Chapter 2:
A Fragile Facade
The morning after the wedding, the palace of Eldoria hummed with a quieter energy, as if the revelry had left it breathless. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the royal chambers, gilding the velvet drapes and polished oak floors. Alaric stood by a carved table, staring at a map of Eldoria and its neighbors, his fingers tracing the border with Valoria. The ink lines felt like chains, binding him to a marriage he hadn't chosen.
Lysandra entered, her auburn hair swept into a practical braid, her gown simpler than the night before but no less regal. She carried a leather-bound ledger, her expression all business. "Good morning, husband," she said, the word clipped, as if testing its weight. "The Valorian delegation sent this at dawn. They're eager to discuss trade terms."
Alaric glanced up, suppressing a sigh. "No honeymoon, then?"
Her lips twitched, almost a smile. "Honeymoons are for lovers, not allies. Besides, my father's advisors are impatient. They want Eldoria's iron and grain before the harvest ends."
He nodded, unsurprised. Valoria's demands had been the undercurrent of their marriage talks for months. Eldoria's resources were rich, but its coffers were strained from years of border skirmishes. This alliance was meant to stabilize both kingdoms, but Alaric felt the cost in every forced smile. "Let's meet them in the council chamber," he said. "We'll hear their terms."
The council chamber was a stark contrast to the great hall's opulence. Its stone walls, lined with portraits of past kings, felt heavy with judgment. The Valorian envoys, three stern men in dark cloaks, sat across from Alaric and Lysandra, their ledger open to pages of demands: half of Eldoria's iron output, a quarter of its grain, and access to its southern ports. King Roderic, presiding at the table's head, listened with a scowl.
"This is a marriage, not a conquest," Alaric said, his voice calm but firm. "Eldoria will share its resources, but not at the expense of our people."
The lead envoy, a wiry man named Lord Varen, leaned forward. "Peace is costly, Your Highness. Valoria's armies stand ready to protect our shared borders, but we need assurances."
Lysandra's eyes narrowed. "My father agreed to this marriage to avoid war, not to beggar Eldoria. Propose a fairer split, or we'll reconsider the terms entirely."
Alaric glanced at her, surprised by her sharpness. For a moment, he saw not a stranger but a partner, someone who could navigate this game of thrones as deftly as he. Yet her words were cold, calculated, lacking warmth. He wondered if she ever felt anything beyond duty.
The meeting dragged on, numbers haggled over like market goods. Alaric's mind wandered, snagging on the memory of the maid from the feast—her hazel eyes, her quiet grace. He didn't know why she lingered in his thoughts, a flicker of light in the gray haze of his new life. He forced himself to focus as the envoys agreed to revise their demands, but the weight of the day clung to him.
Later, as the palace settled into the afternoon's rhythm, Alaric escaped to the courtyard, craving air. Servants bustled about, polishing statues and sweeping paths. His eyes caught a familiar figure: the maid, kneeling by a flowerbed, her hands deftly pruning roses. She hummed softly, a melody he didn't recognize, her auburn hair catching the sunlight.
He approached, his boots crunching on gravel. She startled, standing quickly and brushing dirt from her apron. "Your Highness," she said, curtsying, her voice steady but her eyes cautious.
"I didn't mean to startle you," Alaric said, offering a smile. "You seemed… at peace. It's rare in this place."
She hesitated, then met his gaze. "The roses don't care about politics or titles. They just need care." Her words were simple, but there was a spark in them, a hint of something deeper.
He chuckled, surprised by her candor. "What's your name?"
"Elara," she said, then quickly added, "I should get back to work, Your Highness."
Before he could reply, she curtsied again and hurried off, her pruning shears clutched tightly. Alaric watched her go, a pang in his chest. Elara. The name felt like a secret, one he wanted to unravel. But as Lysandra's voice called him back to the palace, sharp and expectant, he knew his world allowed no room for such thoughts. Not yet.