Chapter 89: In The Arms Of Another
Aveline stirred in her sleep.
The dull ache in her abdon returned, slow but insistent, like sothing knocking from within. She frowned, shifting under the covers. She should take the dicine before it worsened...
Sowhere between sleep and waking... a sharp burst cracked through the night.
Her eyes fluttered open.
Fireworks.
Another one blood, light spilling through the window in fleeting colors. Wyla, who had been resting lightly nearby, stirred at the movent. "Milady?" she called softly.
But Aveline was already out of bed. Drawn toward the fireworks. She walked to the window and pushed it open slightly.
The night sky shimred.
Gold scattered first—then crimson, then a cascade of blues that fell like stardust. One burst lingered longer than the rest, unfolding into delicate, glowing strands that looked almost like steps reaching into the sky.
Aveline’s eyes widened.
"Is there a festival at the capital?" she asked, her voice softer than usual.
Wyla stepped closer, following her gaze. "There’s a feast tonight, Milady. To celebrate the Crown Prince’s return."
Aveline blinked.
The Crown Prince.
Her brows knit slightly. That ermine-man... hadn’t he said sothing similar? A feast... for Theron.
Had she misunderstood?
The thought barely settled before another firework exploded, brighter than the last.
Aveline forgot the question entirely.
"Look, Hamilton..." she murmured, scooping him gently into her hands.
The tiny creature stirred, blinking sleepily before turning his head upward. Light danced across his eyes. Another burst, and Hamilton puffed, his nose twitching dangerously.
Aveline laughed under her breath and quickly tapped his head. "No sneezing."
He huffed in protest but stayed still, captivated.
For a while, they simply watched the sky blooming, fading... blooming again. Until Hamilton, overwheld by both wonder and sleep, curled into her palm and drifted off.
Aveline didn’t move.
The colors reflected in her eyes, flickering across sothing far more distant than the sky before her.
Her lips curved faintly.
"My father used to do this..." she said, almost to herself. "Every year." Her voice softened further. "For every year I lived, he’d burst a hundred fireworks." A small breath escaped her. "For my tenth birthday... a thousand."
The mory ca alive—bright, loud, full. And... he was there.
Theron.
She turned her head, instinctively, toward the empty space beside her. The smile on her lips faltered. Her eyes filled before she could stop them.
"I think it’s a ball," Wyla said gently from behind her. "I can hear the music."
Aveline tilted her head, listening. All she heard was silence. Or perhaps... she simply couldn’t hear it from here.
But sothing else rose instead. A mory of a grand hall... A younger version of herself filled with laughter and missteps.
And Theron... standing far too close, his hands guiding hers. That stupid, annoying dance class she hated so much.
And the one thing she loved... twirling.
Her breath hitched.
Would he be there now...?
Under lights brighter than these... Dressed in silk and gold... Holding another woman’s hand...
Dancing, with his betrothed.
The thought settled quietly...and hurt far louder than the fireworks ever could.
-----
Rosalyn stepped forward with a smile that said she had known this would happen all along.
Theron looked at her, but no matter how long he held her gaze, he felt nothing. No flicker of interest. No pull. If anything, the only certainty in him was the urge to keep his distance.
Rosalyn lifted her hand, ready to place it in his.
Then, just as her fingers were about to et his, Theron withdrew.
"Not today," he said. There was no hesitation, no apology, just a final decision.
And before anyone could recover, he turned and walked away.
For a heartbeat, the entire hall forgot how to breathe.
The music faltered. Conversations died mid-word. Even the flas along the arch seed to still.
Rosalyn remained where she stood, her hand suspended in the air. Empty.
Slowly, very slowly, she lowered it.
The twitch at the corner of her lips was small, almost invisible. But her eyes...they hardened.
The Archduchess’s fan snapped shut with a soft, decisive click.
Across from her, Queen Margrethe’s fingers curled into her skirts before she forced them to relax, her expression smoothing into sothing regal, unbothered.
But when she turned, she wore a smile bright enough to disguise the strain beneath it.
"I wanted to be the first one to dance with him," Rosalyn said, lifting her chin. Her voice was edged with indignation, as though she had been denied sothing she had already claid for herself. "Did he not like ?" she paused and then her brows furrowed dangerously. "Or did he forget himself?"
The Archduchess leaned slightly toward her. "Mind your tone."
Margrethe quickly stepped in before the mont could worsen, with a warm practiced smile. "Look at him," she said lightly. "All that bravado, and yet—so shy when it matters."
She took Rosalyn’s hand gently, as though nothing had gone wrong.
"He’s just returned. Let the boy breathe."
Then, lowering her voice just enough, "I’ll arrange a private eting. You should... get to know each other without an audience."
Rosalyn studied her for a mont.
Then she smiled. Bright and victorious. After all, no man had the audacity to reject her. No man had the strength, either.
So with her chin lifted and her pride carefully restored, she swept away from the scene. One of her maids gathered the rings she had dropped earlier, but Rosalyn only waved a hand in magnanimous dismissal.
"Keep them," she said. "Consider it a gift."
She moved toward the gathering of noble ladies waiting for her, walking as though she had already tad the entire court, as though she had already secured the throne beside Theron. Of course, she carried herself like that. She was to be the crown princess consort. The future queen.
Why should she not be proud?
The Archduchess watched her granddaughter go, then turned back to the Queen.
Rosalyn might have been satisfied, but she was not.
Margrethe t her gaze with a smile that did not reach her eyes. The Archduchess said nothing for the mont, then turned away at last without pressing the matter further.
This was not over.
Not even close.
Only when she had gone did Margrethe let out a strained breath.
And then she saw Ingrid watching her. The smirk on the King’s mistress’s face was faint, but unmistakable—she was enjoying the Queen’s discomfort far too much.
Beside her stood Duke Terravain, Ingrid’s father and the King’s Chancellor, his quiet presence heavier than any crown. A man who did not need to raise his voice to bend a kingdom.
Power did not sit on the throne alone. It whispered beside it.
Margrethe’s fingers tightened once more.
Ingrid held too much power in this court. That was why Margrethe needed the Caelvaris family. That was why she needed this betrothal to stand.
Her fingers curled into tight fists.
Why was her son making this so difficult?
How was she supposed to lose to Ingrid?
-----
Duke Vantaris tried to contact Kael, but he couldn’t. Muttering under his breath, he slipped into a shadow.
While... The King was observing him.
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