“Two strikes this close? Doesn’t seem like a coincidence.” With a breath, he eased his tone. “But. . . it’s enough shadows for one night. Forgive me for darkening the table.”
It was Yrenna, ever the peace-weaver, who eventually cleared her throat and shifted the conversation. “It’s almost harvest season,” she said lightly. “Let us hope the goddess gifts us a calmer autumn than this summer.”
The mood brightened again as conversations turned toward the nearing equinox.
“It means the harvest ceremony is approaching,” Yrenna said, leaning toward the princess with the easy eagerness of someone sharing a beloved tradition. “I hope the weather holds. It’s always more festive under a clear sky.”
The princess tilted her head. “What is Blackwood-Veyrde’s custom for celebrating the harvest?”
His sister grinned. “It’s one of the few occasions where everyone in Blackwood-Veyrde gathers. There’s music, a feast, a climb up the high hill, and a bit of good-natured mayhem between the menfolk. You’ll see. It’s rather spirited.”
Yrenna sipped from her goblet, then added with fond amusement, “Traditionally, Lady Wulfbane leads the blessing. I’ve done it every year since Mother’s passing, but I think it’s time I pass on the honour.”
“To me?” The princess’s voice had gone hoarse.
“Well, youwillbe the Lady of the Keep,” Yrenna said cheerfully. “But don’t worry. There’s not much to memorize. And it’s all over before the stew cools.”
Alexander cast his bride a sidelong glance. He caught the way her spine stiffened just slightly, how her fingers went still in her lap like someone bracing for a blow.
He knew that tension. Knew what it meant to measure oneself against expectation. Was she wondering if the climb would be too much, or if the people would look at her and see what she lacked instead of what she could offer?
There was still time. Her leg would mend. She’d learn the rites. The tradition wasn’t complicated.
Without a word, he laid his hand over hers, hoping she’d find it reassuring.
“You’ll manage just fine,” he said under his breath.
Her fingers didn’t curl into his, but they didn’t pull away, either.
The doors to the great hall opened. At once, the murmur of conversation faded to a hush. Bertrand Fortier entered with that same practiced poise he’d always worn—measured strides and tailored smile. A manservant followed behind him. Alexander’s jaw clamped shut, the taste of his wine turning sour. Every instinct fired, the same as when a scout reported an unseen archer in the tree line. It took a conscious effort to keep his expression neutral.
Bertrand bowed to him, then to JingYi.
“Your Royal Highness. Bertrand Fortier, at your service. When I heard of your arrival, I could not resist coming to welcome you myself.” He straightened and looked at Alexander. “I hope I am not intruding?”
Alexander set down his goblet and gritted his teeth before answering, “We are at supper. But since you are here, you might as well sit.”
Bertrand’s smile didn’t falter. He inclined his head, accepting the seat offered at the far side of the table. “You are gracious, my lord.” His gaze drifted, briefly but noticeably, to the veiled figure at Alexander’s right. “I only regret that I did not arrive sooner to greet Her Highness properly.”
Alexander felt the pull of his instincts tighten. The Alpha in him wanted to step between them, to shield her from that calculating gaze. But he held his ground, his expression impassive.
His bride bowed her head politely. “You honour me with your welcome, Lord Fortier.”
Smooth as ever, Bertrand placed a hand over his chest. “The honour is mine. To make amends for my tardiness, allow me to present a small token of regard.”
He snapped his finger and his manservant stepped forward, presenting a lacquered box, the motion slow, deliberate—designed for every eye at the table to follow. The wood gleamed, inlaid with gilt lines that caught the candlelight like a boast.
“Inside you will find our finest limyerite crystal, cut and polished by our most skilled craftsmen,” Bertrand said. “May it bring light to your new home.”
The words were courteous, but Alexander heard the pointed edge beneath them. He watched JingYi’s shoulders stiffen beneath the silk. When she answered, her voice was cool—cooler than he’d ever heard it.
“Your generosity humbles me, Lord Fortier. But I am new to this land. Such a gift should not be mine alone. Blackwood-Veyrde is Lord Wulfbane’s domain. I would see it first in his hands.”
It took everything he had not to applaud. In Tremore, a jewel was private—close as a hand to a wrist—and Bertrandknew. But his bride was not fooled. Instead, she had slid Fortier’s snare neatly to his side, turning a private trap into a public offering for the domain.
His pride burned bright, but he didn’t reach for her. He wouldn’t turn her clean deflection into a spectacle. Fortier was angling for one of three things: a debt, a slight, or a stumble. He’d leave with none.
Alexander inclined his head. “Your courtesy is noted, Lord Fortier. We accept it on behalf of Blackwood-Veyrde.” He turned to a steward. “Receipt the stone to the ledger and earmark it as funding for the healer’s cottage.”