Chapter 5:
The Weight of the Crown
The royal study was a fortress of oak and iron, its walls lined with shelves of leather-bound tomes and maps of Eldoria's sprawling lands. Alaric stood before his father, King Roderic, whose presence filled the room like a storm cloud. The king's silver hair gleamed in the firelight, but his eyes were cold, fixed on his son with an intensity that made Alaric feel like a boy again, not the crown prince of twenty-five.
"You've been distracted," Roderic said, his voice low but cutting. "The Valorian envoys are whispering, Alaric. They question your commitment to this alliance. Do you understand what's at stake?"
Alaric's jaw tightened, the note from Elara—still hidden in his pocket—burning against his thigh. "I've met with them daily, Father. We negotiatiated trade terms yesterday and have a new draft in review. Lysandra and I are handling it."
"Handling it?" Roderic leaned forward, his hands gripping the arms of his throne-like chair. "Handling it means producing an heir, not just signing papers. This marriage is Eldoria's shield against Valoria's ambitions. If you falter, we risk war."
The word heir landed like a stone in Alaric's gut. He and Lysandra had barely spoken beyond council meetings, let alone shared a bed. The thought of forcing intimacy for the sake of duty repelled him, and yet, the image of Elara's hazel eyes flashed unbidden in his mind—her quiet strength, her cryptic warning. He pushed the thought away, focusing on his father. "Lysandra and I are… adjusting. It's only been days."
"Days are enough for rumors to spread," Roderic snapped. "Lord Cassian tells me you've been seen in the servants' quarters. What business does a prince have there?"
Alaric's blood ran cold. Cassian. The note's warning echoed—Beware Lord Cassian. Trust no one. "I was ensuring the staff was prepared for the banquet," he lied, his voice steady. "The envoys expect perfection."
Roderic's eyes narrowed, but he waved a hand. "Enough excuses. Tonight's banquet is your chance to show unity with Lysandra. Charm the envoys, silence the whispers, and do your duty. The crown depends on it."
Dismissed, Alaric left the study, his chest tight with frustration. The corridor outside was quiet, save for the distant clatter of servants preparing for the evening. He needed air, needed to clear his head before facing the court's scrutiny again. He headed for the balcony overlooking the palace gardens, where roses glowed faintly in the afternoon sun.
Below, he spotted her—Elara, carrying a basket of linens, her auburn hair catching the light. She paused to adjust her load, and for a moment, she looked up, their eyes meeting across the distance. Alaric's heart skipped, a reckless urge to call out to her rising, but he stayed silent. She turned away, disappearing into the servants' wing, and he felt the loss like a physical ache.
The banquet that evening was a glittering affair, the great hall transformed with candlelight and garlands of ivy. Alaric sat beside Lysandra, their hands clasped for the court's benefit, though her touch was cool and perfunctory. She wore a sapphire gown, her expression polished but distant, as if playing a role in a masque. The Valorian envoys, seated nearby, toasted their alliance, but Alaric caught Lord Varen's calculating glance, as if weighing their every move.
"You're quiet tonight," Lysandra murmured, her voice low as the musicians struck up a waltz. "Your father's orders weighing on you?"
Alaric forced a smile, aware of the eyes on them. "Just tired of politics. You seem to handle it better than I do."
She tilted her head, studying him. "I was raised to navigate courts, not to feel at home in them. You, though—you look like you'd rather be anywhere else." Her tone held a hint of curiosity, almost softness, but it vanished as she added, "We can't afford that, Alaric. Not now."
He nodded, but his gaze drifted to the servants moving through the hall, refilling goblets and clearing plates. Elara was among them, her movements graceful, her face composed despite the weight of trays she carried. He wondered what she'd overheard that night in the council chamber, what risks she'd taken to warn him. The thought of her courage, her secrets, stirred something in him—a longing to know her, not just as a maid but as the woman behind those guarded eyes.
As the dance began, Alaric rose, offering Lysandra his hand. They joined the swirling couples, their steps flawless, a picture of unity for the court. But as he spun her, his eyes found Elara again, pausing by a pillar, her expression unreadable. For a fleeting moment, he imagined dancing with her instead, her laughter replacing the court's hollow cheers. The thought was dangerous, forbidden—but it was also the first time all day he'd felt truly alive.
As the waltz ended, Lysandra leaned close, her voice a whisper meant only for him. "You're playing a dangerous game, Alaric. I see where your eyes wander. Be careful—it's not just your heart you risk, but our kingdoms' peace."
Her words cut deep, a reminder of the stakes he couldn't ignore. He bowed to her, the perfect prince, and escorted her back to their seats. But as the banquet continued, his thoughts lingered on Elara, on the note, on the spark of something real in a world of facades. He didn't know how, but he would find a way to speak to her again—to uncover her secrets, and perhaps his own.