The cold stone walls of Caer Twyrif were a warm welcome after the chill outside. The corridor stretched before them, lit by rows of torches that coated the passage in an orange glow and cast long shadows along the walls, where pillars rose like hard trees supporting the vaulted ceiling.

From the far end of the corridor a knight approached, and Elda recognized him as the young knight who had arrived with Lady Muira. He walked with long strides, his tunic billowing behind him.

“My lady,” he called out, “I was sent to find you.”

Lady Muira made no effort to quicken her pace and waited until the knight had come closer, so she would not have to raise her voice to address him.

“Well, you have found me. Who instructed you to seek me out?”

“It was the duke himself,” replied the knight, slightly out of breath from his search. “He announced that all guests must gather in the great hall.” Then he straightened his back, began to breathe more steadily, and turned to Elda. The knight bowed to her, his mantle falling unintentionally from his shoulder.

The way he bowed looked a little awkward, Elda thought, as had the way he had hurried toward them. Nevertheless, he had a pleasant presence. His bearing held a certain sincerity, and his face was kind. Now that Elda saw him up close, she noticed how young he was. Younger than she had expected when he had arrived with Lady Muira at the feast. Elda guessed he was barely older than twenty. His features still seemed soft, and his beard had not yet fully come in. Elda’s brother was a squire under their uncle, and she knew he could not be knighted before his twenty-first birthday. If this young man was a knight, then his knighting could not have been long ago.

“Greetings, my lady,” the knight said warmly. “My name is Sir Alaric.”

Lady Muira smiled and glanced from Alaric to Elda. “Alaric is the son of my brother, who is sadly no longer with us. Alaric, this is Eldryssa of Asterfyld.” Elda smiled at the knight, though somewhat uneasily.

“My lady,” Elda said to the countess, “if the duke has summoned us, should we not return to the great hall?”

Lady Muira laughed softly. “The duke has summoned us. That means he wishes to make an announcement in the presence of all his guests. It also means he will not begin until everyone is present, so let us not rush and instead return to the hall at our leisure.” She then turned her gaze back to Alaric. “Walk with us, my nephew, and spare yourself further exertion.”

Not much later they reached the great hall. When Elda looked inside she saw that the feast had advanced in the meantime. At the tables, groups of guests were deep in conversation, but no longer with the lively exuberance of earlier. Instead, they whispered, brows drawn tight. Those who had not yet returned to their seats moved restlessly through the hall, having apparently been instructed to resume their places. Across the room sat the duke, together with the duchess and Mortain, still at the ducal table.

At that moment Elda saw something move in the corner of her eye, and she instinctively glanced aside. There, farther down the corridor, she saw Chaplain Valderic walking away. Just then the chaplain looked over his shoulder, and their eyes met. For a moment he held her gaze with raised brows, then smiled so broadly that his round cheeks lifted and his beady eyes nearly vanished. After that he turned abruptly and hurried off toward a spiral stair.

“Are you coming, Eldryssa?” the lady asked her, motioning with her arm for Elda to follow. Elda obeyed, and the woman guided her back to her seat beside Mortain. As they moved through the crowd, the atmosphere shifted. A strange silence hung in the air, and only now did Elda notice that the minstrels had stopped playing. She felt the eyes of the guests turn toward her as she passed. No matter how hard they tried not to stare, it did not escape Elda’s notice, and it filled her with unease.

She fidgeted with her hands while keeping her gaze fixed straight ahead, eyes aimed toward the table before her.

Upon reaching the table she took her place beside Mortain, and Lady Muira smiled at her. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Eldryssa. For now we part, but I hope we may speak again.” She then turned to the duke and his family, offered a deep bow, and made her way to her own seat.

With Lady Muira returned the last of the lingering guests, until finally everyone was seated and only an indistinct murmur filled the space, like the constant hum of insects in an otherwise silent forest. The quiet seemed to stretch on, and all eyes were fixed on the duke, who appeared deep in thought, as though weighing each word he wished to speak, and how.

Elda was still fidgeting with her fingers, hidden in her lap beneath the table. Involuntarily she cast a glance backward, toward where Lady Merinda sat. The governess caught it at once, replying with a look that commanded Elda to mind her posture, mixed with a sadness Elda had seen more and more often in people’s eyes these past days.

Elda answered with a subtle nod, turned her gaze forward once more, then straightened her back, drew her shoulders back, and lifted her chin.

As if you own the world.

The words she had so often despised when her governess spoke them now lent her strength. Steeled by her newfound posture, Elda felt ready for whatever awaited her, though she also knew she had no idea what that might be. All evening she had sensed that this would be the moment when answers finally came. With every passing minute it seemed she drew closer to an explanation for the strange behavior of the last few days. Now the moment had arrived, and when the duke addressed his guests, he would at last release her from the torment her ignorance had caused.

“Elda,” Mortain whispered, leaning closer to her, “I’m sorry for how I behaved earlier. I’m nervous too, and it makes me act strangely.”

“What are you nervous about?” Elda asked sharply, raising an eyebrow. Mortain looked at her, and Elda saw that same expression as before, the one she could not read, and which offered her no comfort. If Mortain had wanted to say anything, he did not get the chance.

The duke rose from his seat, slowly and with great control, and even before he stood fully upright the hall had fallen silent. Every whisper died at once. There was not even a breath to be heard, as though everyone collectively held their breath.

“Honored guests,” the duke began, his voice loud and commanding. His tone was full and grand, and Elda felt herself shrink with humility, like a small girl in a place not meant for her.

As if you own the world?

No, Elda did not own the world. There were rulers far greater than she would ever be; she felt that truth now deep in her heart.

“You have eaten, you have drunk. Many of you I have spoken with, and many more I will speak with in the coming days. I will share news with you, and you with me, and we will draw closer to one another in these turbulent times. For turbulent indeed are the days in which we live.

Nine months ago the war that ravaged our lands for so long came to its end. How many of you inherited titles from fathers who fell in battle? A tragic fate, tied to war and glory, yet a fate that awaits all of us when we ride out proudly against those who would wish to destroy us.

But the war that claimed the lives of so many of your fathers and uncles, your brothers and cousins, was not such a war. It was needless, it was long, and those who fell did so for a contest of pride between vain rulers, a struggle from which no glory could be won.

Now the war is over, and no more should die for such purposes. At least, that is how it ought to be.

Should the treaty with the Burbric emperor not herald a new age of peace and stability? Did we not fight and spill our blood to usher in an age of prosperity and fortune?”

The duke’s voice swelled with a passion and fury that cut through bone and marrow. His cold eyes seemed to blaze, and none could look away, for the duke held every gaze in a grip that no strength of will could escape.

“Such a future was not granted to us, for there, in the final battle of the war, like salt in an already festering wound, Prince Goedling fell, and the king was wounded. He became sick and frail. Strong enough to make peace, but too weak to set any rebuilding into motion. Strong enough not to die, yet too weak to rule. He had lost both son and heir, the last of his house, and since then he lay dying on Gaul Falith, in Hofendal.

Lay, I say, for it is with pain in my heart that I share this with you now: King Staar II of Rasfadal has passed.”

At these words, a thunderous uproar broke out across the hall, with shouts, cries, and wailing erupting from all sides. Elda’s eyes shot from the duke to the crowd, where she saw guests who moments before had been motionless as statues now gesticulating, rising, and moving in frantic confusion. Then her gaze darted to Lady Muira. The countess remained seated at her table, her brows drawn, watching the duke with an intense, unwavering stare.

Elda had stopped fidgeting and could hardly move at all. She stared ahead into the hall without truly seeing what unfolded before her.

The king was dead. Her father had spoken of him with respect, describing him as a strong man, tall and broad, with silver hair earned through long years, and wise grey eyes set deep in an aged yet powerful face. The poor king. Elda had never known the monarch, but his name, King Staar II, had been spoken for as long as she could remember, wrapped in grand stories of the war.

Now he was dead. Did that mean there would be a new king? But had the duke not said he died without children? Who would take his place if he had no son or kin? Elda had so many questions that her thoughts began to spin. What would this mean for her father? And for her?

Slowly another thought rose within her. The news that had been kept from her these last days. The duke had said they would receive answers today. Could this be the news she had been waiting for all this time?

She blinked and became aware again of the hall around her. The gathered lords and ladies had still not calmed, and loud discussions, clattering cutlery, and weeping filled the air. Elda’s gaze drifted again to Lady Muira, who was now speaking earnestly with Lord Rowan and their retinue. She carried herself with composure, certainly compared to the other guests at her table.

The hall was still lit by candelabras and candles, but the red light they cast now seemed ominous, as though the duke’s words had poisoned its warmth.

Then she saw, from the corner of her eye, the duke raise a hand, and within seconds silence returned to the hall. No one seemed to move, and Elda herself feared to make even the slightest sound, lest it draw the attention of all the guests. Her hands lay motionless in her lap, and she sat tense, waiting for what the duke would say next.

He still stood tall and broad, slowly lowering the hand that had restored silence to the room.

“Our king has passed,” the duke repeated, now in a soft tone that compelled the audience to listen closely, “and with him the blood of Looras the Great has died out. No one can now claim the throne, and the High Council of Hofendal has long debated this matter without finding an answer. The kingdom trembles.”

The duke’s eyes were half narrowed, and he looked at each of the guests in turn.

“Rasfadal stands in uncertain times, and as the news of the king’s passing spreads, the lords of the land will grow restless. Here, within the walls of our fair Caer Twyrif, order still reigns, but not all of the king’s vassals will receive this news with such restraint as you. The borders will not remain safe for long, and disorder will take hold of the realm if we, you and I, do nothing. The land has need of hope. Of steadfastness. Of the certainty of loyalty that cannot be challenged. And therefore, honored guests, I wish on this sorrowful evening to make a joyful announcement.”

Now the duke’s eyes rested on Elda, and she startled under his gaze. Before she could react, his eyes moved on again, settling on his son. Mortain sat straight as a spear at the table and looked at his father with pride.

A shiver ran down Elda’s spine as all eyes in the hall seemed to fall on her. Everyone could see her now, and there was nothing she could do to escape it. Suddenly she wondered if she even wanted the answers after all. Yet she had no time to think about it, for the duke’s voice once again filled the hall.

“In these tumultuous times we must cherish the bonds between our houses. It is therefore with joy and confidence that I announce that my son, Mortain of Arnallan, and Eldryssa of Asterfyld will be wed, earlier than planned, on the seventh day of this last autumn moon.”

Elda froze. She would marry Mortain. She had known that for years, but not until she was sixteen. It had been a pleasant thought, but only that: a distant future, still years away. Immediately it struck her that this was the news everyone had kept from her. Another cold shiver ran over her back, this time spreading to the tips of her fingers.

Marriage to Mortain had never been an unpleasant thought, and in recent months the idea of living beside him had even warmed her. Yet now that the wedding was closer than ever, she felt afraid.

She suddenly felt very cold. How long had this news been circulating? Why had she not been allowed to know? And why did she feel like this? If this was truly a joyful announcement, surely she ought to feel better about it?

“Let this announcement mark the beginning of a new era,” the duke continued. “A time of new alliances and stability. May this marriage be the foundation of a strong kingdom!” After that the duke spoke many more words, but Elda no longer heard them, nor did she see the faces of the guests in the great hall. Instead, her thoughts scattered in every direction.

The king’s death had been presented as the reason to hasten the marriage. But Elda did not understand. Her father was only a baron, and she a third child. How could a marriage to her possibly help the kingdom? Her mind spun wildly, thoughts tumbling over one another, appearing and vanishing before she could grasp them, until she felt dizzy and sick and afraid.

Then she felt something at her arm and looked up in alarm. It was Mortain, linking his arm through hers.

“Stand up,” he whispered softly, then guided her to rise. And there they stood, side by side, displayed before all the assembled guests, like a trophy of the duke’s, who now stood beside them, clapping modestly and satisfied. The hall burst into cheer and joy once more, and from the cold stone floor to the high, vaulted ceiling the space filled with enthusiastic cries.

“I wanted to tell you,” Mortain murmured to her. Elda did not answer. She only stared at him in confusion. “You were away with Lady Muira, and when you returned there was no time. But I wanted to tell you, truly.”

Elda was silent for a while and stared at Mortain. “You knew,” she said at last. “I asked you about it, and you said nothing. But you knew.”

Mortain tried to answer, but Elda did not allow it. She no longer understood what was happening. As a way to flee, she let her gaze drift into the hall. There she found the eyes of Lady Muira, who was watching her with a smile. Then she looked left, then right, and at last turned to look behind her, where Lady Merinda had taken her place, and the old woman looked sombre.