As the most contentious wedding in living memory drew near, summons were sent to the monarchs of Aldevia.
True to his oath, Byron forbade any envoy from Thre to darken the ceremony's threshold. Yet of all the crowns beckoned, only those of neighboring Seter deigned to answer.
King Raverick Highborne and his queen, Dawn, had long been allies to Byron's late parents.
Though the realms of Nye and Seter seldom meddled in each other's affairs, an unspoken accord of mutual respect had bound them through the years.
Raverick was a man of formidable stature, his broad shoulders draped in robes of deep brown and gold, the sigil of Seter—a regal eagle, wings outstretched—emblazoned across his mantle.
His chestnut hair, streaked with silver, fell to his collar, and a dark iron crown, wrought with intricate gold filigree, rested upon his brow, its central ruby glinting like a smoldering ember.
His beard, neatly trimmed, framed high cheekbones and a stern, unsmiling mouth, while eyes of glacial blue regarded the world with the unyielding sharpness of a whetted blade.
At his side, Queen Dawn stood in striking contrast—a vision of elegance and quiet steel.
Her golden tresses were woven into elaborate braids, adorned with a silver crown set with pearls and sapphires.
Warm hazel eyes softened the severity of her husband's gaze, yet there was resolve in them, a quiet strength beneath the grace.
Her gown, rich brown trimmed with gold, bore the sigil of Seter upon her breast—a subtle, unwavering reminder of lineage and power.
Theodore met them at the hall's entrance, bowing low. "Your Majesties."
Raverick's gaze settled upon him, his brow knitting in curiosity. "Why are you not at your cousin's side?"
He knew well the bond between Byron and his cousin, had seen them grow from boys to men, inseparable as shadow and flame.
Theodore straightened, his expression carefully schooled. "He is with my father, Your Grace. I am needed here, as his Hand."
There was a bite to his words, resentment barely veiled. He had refused to stand beside Byron, his absence a silent censure.
The king exhaled, a knowing glint in his eye. "Ever the dutiful Hand. I would have taken you as mine, were it not for the ties that bind you to the Beresfords."
Theodore dipped his head, his voice measured. "You honor me, Your Grace." He gestured toward their seats. "The ceremony begins shortly."
As they stepped forward, Raverick cast a glance over the empty spaces meant for other rulers.
"Seems the other crowns disapprove of this match." His tone was light, but the weight beneath it was unmistakable. He knew well that Ratih was no bride for Nye's throne.
Theodore allowed himself a wry smirk but said nothing, bowing before taking his leave.
When he had gone, Queen Dawn let out a quiet breath. "We should not be here."
Raverick's gaze lingered on the empty seats, his expression unreadable. "Perhaps not." Then, after a pause, softer, "But that boy has no one else."
The hall—vast and magnificent—was built to host hundreds, yet barely a handful had come. A scattering of ten, perhaps twelve, most of them Byron's councilmen and their wives.
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BLOODLINE
FantasíaIn the kingdom of Nye, Prince Byron Albright-Beresford's life was forever altered when assassins struck, killing his family and leaving him to ascend the throne. The weight of the crown once meant for his elder brother, now rested on his shoulders...
