Darian
The ballroom glittered like a gilded cage. Chandeliers spilled molten light across polished marble, and a hundred pairs of eyes flicked to me as though expecting the brute from their whispered tales — the beast who had clawed his way to a throne of bones.
I gave them nothing.
Standing beside Godfrey Ashbarney, I spoke of trade routes, mineral yields, and the price of grain in Zarimo. The man was shrewd and steady, a rarity in eastern courts. I found myself almost enjoying our exchange — until she entered my line of sight.
The middle daughter.
Elowen Ashbarney was not draped in the glittering confection her younger sister wore, nor did she carry the haughty elegance of the eldest, who was absent tonight. She moved with quiet purpose, as if her body was not a thing meant to be displayed but to serve. Her gown, though fine, was simple; her hair was woven into a braid that spoke more of function than vanity. And yet—
She drew my gaze more surely than any jewel in this cursed hall.
Godfrey excused himself briefly to address an attendant, and in that moment she approached him. I heard only fragments — something about her younger sister's suitor — but before she could retreat, I spoke.
"Lady Elowen."
She startled, as though caught trespassing in a forbidden place. "Your Majesty." She inclined her head, the words precise but cool.
"Will you not sit with me for a moment?" I asked.
Her lips pressed together. "I was on my way to the hospital."
I arched a brow. "The hospital can wait until morning." I gestured to the empty seat beside me. "I would know more of the woman who carries her father's eyes."
For the briefest instant, something flickered in her gaze — suspicion, perhaps, or defiance. Still, she sat. We spoke of medicine, of the crude state of Selandra's rural clinics, of herbs and salves I had not heard named in years. Her voice warmed when she spoke of patients, cooled again when the subject strayed to court life.
And then her mother came. Eleanor Ashbarney swept into the conversation like a falcon cutting through mist, her smile sharp enough to draw blood.
"Your Majesty," she said sweetly, "a most fitting opportunity presents itself. Our Elowen is unwed, and you—well, you have been alone far too long. Allow us to gift her to you, as a token of alliance…and of respect."
It was not the first time a queen had been offered to me like a prized mare, but rarely had the proposal been made in front of the lady herself. I glanced at Elowen; her jaw tightened, but she did not speak.
Godfrey returned just in time to hear the last of it. His expression was unreadable. "It would be an honor," he said, though there was a weight to the words I could not yet place.
I gave my answer with measured calm. "Then let it be so. I will send for her within the week."
Eleanor's satisfaction gleamed. Elowen's eyes, however, were elsewhere — fixed on the ballroom doors as though the night air beyond might yet save her.
The rest of the evening played out like an elaborate theatre — dancers swirling, musicians coaxing life from strings and flutes, courtiers laughing too loudly at too little. I stood at the edge of it all, a shadow in black and silver, watching the Selandran elite preen themselves under the chandeliers.
And yet, I found my gaze returning again and again to her.
Lady Elowen did not linger at my side after the agreement was struck. She slipped away under the guise of attending to her younger sister, though I could see Cecilie spinning on the dance floor without a care in the world. No, Elowen was not rescuing anyone. She was circling the ballroom like a restless hawk, eyes roaming the room as though she might decipher its secrets.
She paused near a long table groaning with crystal decanters and sugared confections, but she did not touch a thing. Her gaze wandered to the grand floral arrangements — white lilies twined with gold ribbons — then to the musicians tucked into the corner, playing with all the passion of men desperate to please. Every detail seemed to catch her notice.
When her eyes finally slid toward me, I did not look away.
It was only a moment — barely the length of a breath — before she turned again, scanning the columns draped in silks and the balconies lined with whispered conversations. But the faint tightening of her fingers at her side told me she had felt the weight of my regard.
Godfrey joined me again, speaking of an upcoming shipment of iron ore. I answered him, but my attention remained divided. His daughter was unlike any woman I had met in these courts. Not coy, not eager to please. She carried herself as though she had nothing to sell.
Rumors painted me as a savage. Perhaps she believed them. Perhaps she was searching the room for proof — some brutal mannerism, some display of temper — to confirm the tales.
Let her look.
If she intended to stand in my court, she would learn soon enough that truth was rarely the same as story.
And that sometimes, the cage was not where one expected to find it.
The conversation with Godfrey was pleasant enough — measured, full of the kind of polite bargaining men in our positions were expected to conduct. But my interest in ores and tariffs had waned for the night.
She stood some paces away, half-turned toward a balcony where moonlight pooled upon the marble. The lamplight from the ballroom haloed her figure in gold, and though her posture was impeccable, there was a stillness to her that did not match the music around her.
"Pray excuse me, Lord Godfrey," I murmured, inclining my head in the barest bow. "A matter requires my attention."
Before he could object — not that he would — I was already moving toward her, weaving past silk-draped courtiers and laughing clusters of nobles. She saw me coming, though she did not shift or flinch. She merely folded her hands before her, the posture of a woman who will listen but has already decided the boundaries of what she will say.
"Lady Elowen," I greeted, letting her name linger on my tongue. "Might I persuade you to take a turn about the gardens? The air is oppressive within these walls."
Her eyes — that muted, storm-lit brown — studied me with the same caution one might reserve for a stranger whose motives are unreadable. Then, with the faintest incline of her chin, she replied, "If it pleases Your Majesty."
We slipped into the night through the arching doors, leaving behind the glittering noise of the ballroom. The gardens were a masterwork of Selandran pride — tall hedges trimmed into regimented lines, white marble statues of old kings and saints, fountains spilling silver water beneath the moon's pale hand. The air was cool, laced with the scent of night-blooming jasmine.
We walked in silence at first, our steps measured upon the gravel paths. I could hear the faint whisper of her skirts brushing against the stones. She kept her gaze ahead, occasionally glancing toward the blooms heavy on their branches.
Finally, I spoke. My voice was quiet, but every word deliberate.
"If you do not wish to be my queen, Lady Elowen, you may say so now. You will find me a man who does not compel unwilling company."
She turned her head, regarding me for a moment before answering. "It is not a matter of wish, Your Majesty. It is a matter of duty. My father has given his word, and I—" She hesitated, the pause not of uncertainty but of careful construction. "—I am not in the habit of dishonoring my father's promises."
"Even should those promises place you in an unwanted life?" I asked.
Her lips curved in something that was not quite a smile. "Unwanted or not, the life is mine to make of it what I can. That, too, is duty."
I let that sit between us for a moment. She did not fill the silence. She did not fidget, or rush to soften her meaning. A measured woman. A dangerous woman, in some courts.
"Very well," I said at last. "Then I shall see to it that the terms of our arrangement are set down properly. Your arrival in Valmora will be prepared for. There will be no ambiguity in your station."
Her gaze dropped to the gravel path before us. "You are a man who prefers the clarity of contracts."
"I am a man who prefers the clarity of all things," I replied. "Life affords us little enough of it as it is."
She looked at me sidelong, as though weighing that truth. Then, almost idly, she asked, "And will the clarity you speak of be extended to me in Valmora, or shall I hear of my duties as the days demand them?"
It was my turn to allow a small smile. "You will hear of them, Lady Elowen, and you will know them before you are made to perform them. You will not be ambushed in my court."
A faint breath — perhaps relief, perhaps simply the night air — left her lips. "Then we understand one another, Your Majesty."
"Yes," I murmured. "We do."
The fountain ahead caught the moonlight, casting fractured silver across the water's surface. She paused to watch it, and for a moment, there was nothing of bargains or arrangements between us — only two people, strangers still, standing in the quiet beauty of the night.
But the moment passed, as moments do.
I offered my arm, and after the briefest hesitation, she took it. Together we returned toward the golden glow of the ballroom, the murmur of music growing louder with each step.
There would be time enough to learn the measure of her mind. And time enough for her to learn mine.