43. A Royal Arrangement
S elene doesn’t ride home unaccompanied on her horse.
Instead, she rides in the royal carriage, opposite the King of Ashvold himself.
The journey is a quiet one. Eirik does not speak to her.
He does not ask her anything about herself, or talk about what they will say to her parents or anyone who asks.
They need no cover story. He is the King of Ashvold.
No one expects a love match, no one will ask him for a tale behind their sudden engagement.
He doesn’t need to know anything about her.
The carriage trundles on, wheels crunching over the winding gravel drive that leads to Roselune Abbey. Selene sits rigidly in her seat. Eirik, across from her, might as well be carved from stone. He hasn’t glanced her way since they set out, his gaze fixed on some distant, unseen point .
It’s nothing like the carriage ride she’d shared with Dorian on the way to their wedding, where they’d both been trying desperately to break the tension whilst Dorian battled with his allergies against her knowledge.
Her eyes prickle at the memory, but she doesn’t let the tears fall.
Not in front of the King.
When the carriage finally rolls to a halt, her breath catches.
A footman darts forward to open the door, and before she can gather herself, Eirik is already stepping out.
He turns only briefly, offering his hand.
Selene hesitates before taking it, his fingers cool and firm around hers as he helps her down.
She barely has time to compose herself before her parents arrive.
“Your Majesty,” her father greets, dipping his head. “This is... an unexpected honour.”
Selene forces her spine straighter. “Father, Mother,” she says, “I have returned home with news. His Majesty and I are to be wed.”
Silence falls over the grounds.
Her father’s expression doesn’t change. Her mother, however, turns her gaze to Eirik, assessing, before finally settling on Selene.
Her shock gives way to a smile.
Selene clenches her teeth. She doesn’t want her mother’s approval.
“You do us a great honour, Your Majesty,” says Lady Duskbriar again, dropping into another low bow.
Lord Duskbriar seems at a loss for words. “Marriage,” he says eventually, “to… to the King of Ashvold?”
“Yes,” King Eirik replies. “Don’t look so surprised, Lord Duskbriar. You’ve raised quite the remarkable young woman.”
That alone would surprise Lord Duskbriar to hear, but he can hardly correct a king.
“I have,” he says, although it sounds like a question. “Forgive me,” he adds quickly, finally gathering his composure. “You must come inside. Let us discuss.”
“We should like to be married within a week,” Eirik declares.
A week. That doesn’t leave Selene with much time to make her preparations, but she can hardly explain that. Still, a week is monstrously small. Two weeks is considered the minimum.
But Eirik is the King. He can do as he pleases.
The two men march off into the house.
Her mother’s arm coils around hers. Her smile is radiant. “You have done very well, Selene,” she tells her. “I can’t imagine how such a thing has come about, but… well, that hardly matters, does it? A royal wedding! Come with me to the bower house. We must discuss—”
Selene yanks her arm away from her. “I find that I am exhausted by the day’s events,” she tells her. “I wish to lie down.”
She does not wait to be dismissed, although her mother gives her permission as she walks away from her. She is not her daughter anymore.
Selene isn’t sure she ever was.
For the rest of the night, Selene acts the part of the perfect, dutiful bride.
She takes dinner with her parents and Eirik, nodding alone with all of their suggestions, seeming pleased, excited.
At least she doesn’t have to pretend she loves him.
There’s only so much pretense she can summon.
Thankfully, there’s no one else she needs to pretend in front of. A formal engagement party will follow.
Her friends will have questions, even if no one dares to ask the King. She’ll have to prepare something.
She’ll tell them that she heard things about the Duke that made him feel like she couldn’t want him for a husband. Perhaps they’ll believe her if she says she went for the King out of spite .
She stamps out her thoughts. It hardly even matters. She doesn’t care what they think.
I’m just buying time, she reminds herself. Time to expose her mother. Time for Dorian to—
Tears eke past her eyes. There are no guarantees.
There never were.
But Dorian’s love had felt like that—an absolute, a certain, a truth that held her upright, gave her breath. It was the only thing in the world that had made sense to her.
And now, it’s gone.
The reality hits her the moment she’s alone again. The awful, overwhelming truth: not only does Dorian not remember her, but there’s no one in the world who currently loves her.
She is all alone.
Selene wakes with a start.
The room is dark, the curtains drawn shut, but something has pulled her from sleep. A sound—so faint she isn’t sure she heard it at all. A breath of air where there should be none.
She lies still, straining to listen.
Something creaks on her windowsill.
Her breath catches.
Her mind lurches back to the last time men came for her. To rough hands, muffled screams, the carriage rattling away. The Duke’s men. Have they come for her again? Has he decided to have his revenge for her refusing his hand?
Well, they won’t get away with it. Not this time.
She moves quickly, shoving pillows beneath the sheets, shaping them just enough to resemble her sleeping form. Flattening herself against the wall, she reaches blindly for the nearest heavy object. Her fingers close around the base of the silver candelabra on her nightstand.
The window eases open. A figure slips inside, moving soundlessly towards the bed.
Selene grips the candelabra tighter. Her pulse hammers.
The intruder steps into her line of sight.
She lunges. The candelabra strikes the back of the figure’s head, not nearly as hard as Selene would have liked. They stagger, caught off guard, and collapse to their knees.
Selene raises the candelabra again, ready for another blow—then the figure groans, shifting slightly, and she sees the shape of their shoulders, the fall of their pale hair.
Not a stranger.
Soren.