Chapter 41 The Announcement
The Announcement
The dining chamber doors open. I expect the full royal display. Instead, the table holds only four settings. King Sevrin reclines at the head, already flushed from drink. My sister sits to his right, luminous and composed, as though she has been waiting for me.
Sevrin lifts his goblet. “Well,” he says, voice thick with whiskey. “Look at that. The lovers return.”
Yvara smiles sweetly. “You are both glowing,” she says. “Though perhaps that is only proximity.” Her eyes slide to me. “I imagine voyeurism can be quite stimulating, dear sister. Watching your husband…entertain.”
The word is barely finished before the air in the room tightens. Yvara inhales and does not draw breath. Her hand flies to her throat. Nothing is there, yet she cannot breathe. Her eyes widen. The color drains from her face.
Colsar does not raise his voice. “Until you fuck your way into becoming queen,” he says calmly, “you remain a Baron’s daughter.”
Yvara’s chair scrapes against the floor as she half rises, fingers clawing at her neck.
“And the next time my wife enters a room,” he continues, “you will stand. And you will curtsy.”
“Colsar,” Sevrin mutters.
Yvara makes a strangled sound, silent and terrified.
“Colsar.”
The table trembles as Sevrin slams his palm against it.
“Colsar, stop.”
The pressure releases and Yvara collapses back into her seat, dragging air into her lungs in broken gulps. The room smells faintly of fear.
Sevrin wipes his mouth and laughs too loudly. “The announcement,” he says. “That is why we are here.”
He gestures lazily toward Yvara. “She is with child.”
I should not be surprised.
“With child,” he repeats, pleased with himself. “And we will be formally betrothed soon. The public announcement will follow once the pregnancy is stable.”
Yvara rests a hand over her abdomen as though she already wears a crown. “I could not bear to keep such happiness from you, dear sister.”
I cannot breathe. I cannot live beneath her again. Not as princess, not with her as queen. The room begins to shift inward, my thoughts racing, spiraling—
A hand grips my arm, warm and firm. I look at Colsar. He blinks once, then twice, then three times. Just play pretend.
I take a deep breath and force my lungs to fill. “Congratulations, my King,” I say evenly. “Congratulations, dear sister. How wonderful. When will the wedding planning begin?”
Sevrin grins. “As soon as we know the child will survive. A few months.” He drinks again.
Colsar’s hand slides from my arm down into mine, his fingers threading through mine beneath the table.
His thumb moves slowly across my skin. Warm.
Grounding. He attempts to speak of border disputes, of military movement, of grain shortages.
Sevrin waves him off, changing topics mid-sentence, circling back to wine, to celebration, to crude innuendo.
I want to leave. I squeeze Colsar’s arm, and he inclines his head in acknowledgment.
“Brother,” Colsar says finally, “we would like to be excused.”
“Excused?” Sevrin repeats, squinting. “Together?”
“Yes.”
Sevrin smirks. “Stay. Have a drink.”
“No,” Colsar replies. “I have a gift for my Princess.”
Sevrin’s eyes darken. “What kind of gift?”
“A husband’s gift,” Colsar answers. “I would prefer not to spoil the surprise.”
Yvara laughs lightly. “The King gives me diamonds constantly, sister. It is about time you receive something of your own.”
Colsar turns to his brother. “If she continues to speak this way,” he says quietly, “we will not remain here. Not at your table. Not in your palace. Not on your warfront.”
Sevrin laughs again, but there is something strained beneath it.
“Where the fuck would you go? You cannot take her from me.”
Sevrin nods toward me. “You do not even want her. The marriage is barely real.”
It stings in a way I do not entirely understand.
Colsar’s thumb presses once more across my knuckles. “We would go to my mountain hold,” he says evenly. “Or elsewhere. There are few ties left binding me here.”
“You would surrender your position?” Sevrin scoffs.
“Without hesitation,” Colsar replies.
“Your Princess does not wish to live in the mountains,” Sevrin snaps.
“She is mine,” Colsar says, and this time there is heat in it. “Not yours. I married her.”
“He is right,” I interrupt quietly. “I am his before I belong to the realm or to you.”
Both brothers look at me. Sevrin stares as though I have struck him.
“What the fuck is this?” he demands.
Colsar rises and I rise with him. He bows and I curtsy.
“I recommend,” Colsar says, voice cool once more, “that your future wife receive proper royal training. Should she fail to curtsy again, I will call the council to consider consequences. Pregnancy does not excuse disrespect.”
“How dare you insult the—”
“The royal bastard?” Colsar supplies lightly. “Until you marry her, that is precisely what the child is.”
The room falls silent. We turn and walk out, together. We may not be lovers, but we are certainly united.