The King of Northem cast one last lingering glance at the son he had fathered with his first and true love. He waited—not with hope, but with a shadow of expectation—for his son to break, to plead, to beg for the parchnt that would strip him of all claim to the throne.
But Alaric did none of these.
He stood still, unmoving, calm as a winter lake untouched by even the whisper of a breeze. His features betrayed no turmoil, no trace of desperation. If anything, he looked...at peace. As though this mont, this surrender, had been of his own design all along. When their eyes t, the king found no sorrow there—only the cool indifference of a man who had long stopped waiting for his father to see him.
Was this the sa boy who once chased his approval like sunlight? Who once lit up with joy at a kind word, who once bent and broke himself to please? Heimdal’s heart twisted in his chest. Where was that boy now?
He hardened himself like stone. His hand, leaden with unspoken grief, ca down heavily upon the parchnt, sealing it with the royal crest. The declaration was now law.
Heimdal looked up again, searching Alaric’s face for regret, for sorrow, for any trace of pain—but instead, he found sothing else. A glimr. Was it relief? Triumph? Or worse...mockery. How co Alaric seed to be happy?
Beside him, Prince Reuben exhaled, a long breath of satisfaction. It was done. The crown was his, not by rit, but by default. He stepped forward and reached for the parchnt, eyes flicking over Alaric’s final words:
"Honor the betrothal granted to him by his mother..."
A twinge of unease knotted in Reuben’s chest. He glanced at the king. "Father," he said quietly, "to whom was my brother betrothed?"
"It is Lara, the only daughter of General Odin Norse." King Heimdal answered. "Astrid and Freya were friends, and they made a promise to have their children marry when they grew up."
The parchnt suddenly felt like an iron weight in Reuben’s hand.
"But Father, I want her to be my princess consort. I think you would agree that she is best fitted to beco the future queen." Reuben spoke softly as he intended his words to be heard by his father only.
Alaric’s head snapped up. Though Reuben had spoken softly, Alaric had always possessed a a keen sense of hearing, like a predator in the wild. His gaze cut through the air, falling on Reuben with cold precision. Reuben flinched. A chill crept down his spine.
But by the ti he dared to look again, Alaric had turned away, walking calmly toward Prince Dakota’s seat.
King Heimdal’s eyes narrowed at Reuben. "Do not be greedy," he growled. "You have the crown. Do not covet your brother’s woman."
A flicker of sothing dangerous passed through Reuben’s eyes, quickly hidden beneath a disarming smile. "Of course, Father."
He descended the dais and handed the parchnt to the royal scribe.
The scribe cleared his throat and, with solemn formality, announced the session’s adjournt. One by one, the nobles and ministers filtered back into the adjoining banquet hall.
Queen Helga was already at the banquet hall. She looked stunning while waiting at the door, her face alight with pride and triumph. She greeted Heimdal and her son with a flourish, but her brow creased when she noticed the king’s distant expression.
Queen Helga who was beaming with happiness was waiting at the door. She greeted the king and her son with enthusiasm but she frowned when she noticed that the king was listless.
"My king?" she asked, voice laced with concern. "Are you unwell?"
Heimdal rely humd. "Let us go through with this. I wish to rest."
Taking his cue, the Minister of Rites ascended the platform and began the ceremony. The fanfare resud, the hall buzzing with murmurs of excitent and the clinking of goblets.
At last, Heimdal, Helga, and Prince Reuben were called forward. The king’s voice was steady but brief as he proclaid Reuben the new Crown Prince.
Reuben, emboldened, launched into a speech that dragged on. Heimdal endured it in silence, but then his gaze drifted, searching the crowd—until it landed on two figures at the edge of the hall.
Prince Dakota and Alaric.
They sat together, speaking quietly. Dakota threw back his head and laughed, a full, unrestrained laugh. Alaric’s lips curved into a rare smile.
Heimdal’s chest tightened, and a dull ache settled beneath his ribs. They looked like grandfather and grandson, two kindred spirits sharing a private joy. Alaric seed happy, and so did Dakota.
When had he last laughed like that? Carefree and unrestrained?
It seed so long ago that the sound now felt like sothing foreign, sothing lost.
He retracted his gaze and said in a lonely voice, "I am not feeling well. Let the Minister of Rites continue with the rest of the ceremony."
Reuben turned, clearly disappointed—but one look at his father’s pallid face was enough to silence his complaint. Perhaps his father was indeed not feeling well.
Queen Helga’s hands clenched into fists. On this day, of all days... She tugged at his sleeve, hoping to keep him a mont longer. But when she caught the storm behind his eyes, she backed away and held her tongue.
As if summoned by that silent exchange, the king’s esquire, Felagio, appeared at his side and assisted him as they exited the grand banquet hall.
"Will you return to your chambers, Your Majesty?" the esquire asked, matching his pace.
Heimdal shook his head.
"No. Take to the late queen’s quarters. Accompany to drink."
Felagio’s brows rose. The king rarely visited that wing of the palace. "Yes, my king," he said quietly. Why would he want to stay at Queen Astrid’s boudoir?
But as he followed him down the darkened corridor toward the sealed-off boudoir of Queen Astrid, his thoughts stirred.
That place was sacred. Forbidden. Except for the few servants who cleaned the room, nobody crossed its threshold—not since the day the queen died.
Especially not Alaric.
Felagio noticed the hunched shoulders of the king, his steps which seed too heavy, slowing him down.
He’s lonely again. Why else would he seek the ghost of a woman long gone?
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