Chapter 75 #2
"I was beaten so badly I nearly lost my children." The words move through the space without rushing. "I, the Princess of Veynar, was assaulted so badly that I had to flee to another country for safety."
A ripple moves through the crowd. Sevrin feels it go.
Asharin shifts slightly as Colsar places a hand on her shoulder. "But it seems that in Veynar, crime is rewarded." Her voice remains even. "While you labor and follow the laws of this kingdom, my sister may attempt to harm me and still stand before you in silk, untouched by consequence."
Sevrin feels the subtle but unmistakable turning of the crowd, the way attention moves away from Yvara’s protest and toward Asharin’s words as though drawn there by something stronger than curiosity.
He could answer. He could say that Yvara had been confined, that punishment had already been carried out within these walls, that what remained would have been worse had Asharin not returned.
He had intended it. He had delayed only for her.
But the explanation stays where it is, unspoken, because he knows the moment for it has already passed.
Yvara finds her feet and pushes forward. Her mouth is now covered in blood, and Sevrin wonders if she has lost a tooth. Her voice breaks through the air in a way that draws attention back to her only briefly. “That is not—”
“She approaches me as though nothing has passed between us. As though we are equals,” Asharin cuts in with a harsh laugh.
The courtyard absorbs it all, the silence that follows thick with tension, or anger, Sevrin cannot tell which.
A man steps forward from Asharin’s side, his presence immediate in a way that draws Sevrin’s attention without effort, the distance between him and Asharin close enough to register, close enough to provoke a quiet irritation in him.
“I am General Trophisan of Alarna. Under Alarnan law,” the man says, his tone composed, “the offense described is not a private matter. The accused should be punished according to our laws and returned with us as a prisoner.”
Asharin smiles up at him. “The lightcraft we possess is quite strong, Majesty. The undead tremble in its presence. Would you risk the potential for an alliance for this?” She nods with disgust toward Yvara.
The words leave little room for interpretation.
Yvara turns, whatever composure she had managed to gather slipping again as panic takes hold in full.
“No,” she says, her voice rising as she looks toward Sevrin, toward the one figure who still has the power to change what is unfolding.
“No, that is not how this works. You cannot take me. Sevrin—”
He steps forward then, his voice carrying across the courtyard with the authority it has always held. “This is a matter best discussed in council.”
The statement draws a boundary, restoring a measure of order without denying what has been set before them.
The Alarnan man inclines his head slightly.
“Only if our Queen agrees,” he says, his tone unchanged.
“If she declines further discussion and finds your dungeon insufficient, then Yvara becomes our prisoner. Or Veynar may choose to make us its enemy.”
Asharin smiles. “I will speak with you directly on the matter, King Sevrin. And if your response displeases me I will act accordingly. Yvara Dyvarin’s fate is not worthy of discussion in council while a war actively threatens this country. My time is precious, and Veynar deserves better.”
Murmurs of approval ripple through the courtyard. Colsar smiles, a look of what appears to be pride crosses over his face.
Sevrin meets her eyes calmly. “That is acceptable.”
The meaning spreads across the courtyard in full view of every person present, from the guards who stand ready at the edges to the commoners pressed beyond them, all of them witnesses to a moment that has already moved beyond private dispute into something far more public.
The crowd watches in silence, waiting to see where authority will fall and who will claim it.
Asharin looks at him directly. It is not defiance, or even challenge, but a declaration, as though she is introducing herself again.
Perhaps she believes this version of her surprises him.
Upsets him, even. She is wrong. This is not new.
It has always been there. The same woman who once vomited fraisah on him without hesitation stands before him now.This has always been his favorite version of her.
His thoughts are broken by Yvara’s pleas. She shakes her head, her voice breaking as she tries again, the effort now stripped of the confidence she had carried into it. “You cannot take me,” she says, blood trickling from her mouth, the words lacking the force they require. “You cannot—Sevrin—”
A squeal cuts through the air. Colsar has the boy in his arms now.
Somewhere in between Asharin’s speech and Yvara’s blood-soaked pleas, the child had found joy in his father’s arms. He looks, and the dark-haired man who stood near Asharin earlier is now behind Colsar, sticking his tongue out at the child.
The face clearly amused the boy, whose squeal had been loud enough to cut through the courtyard.
There is a brief silence. Then a voice from the crowd shouts, “Long live the heirs!” Other voices follow, and the chant returns.
Sevrin stands at the center of it, aware in a way he has never needed to be before that the ground beneath him has changed, and that the balance he has held for so long is no longer entirely his to command.