✷✷✷SILVARA✷✷✷
The bathwater had gone cold an hour ago, but Adrienne hadn't cared. She'd needed to scrub the blood off…enemy blood, her soldiers' blood, the metallic stench that seemed to have seeped into her very pores. Now she stood in her chambers wrapped in a silk robe that felt wrong against her skin, watching Old Rosaline and two younger maids fuss over an elaborate gown spread across her bed.
The dress was a nightmare of purple silk and white embroidery, with a neckline that would show far too much skin and sleeves that would restrict her movement. It looked expensive. It looked elegant.
It looked like a cage.
"I'm not wearing that thing, Rosa."
Old Rosaline, who'd been the head maid since before Adrienne was born, who'd nursed her through childhood fevers, who was more mother than servant didn't even look up from smoothing out the fabric. "Come now, you're a princess. Dress like royalty for once in your life."
"Nah." Adrienne crossed her arms, still dripping water onto the stone floor. "I'll pass."
"Child…"
"I'm not a child. I'm twenty-one years old and I just spent the night killing men who wanted to destroy our kingdom." She turned to one of the younger maids, a girl named Petra who always looked slightly terrified of her. "Get me some trousers. Black ones. And a plain white shirt."
Petra's eyes went wide, darting between Adrienne and Rosaline like she'd just been asked to choose sides in a war.
"Your Highness," Rosaline said, her voice taking on that particular tone that meant she was gearing up for a lecture, "your father specifically requested you wear something appropriate for…"
"My father can request all he wants. I'm wearing trousers." Adrienne pulled the robe tighter, suddenly exhausted beyond measure. The battle, the betrothal, the weight of everything pressing down on her shoulders—it was too much. "Please, Rosa. Not tonight. I can't... I can't pretend to be something I'm not. Not tonight."
Something in her voice must have gotten through, because Rosaline's stern expression softened. She shooed the other maids out with a wave of her weathered hands, waiting until the door closed before approaching Adrienne.
"Sit, child."
"I told you, I'm not…"
"Sit."
Adrienne sat.
Rosaline took up a brush and began working through Adrienne's wet tangles with gentle efficiency. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the crackle of the fireplace and the soft pull of bristles through blonde curls.
"Your mother," Rosaline said quietly, "used to hate these dresses too."
Adrienne's breath caught. "She did?"
"Oh yes. She'd sneak out of them the moment she could, run through the gardens in her underthings just to feel the grass under her feet." A sad smile touched Rosaline's lips. "Drove your grandmother absolutely mad."
"I never knew that."
"There's a lot you don't know about her. You were so young when..." The brush paused. "But she would have been proud of you today. Fighting for your kingdom. Leading those men."
"And the betrothal?" Adrienne's voice came out small, vulnerable in a way she hated. "Would she be proud of that too?"
Rosaline was quiet for a long moment. "She would understand that sometimes, being a princess means making impossible choices. But she would also tell you that you're stronger than you think. And that no man…prince or otherwise….could ever truly cage you unless you let him."
Adrienne closed her eyes, letting the words wash over her.
"Now." Rosaline set down the brush. "Trousers and a white shirt?"
"Please."
"You're going to give your father a heart attack."
"Good. Maybe he'll reconsider this whole marriage nonsense."
Rosaline's laugh was soft and sad. "Oh, child. If only it were that simple."
༆
Dinner with her father was always a formal affair, even when it was just the two of them. The dining hall was too large, too empty, the long table stretching between them like a canyon. Candles flickered in silver candelabras, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls.
Adrienne had worn the trousers.
King Aldric sat at the head of the table, looking older and more tired than he had that morning. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted his wine goblet, and Adrienne pretended not to notice.
"The battle went well, I heard." His voice was carefully neutral.
"It was a piece of cake." Adrienne stabbed at her roasted chicken with more force than necessary. "Until someone decided to interfere."
"The knights of Camelot saved lives, Adrienne. Including yours."
"I didn't need saving." The fork clattered against her plate. "We had it under control."
"You were outnumbered five to one."
"We've faced worse odds."
Aldric set down his goblet with a soft clink. "You lost twenty-five men."
The words hung in the air like an accusation. Adrienne's jaw clenched. "I know exactly how many men I lost, Father. I remember every single face."
"I'm not trying to…" He sighed, rubbing his temples. "I'm glad you're safe. That's all I meant."
They ate in tense silence for several minutes. Adrienne could feel her father working up to something, could see it in the way he kept glancing at her, then away. Finally, he cleared his throat.
"Speaking of Camelot." His tone was too casual, which immediately put her on guard. "Prince Orion and his father will be coming for dinner tomorrow night. Possibly his mother and sister as well."
Adrienne's fork froze halfway to her mouth. "What?"
"It's customary for the families to meet before…"
"Tomorrow?" She set down the fork with deliberate care, fighting the urge to throw it. "Tomorrow night? I thought the betrothal ceremony was four weeks away. Why are we rushing this?"
"We're not rushing anything. You and the prince should get familiar with each other. Get to know…."
"Get familiar?" Adrienne's laugh was sharp enough to cut. "With a man I've never met? Who's being forced to marry me as much as I'm being forced to marry him?"
"Adrienne…"
"No." She stood abruptly, her chair scraping against stone. "No, I don't want to 'get familiar' with Prince Onions or his family or anyone from that arrogant kingdom."
"Prince Orion," Aldric corrected wearily.
"Same thing." She began pacing, her hands curling into fists at her sides. "What's next, Father? Should I practice my curtsies? Learn to simper and giggle and bat my eyelashes?"
"I'm asking you to have one dinner…"
"One dinner, then a betrothal, then a wedding, then a lifetime of being someone I'm not!" Her voice rose, echoing off the high ceilings. "When does it end? When do I get to choose anything about my own life?"
Aldric's face crumpled, aging another decade in an instant. "You think I want this? You think I don't know what I'm asking of you?"
"Then don't ask it!"
"I don't have a choice!" His fist came down on the table, rattling plates and goblets. "Don't you understand? Silvara is vulnerable. We've already been attacked once. How long before they come again? How long before I can't protect you anymore?"
"I can protect myself!"
"For how long?" His voice cracked. "How many battles can you win before the odds finally catch up? Before I have to bury you next to your mother?"
The mention of her mother stole the air from Adrienne's lungs. She stared at her father, seeing the fear naked in his eyes, the desperate love that was slowly killing him.
"Get familiar with the prince," Aldric said quietly. "That's all I ask. One dinner. Can you do that for me?"
Adrienne's throat was tight. "Familiar my foot. This is all bullshit and you know it."
She turned and walked out, leaving her father alone in the too-large dining hall, surrounded by flickering shadows and too much food.
༆
The night air was cool against Adrienne's face as she slipped through the palace's back gardens. She'd changed into darker clothes…practical for moving unseen through the city. Lancelot materialized from the shadows like a ghost, falling into step beside her without a word.
"You know," he said after a moment, "sneaking out of the palace to visit your lover the night before meeting your betrothed is probably poor form."
"Good thing I don't care about form."
"Fair point."
They moved through Silvara's streets in comfortable silence, keeping to the less-traveled paths. Garrett's house sat on the edge of the merchant quarter…nice enough to be respectable, not grand enough to draw attention. Exactly the kind of calculated mediocrity that should have warned her years ago.
Lancelot took up position outside the door, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt. "I'll be here. Try not to do anything stupid."
"Define stupid."
"Anything that makes my job harder."
Adrienne managed a weak smile before slipping inside.
Garrett was waiting in his sitting room, sprawled in a chair with practiced casualness. He was handsome in a conventional way, sandy hair, blue eyes, the kind of smile that probably worked on most women. It had certainly worked on her, once upon a time.
"Adrienne." He stood, moving toward her with that familiar grace. "I've been worried sick. The battle…are you hurt?"
"I'm fine." She accepted his embrace, but something about it felt wrong. Perfunctory. Like he was going through the motions. "Just tired."
"Come, sit." He guided her to the settee, keeping her hand in his. His thumb traced circles on her palm, a gesture that used to make her melt. "Tell me everything."
So she did. The battle. The interference from Camelot. The dinner waiting for her tomorrow night.
Garrett listened, his expression shifting from concern to something that looked almost like calculation. When she finished, he was quiet for a long moment.
"So you're really going through with it," he said finally. "The betrothal."
"I don't have a choice."
"There's always a choice, love." But his voice lacked conviction, and he wouldn't meet her eyes. "We could run away. Leave Silvara, start fresh somewhere…"
"And abandon my kingdom?" Adrienne pulled her hand free, studying him. "You know I can't do that."
"Can't, or won't?"
"What's the difference?"
Garrett stood, pacing to the window. His shoulders were tense, his jaw tight. "The difference is that one means you're trapped, and the other means you're choosing to leave me."
"That's not fair…"
"Isn't it?" He turned, and there was something in his eyes she'd never seen before. Something almost like resentment. "I've loved you for two years, Adrienne. Two years of sneaking around, of stolen moments, of waiting for you to choose me. And now you're telling me you're going to marry some prince?"
"I don't want to marry him!"
"But you're going to." It wasn't a question. "Because duty comes first. Because the kingdom needs you. Because your father asks it." He laughed, bitter and hollow. "I'm just the commoner who was never good enough anyway."
Guilt twisted in Adrienne's chest like a knife. "Garrett, I…"
"No, it's fine." He held up a hand, his expression shifting to something resigned. Almost martyred. "I understand. I do. You're a princess. You have responsibilities. I'm just... I'm just the man who loves you, watching you walk away."
"I don't want to walk away."
"But you will." He came back to her, taking her face in his hands. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard. "You'll marry your prince. You'll give him heirs. You'll be the queen you were born to be. And I'll be here, remembering what we had."
Something about his words felt rehearsed. Performed. But Adrienne was too tired, too emotionally raw, to examine it too closely.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be." He kissed her forehead, soft and sad. "Just... remember me, when you're in his bed. Remember that I loved you first. That I would have given you everything, if you'd let me."
The guilt intensified, crushing her lungs. She buried her face against his chest, fighting tears.
She didn't see the satisfied smile that flickered across Garrett
's face. Didn't notice the way his eyes remained cold even as his arms tightened around her.
After all, a man didn't get to be princess's consort…or better yet, king…by being honest about his feelings.