at my neck, deep crimson silk, warm from my skin, slides free slowly. I step closer before he can object, lifting his arm gently but firmly.
He stills.
Completely.
The crowd seems to fade as I wrap the fabric around his forearm, tying it carefully, deliberately. The red stands out starkly against steel, impossible to miss.
"As Queen," I say quietly, meeting his eyes, "I support everyone who comes to my land."
I tighten the knot.
"Even the undesirable."
For once, Dante does not joke.
He looks down at the scarf, then back at me, something flickering across his face: surprise, respect, something dangerously close to warmth.
"Well," he murmurs, "that's unfortunate."
"Why?"
"Because now," he says, leaning in just enough that only I can hear, "I'll have to win. It would be rude to waste a Queen's favor."
The horn blares.
The moment shatters.
He steps back, helm already in hand, slipping it on with ease.
I retreat to my place as the crowd erupts, heart beating a little faster than it should.
When the joust begins, every knight rides hard.
But only one rides with crimson silk snapping proudly in the wind.
And I cannot look away.
I feel Alexander before I see him.
There is a particular pressure his presence brings, subtle but insistent, like fingers curling around a wrist that does not belong to him. The air beside me shifts, heavy with cologne and entitlement, and I keep my gaze trained on the lists below, refusing to acknowledge him just yet.
The ground trembles as hooves thunder past.
Steel crashes against steel.
The crowd roars, a living thing swelling and breaking with every strike.
Only when Alexander clears his throat do I turn.
His eyes are not on me.
They are locked on the strip of crimson silk tied around Dante's arm.
His jaw tightens—a muscle ticks.
"Why," he asks, voice smooth in the way men practice when they think control is slipping, "did you give a knight your scarf?"
I let the question hang between us for a moment, watching Dante lower his lance with effortless precision. The sun catches on polished armor, flashes of light dancing across the field like sparks from a forge.
"Why do you sound," I ask calmly, "like you already know the answer?"
Alexander exhales sharply through his nose. "Because I do. A favor is not a casual thing."
Now I turn fully toward him.
"And what," I ask, tilting my head, "do you believe a favor means?"
He opens his mouth.
Pauses.
Closes it again.
That hesitation tells me everything I need to know.
"A favor," I say, my tone patient but edged, "does not automatically represent love or courtship. It can—but it can also signify respect. Support. Allegiance."
I gesture toward the field with an open hand. "Sometimes it is simply acknowledgment."
He frowns. "You expect me to believe you meant it as a political gesture?"
"Yes," I reply flatly. "Because it was one."
His brows draw together. "You gave a foreign king a personal token in front of half the court."
"And you should be thanking me for it," I say coolly.
That finally makes him look at me instead of the scarf.
"Thanking you?" His voice sharpens. "For undermining me?"
I lean forward slightly, resting my hands on the railing again. Below us, Dante's horse surges forward, powerful muscles rippling beneath its coat.
"You mistake acknowledgment for betrayal," I say. "And that tells me you don't understand the board you're standing on."
Alexander scoffs. "He's a brute. A warlord. His reputation alone—"
"—is earned," I cut in smoothly. "Every drop of it."
Below us, Dante unseats his opponent with brutal efficiency. The knight hits the ground hard, armor slamming into sand. The crowd erupts, a thunderous wave of cheers.
"You fear him," I continue quietly. "And you should."
Alexander stiffens. "You exaggerate."
"No," I say. "I calculate."
I turn my gaze back to the field. "His kingdom is ten times the size of ours. Ten. Times. Larger. His borders stretch farther than your maps show, and his resources—grain, steel, workforce—dwarf ours."
Alexander's fingers curl into his palm.
"His royal guard alone," I add, "could tear through our standing army before our banners were fully raised."
"That's absurd—"
"It's accurate," I interrupt, voice like cut glass.
Another clash below. Another victory. Dante barely looks winded.
"Do you know how many wars he has fought?" I ask. "Fifty. How many rebellions has he crushed?"
I glance sideways at Alexander.
"Every single one."
His confidence falters. I see it now, flickering behind his eyes.
"How do you know so much about him?" he demands.
I blink.
Once.
Slowly.
The look I give him is not gentle.
"How," I ask incredulously, "do you expect to be king if you don't know the rulers who surround you?"
Color creeps up his neck. "I—"
"The continent is divided into four sectors," I say sharply, cutting him off. "East. West. North. South."
I lift one finger.
"The North has five kings," I say. "They share the land because the cold leaves them no choice. Cooperation is survival."
A second finger.
"The West has three," I continue. "Warlike. Competitive. Always pushing borders."
A third.
"The East has eight," I say. "Trade kingdoms. Wealth over warfare. That is why they drown themselves in festivals. Commerce thrives on spectacle."
Then I curl my hand into a fist.
"And the South," I finish, "has one."
Alexander swallows.
"One king," I repeat. "One crown. One will. All the land answers to him."
Below us, Dante rides again, the crimson silk bright against steel and motion, impossible to ignore.
"And you thought," I say softly, "that offending him would be wise?"
Alexander clenches his jaw. "Your intentions concern me."
"Of course they do," I reply coolly. "Because you think you are the only man entitled to my favor."
"I am your fiancé," he snaps. "Your personal actions are my concern."
I turn fully toward him now.
"You are not a knight," I say plainly. "And you never have been."
His eyes flash. "That's not—"
"When you become one," I interrupt, unflinching, "when you earn armor instead of wearing silk, when you take the field instead of hiding behind titles, then I will gladly give you my favor."
His mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
"Until then," I continue, turning back to the field, "I will give it to the most deserving knight."
The final clash is brutal.
Dante strikes fast, clean, devastating. His opponent barely has time to react before he's disarmed and thrown from the saddle. The roar of the crowd is deafening.
I don't restrain myself this time.
I lean forward, heart pounding, excitement sharp and electric as Dante claims victory after victory. There is no hesitation in him. No doubt.
He wins.
Of course he does.
When it's over, he reins in his horse and turns.
His gaze finds me immediately.
He dismounts with fluid ease and approaches the railing where I stand. He removes his helm, dark hair damp with sweat, eyes bright with something dangerous and alive.
He unties the scarf from his arm and holds it out to me.
"Thank you," he says.
Then—
He looks at Alexander.
And the change is instantaneous.
The warmth drains from his face like a blade sliding free.
What remains is cold.
Cruel.
Calculating.
It is the expression of a man who has buried kings and would do so again without hesitation.
Alexander startles.
He actually takes a step back.
I feel the power shift, the sudden understanding crashing into him like cold water.
Dante inclines his head once—barely a bow.
Then he turns away.
The crowd cheers.
But Alexander is silent.