Chapter 14 The Reception
The Reception
The reception is held in a hall built to impress enemies into submission.
Tall windows stretch toward the ceiling, draped in ivory and gold. Light from a dozen chandeliers spills over crystal goblets, polished armor, and silk gowns heavy with jewels meant to declare allegiance. Music hums through the space, strings layered with low drums, deep and ceremonial.
I enter beside Prince Colsar.
I do not wear the pale silk from the altar.
I wear gold. The gown clings and curves as though poured along my body while still molten, its neckline low enough to command attention, the bodice sculpted to my waist before falling in a liquid column that parts just enough at my hip to reveal movement beneath.
A narrow crescent of bare skin shows at my abdomen where silk yields, and the Mark of Forizan gleams unhidden at my collarbone, its gold alive against my skin.
My hair falls unbound down my back, a spill of luminous strands that catch the chandelier light.
Voices falter. One by one, conversations die mid-sentence.
Heads turn openly now, no longer pretending courtesy.
The music stumbles, strings dragging for half a beat before falling unevenly back into rhythm.
The attention presses in from every side, thick and unhidden.
I feel myself being assessed, weighed, discussed without words.
The unveiled bride. The girl who was never meant to be seen.
Colsar’s arm beneath my hand is stiff, his posture immaculate, his eyes fixed ahead as though I am not there. He offers no comfort.
It is Eravic who lifts his goblet first. “Long live the Prince and Princess,” he calls, his voice carrying clear and unwavering through the stunned quiet.
Sound surges back into the hall at once, cheers rising, goblets lifted, music reclaiming its rhythm as though the court has been released from a spell.
Applause rolls through the chamber, allegiance declared loudly now, exuberantly, as if volume alone can disguise the truth that they have witnessed something rare.
A goblet appears in Colsar’s hand almost immediately, and he drinks as if it is a task rather than a pleasure.
The King has been drinking heavily. Sevrin lounges at the high table, one boot propped carelessly against the wood, whiskey cradled in his fingers. He looks entertained in the way a man looks entertained when something has exceeded his expectations.
I take my seat when directed. The chair feels too small, the space too exposed.
Servants move in practiced patterns, refilling cups, offering plates.
I eat little. I am intensely aware of how my mouth moves, how I lift my glass, how my uncovered face must look performing something as simple as existing.
Across the room, I see Mysin standing near a pillar, partially obscured by shadow.
One eye is swollen nearly shut, bruised deep and ugly.
His hand is wrapped thickly in linen and held close to his body, as though even the air pains him.
He watches me, and I do not acknowledge him.
Not when he shifts his stance. Not when his attention lingers.
Not when something like disbelief crosses his face. He no longer exists to me.
Yvara notices first. Her eyes shift from me to Mysin and back again. Her lips press into a thin line. She rises slightly from her seat, as though considering approaching, then eases back with forced grace. She lifts her chin, fingers tightening in her skirts.
My father sits beside her, rigid and silent.
He has not spoken since the ceremony. He does not look proud.
He does not look relieved. He looks betrayed, as though something carefully hidden has been revealed before witnesses he cannot silence.
When his eyes land on me, there is no warmth there.
Only calculation, and resentment. I look away.
The quartet shifts tempo.
“I should have requested dance lessons,” Colsar mutters under his breath.
I turn toward him. “You still can,” I say lightly. “If your footwork needs instruction, Highness.”
He does not respond. Before he can say more, I lift my hand, two fingers raised. The musicians respond instantly, the melody smoothing into a waltz that ripples through the hall.
Colsar hesitates for a fraction of a second, then steps forward.
“I am more well bred than you think, Your Highness,” I say lightly as I place my hand in his. In truth, I had spent years in the shadows, watching Yvara as she received lesson after lesson. I would practice in the kitchens, in the woods. All in preparation for a moment like tonight.
We move as though we have practiced this a hundred times, though we have never touched like this before.
His steps are precise, elegant in their restraint, every turn measured to the music that coils through the hall in a slow, dangerous rhythm.
His hand rests at the small of my back, firm enough that I feel the exact place where his palm molds to me.
It is a courtly hold that should feel impersonal, yet it does not.
The gold of my gown catches the light as we turn, and I feel his attention shift over me, not wandering but studying, as though he is attempting to reconcile something that refuses to align with expectation.
“You were not meant to look like this,” he says, the words low enough to vanish beneath the swell of strings.
I lift my face toward him, letting my hair brush the line of his shoulder as we pivot. “Like what?”
“Tempting.”
The admission emerges through irritation, as though desire offends him.
“You married me.”
“I signed a contract,” he corrects, though his hand has already tightened slightly against my back.
“Yes,” I say, allowing the next turn to bring me closer than necessary, my palm sliding against his shoulder as though by accident. “You did.”
The floor shifts beneath us in a smooth arc. His fingers adjust, recalibrating their hold as the contact grows more exact, more aware. “This is an arrangement,” he continues, as if reminding himself rather than me. “Nothing more.”
“Of course.”
“And arrangements remain contained.”
“Contained?” I echo softly, my thigh brushing his during the next step, silk whispering against silk. “Are you certain?”
“They must be,” he says, and there is strain in it now, a thread pulled too tight.
The music lowers into something slower, darker.
He draws me into the turn, closer than etiquette requires, until my body aligns with his in a way that leaves no space for misinterpretation.
My ribs feel the rise and fall of his chest. His breath touches my temple, warm and uneven despite the perfection of his posture.
For a moment, the control he wears so carefully shifts beneath the surface. “You are more difficult than I anticipated,” he says, and this time the words carry no irritation, only awareness.
“In what way?” I ask, letting my fingers trail just slightly along the line of his shoulder as we reverse direction.
“You complicate the terms.”
“Is it inconvenient to dislike me?”
His eyes lower to mine fully now, unflinching, and whatever composure he intended to maintain bends under the weight of it. “It is inconvenient to remember this is only an agreement.”
The confession thickens the air between us. I let my hand slide down the line of his arm as the choreography demands separation before drawing us back together. “You seem to remember quite well.”
“I will not blur lines,” he says, and though his tone is controlled, his fingers press ever so slightly against the bare skin at my back where the gown dips low. The touch lingers an instant longer than necessary. “If distance is required, I will create it.”
“Distance?” I repeat, letting the word rest against him like a challenge.
“Yes.”
The next turn brings us nearly chest to chest. The gold at my collarbone gleams again and I feel the way his focus falters there, then drifts lower before he forces it back to my face.
“And how,” I ask quietly, my lips close enough that only he can hear, “do you propose to create distance when you cannot stop touching me?”
His shoulders tense, yet his hand does not move.
Around us the court continues to watch, unaware that the air between Prince and Princess has become something volatile, something that hums with the promise of ignition.
He guides me through another sweep of the floor, the movement smooth, commanding, almost punishing in its precision, but when he draws me in again his restraint feels thinner. “You play dangerously,” he murmurs.
“I thought you preferred clean arrangements.”
His mouth lowers closer to my ear as we pivot once more, and the warmth of his voice presses against my skin. “I prefer control,” he says.
I lift my eyes to his and let him see that I understand exactly what that means. “And yet,” I reply softly, “you are the one holding the fire.”
He spins me once more, and when he pulls me back in, his hand slides along my back just enough to leave heat behind.
“You will be treated as my wife in public,” he says.
“Do not mistake that for anything softer.” The song ends.
He releases me first, as though letting go is something he has practiced.
Before I can respond, a familiar voice cuts in. “Your Highness.”
I turn to find Eravic Vaelor bowing, elegant and unhurried, his expression open and warm. He looks entirely different from the man in the tavern, and unmistakably the same. “On behalf of my house,” he says, “congratulations. May I request a dance with the bride?”
Colsar does not object.
The moment Eravic draws me close, a soft laugh escapes him. “Definitely not a lad.”
The laugh that leaves me in response surprises us both. It is real, light, and unrestrained.
“If I had known you were to be forced into marrying that prick,” he adds quietly, “I would have intervened.”
“Was my kiss so unforgettable?” I ask.
His tone shifts, serious now. “It absolutely was.” He spins me easily, the movement fluid.
He pulls me toward him, voice low, “almost as unforgettable as the noises you made in my ear that night.” My face burns at the memory.
I catch sight of Sevrin watching us, amusement dimming into something more focused. Colsar has stopped drinking.
As Eravic dips me, his mouth near my ear, his voice lowers. “Princess Asharin. I know who you are. You have a family who loves you and has been searching for you. Endure this place as long as you can. Someone will come for you. If you need to escape before then, you know how to find me.”
I draw breath. “Do you truly—”
“I believe it is my turn.”
Sevrin steps in smoothly, his presence immediate. Eravic releases me, his hands steady on my shoulders. “Soon,” he murmurs, before disappearing into the crowd.
The King pulls me into the dance without pretense. Whiskey clings to him, heavy and sweet. “You are fucking beautiful,” he says. “I want to tear the eyes out of every man in this room. Including my brother.”
“Majesty,” I reply evenly, “you are drunk.”
“And delighted,” he says with a laugh. He looks around the room for a moment with a slight frown. “I was told my mother would attend.”
“I thought so as well,” I admit. “I was told she planned to.”
“The Queen Dowager never fails to disappoint,” he replies dryly. “Or perhaps something more important than her son’s wedding demanded her attention.”
We turn with the music. His grip is possessive, his presence overwhelming.
“Why pluck eyes,” I murmur, “when you could simply discipline my sister instead? Is that not your preferred pastime?”
His laughter rings out. “You are dangerous.”
“Only to those who deserve it.”
As the dance ends, he leans close. “I have never seen you laugh here the way you did with Vaelor.”
I curtsy. “He is funnier than you, and far less burdensome.”
He throws his head back, laughing loudly. Across the room, Yvara glowers. My father looks away. Mysin lowers his head. I meet my sister’s stare and smile. For the first time in my life, I do not feel small.