[ Aldric ]
They came to my room like wolves to a carcass.
That was uncharitable. I knew it was uncharitable even as I thought it, standing by the window of my chambers while Haeren arranged chairs and a servant poured wine into cups that would be held but not drunk, because drinking in front of a new Crown Prince required a level of vulnerability that none of these men were willing to show. But the image persisted — something had died today, some version of the future that had remained undefined until now, and these lords were arriving to inspect the remains and determine how to feed from them.
They came in groups. Pairs, mostly. Never alone — alone suggested desperation, a lord with no allies, forced to approach the throne without support. And never more than three — more than three suggested faction, which was a word that made emperors nervous and nervous emperors made decisions that ended bloodlines.
Lord Senthis arrived first. Expected. He was, after all, about to become my father-in-law. The fifth house. Old money, old name, steady influence — the kind of house that survived not by being the strongest but by never being weak enough to target. He brought Lord Vael of the eighth house with him, a quiet man who managed the empire's eastern trade routes and said very little in council meetings but controlled the flow of silk and spice that kept the treasury full.
"Your Highness," Senthis said. The title landed differently now. Heavier. When he had said it this morning, it was a formality. Now, after the council, after Father had arranged his children like pieces on a board, it was an investment. He was speaking to the man who would marry his daughter. The man who would, someday, become emperor. Every syllable was a down payment.
"Lord Senthis. Lord Vael. Please, sit."
They sat. The wine was offered. They held their cups. Nobody drank.
The conversation was careful. Senthis spoke about trade — a new route through the Amone coast that would reduce transport costs for the eastern provinces. Vael supplemented with numbers, precise and detailed, delivered in the flat tone of a man who had long ago accepted that his primary value to the world was his ability to calculate margins. They were not here to discuss trade. They were here to be seen discussing trade — to establish, in the unspoken ledger that every lord maintained, that they had been among the first to visit the Crown Prince's chambers. That they had access. That the door was open to them.
I listened. I asked two questions — one about the tariff structure, one about shipping volumes — that I already knew the answers to but that demonstrated I had been paying attention in council. Senthis smiled. Vael relaxed, fractionally. The test had been passed. The investment was confirmed.
They left after twenty minutes. Lord Haeren noted the duration in his notebook.
The second group was Lord Trelaine and Lord Morven — the thirteenth and sixteenth houses. Minor lords, but not insignificant. Trelaine's daughter had been named as one of the Saint candidates alongside Seraphine. He didn't mention this. He didn't need to. His presence in my room, on this day, at this hour, was the mention. He was drawing a line between his daughter's candidacy and his loyalty to the crown — a line so fine that only someone trained to see it would notice, and everyone in this castle was trained to see it.
Morven was quieter. He talked about his house's cavalry forces — the finest light cavalry in the empire, he claimed, a boast that was approximately sixty percent accurate. He was offering. Not directly, not in words that could be quoted or recorded, but in the way he described his forces — their readiness, their positioning, their loyalty to the crown. He was showing me his hand. Not all of it. Just enough to let me know it was there.
They left. Haeren noted the duration.
The third group. The fourth. The fifth.
Each one different. Each one the same. Lords with agendas wrapped in courtesy, ambitions dressed in protocol, fear disguised as respect. They came, they spoke, they left, and each time the door closed behind them I felt the weight on my shoulders shift — not heavier, not lighter, just differently distributed. Like carrying water in a vessel that kept changing shape.
By the seventh visit, I was tired. Not physically. Something deeper. The kind of exhaustion that came from holding your face in one position for too long, from calibrating every response, from being aware — constantly, relentlessly aware — that every word you spoke was being weighed by people who had spent their entire lives weighing words.
Haeren sensed it. He was good at that — reading the room the way sailors read weather, detecting shifts in pressure that were invisible to everyone else.
"Shall I close the door, Your Highness?" he asked. Neutral. No judgement. Just the question.
"How many more?"
"Three lords have expressed interest in paying their respects. I can delay them until after the ceremony."
"Do that."
He nodded and stepped outside. The door closed. The room was quiet.
I stood by the window and breathed. Just breathed. The air in the room was thick with the residue of politics — the lingering smell of the wine nobody drank, the warmth of bodies that had occupied chairs, the invisible weight of everything that had been said and everything that had been carefully left unsaid.
Outside, Eden was in full celebration. The Royal Way was packed — I could see the crowds from here, a river of colour and movement flowing between the buildings, banners strung from every rooftop, the sound of music and shouting and laughter filtering up through the glass like something from another world. A world where today was a festival, a holiday, a reason to drink and eat and dance. Where the crowning of a prince was cause for joy rather than calculation.
I envied them. Briefly. Then I put the feeling away, in the place where I put all the feelings that served no function, and turned from the window.