Under the balcony, in the cool shadows, Prince Rhys Montclair was still twirling the discarded rosebud in his fingers. His musings were interrupted by a low, familiar voice.

  "Hiding from the debutantes, son?"

  His father, King Theoden Montclair, approached him. Unlike his bright red-headed son, the King of Arden was silver-haired, but his emerald eyes burned with the same indomitable energy.

  "The morals of the local youth are becoming increasingly... wild, father," Rhys replied with a slight, meaningful smirk.

  "All the more reason not to hide in the bushes, but to observe," the King chuckled in response, clapping his son on the shoulder. "Come, you’ve breathed enough night air. It doesn't become the Crown Prince of Arden to miss all the fun."

  They returned to the glittering ballroom. The atmosphere was still buzzing from the recent announcement. Rhys swept the hall with an attentive gaze. His eyes first found her—that very "bride" from the balcony.

  Amelia stood in a tight circle of elderly ladies, a serene, polite smile playing on her lips. Not a trace of the rage and despair he had heard a couple of minutes ago.

  What an actress, he thought with a measure of respect. Holding her face as if nothing happened.

  Then his gaze shifted and found Tristan Hawke. The young Marquis stood alone in a dark corner, leaning against a marble column. His face was deadly pale, and his fists were clenched so tight his knuckles were white.

  And there is the failed groom, outmaneuvered by his own daddy, Rhys identified unerringly. Looks like he's ready to kill someone.

  Amelia, meanwhile, steadfastly endured the crossfire of hypocrisy and envy.

  "What an incredible match, my child!" cooed a countess whose cleavage was draped in diamonds. "Marquis Hawke is a pillar of the throne! You will be the most powerful woman in the kingdom after the Queen!"

  "He is... very wise and experienced," another chimed in sympathetically, barely concealing her gloating. "You will be in the most reliable, mature hands."

  Amelia merely smiled and nodded, feeling like a rare exhibit at an auction that had just been sold under the hammer.

  At one point, when the ladies were distracted by a fresh tray of pastries, Tristan stepped toward her like a shadow. The music and laughter of the hall seemed to recede, creating a small island of ringing emptiness around them.

  His face was tense, his eyes shining feverishly.

  "Did you know?" he hissed, his voice barely audible.

  "No more than you did. Nothing," she replied coldly, looking him straight in the eye.

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  He didn't leave. Instead, he took a step closer, invading her personal space, and desperate, angry bewilderment splashed in his eyes.

  "But... why? Why would he do this? He knew... he knew! Everyone knew that we... that I..." he couldn't finish; the words stuck in his throat like a prickly lump of humiliation. "All these five years... was it just a game? For you too?"

  Amelia looked away for a moment. His pain was almost palpable and mingled with her own resentment.

  "I thought we were playing the same game, Tristan," her voice grew quieter, laced with bitterness. "I thought we were pieces on the board who could choose our moves. Turns out, we weren't even sitting at the table. A move was simply made using us."

  She looked at him again, and now there was no familiar dislike in her gaze—only cold, sober analysis which she shared with the only person in the room capable of understanding the depth of this downfall.

  "It's politics. Pure business, nothing personal. Your father is the most powerful man in the North. His army is the guarantee of peace. The Crown decided it was more profitable to buy his loyalty wholesale and immediately, rather than on an installment plan through an unreliable heir. We are both just currency in this deal."

  For a moment, bitter understanding flashed in their eyes—they weren't rivals this evening. They were companions in misfortune.

  Tristan's face contorted. Confusion gave way to something dark and broken. He instinctively looked around, as if fearing they might be overheard even here, in the center of the noisy hall.

  "My father..." he whispered so quietly that Amelia had to strain her ears. His gaze became wild, like that of a cornered beast. "He thinks he has won... He... he will regret this."

  He uttered it not as a threat, but as a terrible fact. As if frightened by his own words, he didn't finish, didn't say goodbye, but simply turned sharply and almost dissolved into the crowd, as if fleeing.

  Amelia remained alone with the weight of their shared epiphany and a new, unpleasant chill running down her spine.

  At the other end of the hall, King Theoden and his son joined King Alaric. The two monarchs, old friends, shook hands.

  "Well then, Alaric, you old fox," Theoden said good-naturedly, but with a sly glint in his eyes. "I bring my legions to cover your northern border, and you, wasting no time, immediately hedge your bet by joining families with the most formidable of your vassals. Clever, clever."

  Alaric allowed himself a weak, deathly tired smile.

  "Friendship is the greatest treasure, Theoden, and I am forever in your debt. Without your help, we would still be bleeding out at the Northern Pass. But the Crown cannot rely on debts and friendship forever, no matter how strong. It must stand on its own feet. Hawke's army is now my country's army. It is the guarantee of Ethergard's survival."

  "A guarantee that cost you a daughter," Theoden remarked more quietly, no longer joking.

  "Kings do not have daughters," Alaric replied with bitterness. "They have only dynastic alliances."

  A servant approached with a bow, offering the kings a tray of the finest wine. Alaric took a crystal goblet, but Theoden stopped the servant with a gesture.

  "Thank you, but I prefer my own, proven remedy," with these words, he pulled a simple, dented silver flask from the inner pocket of his gold-embroidered doublet with an agility unexpected for a monarch. "A special brew of Arden mountain herbs. Invigorates wonderfully and clears the mind, Your Majesty. Much better than this sweet grape poison of yours. Folk wisdom—that is the true treasure!"

  He took a hearty swig straight from the flask.

  King Alaric smiled politely but somewhat perplexedly, watching this flagrant, yet so characteristic gesture of his friend. The nearby Ethergardian aristocrats barely concealed their grimaces of shock, considering the Western King an incorrigible barbarian and eccentric.

  Rhys watched his father with a condescending smile. He had long grown used to his oddities. His gaze slid across the hall again, lingering on the calm, proud profile of Princess Amelia.

  Well, he thought, recalling the Princess's cursing on the balcony and looking at his father with the flask in the middle of a royal reception. It seems all ruling families, whether here or back home, have their quirks. And their skeletons, which would be better left undisturbed.