Time had a way of slipping by unnoticed in the office. There were no windows to track the sun chasing by across the sky. The only measure was the stack of papers Leoric sifted through and the logs in the fireplace that needed replacing every so often.
Warmth clung to the wood paneled walls. Light flickering from the hearth to catch on gold embossed titles, adorning book spines. The disused sitting area of elaborate cream and pink stitched floral sofas, now occupied by an exhausted Rhosyn. Her soft breathing a comforting pacing of time and Leoric found himself counting them.
Mountains of pages scattered across his desk—constantly being cycled out for more as they worked through them. Most were seemingly useless pieces. Halvar padded the truth with noise. A ledger trick—hide the knife among receipts. But maybe there was another cipher that only Rhosyn would see.
It was oddly quiet considering Valric worked beside him. His brother engrossed in what the next potential coded letter exposed. He'd read the letter out loud after Rhosyn fell asleep, though Leoric didn't need it. He'd already guessed as much from her reaction.
Valric read it twice. Probably interested in the idea that the king had more than one bastard. That he wasn't alone in that nightmare.
Since then, every successful letter they'd decoded spelt out the story of Alestan's slow descent into the whirlwind of chaos he's today. Halvar documented everything, from Alestan's first abuse of power, to his unravelling as he moved onto noble ladies. Then the attempt to wipe the board, by killing off the outcome. It was madness.
And Halvar was meticulous.
"Oh," Valric chimed excitedly, pulling out a piece of paper from the bottom of the pile—of course he would. "Looks like Old Halvar wasn't all talk after all." He held out an official parchment, adorned with three seals.
Leoric pulled it closer and scanned the contents. It was the very piece of paper that'd tear the kingdom apart and yet it sat amongst half useless pages. Halvar's disguised dagger. No wonder Rhosyn hid a blade strapped to her calf—it was a family trick.
The parchment was a statement, written by Queen Elowen, that Prince Edrien had been conceived before her marriage to Alestan Vaudren.
No accusation followed, no outright denial of the king's claim—only dates, witness, and the sort of careful wording that left rot beneath a gilded floor.
If true, the crown prince was not simply controversial. He was questionable at the root.
Leoric studied the three sigils with their respective signatures. The Queen's, of course, and Halvar's. But what was peculiar was the third name—Guldron Stormwyck of Hawksmoor, the old duke before his son Garran took over.
Guldron was fair, though he had a hard exterior. It was what the north did to you. Hawksmoor took the brunt of the sea raids. If you weren't disciplined and steady, you fell. But the fact that the north-most duke cross-signed as witness to this statement meant that either the man travelled south—which he never did. Or, Halvar and the queen had travelled north to him.
It only deepened the unease, because nothing about it quite fit.
Worse, it dragged older questions to the surface. Queen Elowen was said to have died in childbirth seventeen years ago. Unusually, all speculation and rumour hushed immediately. A suspicious thing. The nobility loved to gossip; it was their favourite pastime and most gratifying pleasure.
Leoric contemplated the long list of bastards Halvar confessed. His eyes fell on Rhosyn, tracking the steady rise and fall of her chest. The peaceful expression on her face. But all he could hear was the Prince's 'request' on their wedding day.
Halvar had foretold the prince's behaviour. Nothing but a poor imitation of his father, and Leoric felt the bite of wood cut into his palm.
"Er… Leo?" Valric asked.
Clearly Leoric's mood bled from him. Anger was a growing storm, set in the tension of his jaw and the demanding pull of his lungs.
"It's nothing." He released his grip on the desk and poorly waved it off.
He hated when Valric became serious. It meant something was actually wrong. Before his brother could open his mouth to pry, a light cheerful rap knocked at the door.
Oh, great.
He didn't wait for an invite—probably already knew they were in here because of Kaly. Tor stepped through the large door, chuckling at something Sir Caerwyn had said—or likely, didn't say.
The young man walked in as if he owned the place, all ego and over brimming confidence. The carefree nature of having a close relative who's a duke, without any of the pressure of responsibility.
"What are you brother's up to this time?" Tor queried, strutting across the room, sparing an amused look at Rhosyn which twisted inside Leoric and came to a stop on the other side of the desk.
"Proving that the Crown Prince is a bastard," Valric happily divulged with a smug grin.
Tor's brows rose with interest.
"Old Lord Halvar's secret stash," Leoric answered, handing over the official document for Tor to gawk at.
"Is that old Duke Guldron's signature?"
Valric hummed in agreement, shifting through more of the pile of papers haphazardly, and Leoric wondered why he asked him back for his help. The man couldn't do things in order.
"So, what happened to Lady Karsyn over there?" Tor inclined his head in Rhosyn's direction.
"Panic-attack—"
"Pregnant," Valric's voice cut across Leoric's.
Tor laughed and Leoric wondered how tormented Tor's sister—Valric's wife—was, living with the two for the past three months.
Leoric ignored the jib, taking the evidence back from Tor and setting it aside somewhere important. From the way Tor's expression sobered, Leoric guessed his visage cautioned danger. Leoric seemed to have a way of doing that to the cheery two.
"When are you going to let it go, Leoric?" Tor leant on the desk, wearing sincerity like a man who didn't know how to twist words for personal gain. Yet Leoric knew him too well. "I didn't know that Garik and Jyken would target her in revenge. I thought they'd see the action as strength, not weakness."
The words did nothing but stack the fire inside him. Valric could see, his eyes reading him carefully as he thumbed for a piece of paper.
It was a truth Leoric only recently learnt. Tor was referring to Saint Michaelsmas. The day that Rhosyn returned the body of a northerner who was murdered on her soil. He was impressed by her empathy—something that was hard won from the man. How she humbled herself and never assumed forgiveness—didn't expect it. But Tor thought that others would think like him. A mistake on his part.
Others saw someone to blame and he made her look weak.
Leoric didn't know that the woman he'd happily spared with on the beach was the same woman who'd be met with an attack in his name. Anger was the kindest word for what Leoric felt.
The fire choked. Spluttering the room into an eerie dimness. It was getting late. Another nagging thought twisted inside him.
Tor stood as righteous as always. As if he was untouchable—and in a way he was. From most people. The foreign attire he wore, adorned by native northern clothes made him look exotic. A look Leoric was sure he relished. The man had a cut-the-ball tongue just like his uncle and Leoric hated how justified he appeared.
Leoric pulled in a breath, ready to retort—
"Well this looks interesting." Valric eye-balled a sheet with overenthusiastic engrossment.
It was an attempt to distract.
It wasn't working.
Tor matched Leoric's stare, a clear brewing of arrogance.
The first to throw the punch, loses, Duke Bram used to say. Leoric's nails cut into his palm as he fisted his hand.
Rhosyn sighed heavily in her sleep and Leoric lingered on the sound. Tried using it to ground himself.
Valric shifted in his chair, the legs scraping harshly on the floor. "Old Halvar made a matchmaking list," he continued, his grin widening at something on the sheet, but Leoric was sure he was just exaggerating.
Tor didn't seem to blink at the attempt either. If anything, he squared his shoulders at Leoric, as if asking for a fight.
"Crown Prince Edrien at the top of the list."
The name cut through Leoric. His anger darkened instantly. If this was Valric's way of calming a fight, he needed to reassess his methods.
"Ambition—fatal. Wife's Rule—cagey. Risk—fatal. 'He does not share. He collects,'" his brother listed off. "I think Old Halvar has it on the nose, don't you think?" That smug smile hugged his words.
He knew he was walking a thin line, riling Leoric up and dousing him down.
Tor became mildly interested, which meant Leoric's sour look had slipped from his face—danger, somewhat, averted.
"There's a number of northern nobles here considering it's Halvar we're talking about. But I suppose the guy had enemies everywhere that even the north looked friendly." Valric hummed aloud, still enjoying himself as he read and Leoric started to ignore him—a common occurrence.
Tor listened to Valric read through the names, announcing their ranking and occasionally an added note from Halvar himself. Leoric spaced out, eyes searching aimlessly at the mess in front of him.
"Even Duke Garran Stormwyck is here," his brother chimed, impressed. "Temper, I'll agree, does match a storm."
Tor chuckled. "His spy network definitely had their reach."
"Certainly," Valric continued, "look here, sixth on the list—Marquess Thaddeus Rowanmere of Fenridge March."
"In Brairwyn? Weird place to have a march," Tor jested, knowing full well why the south would have a north facing march.
"Says here: 'Safe in a hall. Dangerous in a bed.'" Valric's laughter boomed into the room, Tor smirking along at the comment. "Clearly," he gasped through breaths, "he knew a few of these lords a little too personally."
Leoric sighed. "It means the man is untrustworthy behind closed doors, Val. Perhaps even violent."
His brother huffed for air as his laughter calmed. Not caring for the true meaning because his one was funnier.
Leoric shifted a piece of paper in front of him, trying to concentrate on the words. But Valric's voice wouldn't let him.
"Oh, this is intriguing." Valric's grin doubled. "You made the list, brother, seventh. I hope this isn't in order of highest priority, because someone might have to contact Old Halvar and give him a wake up call," he drivelled on. Acting nonchalant and totally enjoying how it itched at Leoric to look.
Valric offered the page with raised brow and all too smug. Leoric knew that if he took it, he admitted that he was interested.
And he was.
Snatching the parchment from Valric—a floating chuckle chasing him—Leoric glanced over the paper.
PROSPECTS LEDGER FOR RIVER-ROSE.
If you've found this, you've stopped pretending you can outpace the world.
You do not need a love story.
You need a man who will not eat you—
Valric probably sniggered at that too.
KEY:
A = leaves you room to breathe
B = tolerable / costs you something
C = cage with pretty bars
X = do not touch (I mean it)
Risk: low / med / high / fatal
01) PRINCE EDRIEN VAUDREN (CROWN)
Temper: B/C (depends who's watching)
Ambition: fatal
Faith: B (uses it when useful)
Crown-Lean: aligned (he is the crown)
Wife's Rule: C
Private Conduct: C
Leverage: X (you cannot hold anything over him that won't kill you too)
Risk: Fatal
Note: He does not share. He collects.
If you marry him, you will become a jewel he wears—until he breaks the clasp.