Word of the Tournament of the Crown swept across the kingdom like wind before a wildfire. Within hours of Elowen’s decree, envoys galloped down stone-paved roads, banners fluttering behind them, their scrolls sealed in wax and stamped with Halden’s flame.
Castle stewards prepared official missives at dawn and dusk, their ink-stained hands aching from repetition. Lords summoned their sons.
Mothers instructed their daughters. And in the merchant squares and palace courts from Denvyr to the Eastern Isles, everyone whispered the same words: the Princess Regent would choose her consort not through alliance, but by challenge. By spectacle. By sword.
Inside the palace, the shift in energy was immediate and unsettling. Tailors descended upon Elowen’s chambers like crows drawn to shine, bringing bolts of imported silk, lace spun from northern frost-thread, and lengths of golden trim that shimmered like flame. Every sleeve was debated, every hem politicized.
“A dress of violet and fire,” one insisted. “The people must see her as untouchable.” Her old robes were taken away without comment. And in their place came gifts—so many she could hardly walk without tripping over them. Carved boxes filled with opals, velvet-lined crates of perfume, scrolls written in poetic flattery. Every family with a crest sent something. Every man with a sword sent a message.
“They want your hand,” Cillian muttered as he stepped into her chamber late one morning, eyeing the clutter of unopened tributes with clear disdain. “Not your heart.”
Elowen glanced up from her writing desk, brows lifting. “And which do you think is worse?”
He didn’t answer.
Not right away. His jaw ticked once, a sharp clench of something unspoken. Then, with a nod so tight it could’ve been mistaken for a flinch, he turned on his heel.
“Cillian—” Elowen called after him, but the name slipped into silence as the door closed behind him.
That was the last time he looked at her the same.
The next morning, he stood outside her chambers as always—but a step further back than usual. When she emerged, he didn’t meet her gaze. No quiet nod. No wry comment. Just a stiff salute and a murmured, “My lady.”
“My lady?” she echoed, walking beside him. “We’ve dropped the titles before.”
His gaze didn’t shift. “You’re royalty now. It’s only proper.”
“Since when has ‘proper’ mattered to you?”
He said nothing.
She blinked, lips parting to say more, but the silence he offered her wasn’t the soft kind he used to give—the kind that said I see you even when you don’t speak.
Now, it was a wall.
At council, he stood behind her throne, just far enough for her to feel the absence. When she asked for a report, he answered in clipped sentences, barely lifting his head.
“Anything to add, Cillian?” she asked during one discussion.
He shook his head. “I speak only when spoken to.”
The words landed like frost.
Later that night, as she passed him in the corridor, she slowed. “You’ve barely looked at me today.”
“I’ve been watching everyone else.”
“So you’re avoiding me for my safety now?” she asked, bitterly.
He turned toward her at last. “I’m doing my job, Princess.”
She flinched. Not at the tone—but at the title.
“That’s not what you called me before.”
“That was before.”
Then he stepped back into the shadows, leaving her in the torchlight alone.
At council, the tone sharpened further. The Tournament was weeks away, yet already the court maneuvered like wolves scenting fresh blood. A trio of noblewomen appeared at the midday meeting, their gowns rich with plum and ice-gray silk, their glances sharper than daggers.
Lady Bryla of Redharrow stepped forward first, offering a practiced smile and a tone dipped in concern. “Your Grace,” she said, “we rejoice in your strength. But strength alone will not quiet the old houses. You must secure your claim through lineage. Through marriage.”
Elowen folded her hands atop the table. “You think I need a man to make me real?” “No,” Bryla said delicately, “but power must be inherited. Not merely held.”
Another woman leaned in, bracelets chiming softly. “The court adores you—but fear clouds adoration. A union would… ease the shadows.”
“And whose name would ease them best?” Elowen asked. “Yours? Or your son’s?” A pause. Then Elowen’s voice hardened like cooling steel. “Let the gods secure my crown,” she said, “not a man’s name.”
The silence that followed was heavy with restrained offense. But Alderwyn, ever patient, spoke at last, his voice low but pointed. “Even gods falter without heirs.”
She met his gaze. His meaning was clear—too clear. And yet she said nothing.
That evening, she stood in the outer corridor beside her chamber, waiting for the sound of boots that always arrived just after sunset. The hour passed. Then another. When she finally opened the door herself, it was not Cillian who stood at post, but a younger guard in gleaming armor and an eager smile. He bowed too low, addressed her as “Your Highness” with a voice that cracked, and shifted nervously when she looked at him too long.
“You are dismissed,” she said coolly. He blinked.
“But—”
“Now.”