The court was alive with color that morning. Nobles filled the throne room, their silks and jewels glittering like a river of wealth. At the center of this pageant entered Lady Elswyth of House Marenholt. She moved with the grace of one born to power, her gown of emerald velvet trailing across the polished stone, her hair a cascade of dark gold.
The King introduced her formally, for she was no ordinary guest. Her family commanded the northern provinces—lands rich in iron and men. Her hand in marriage would mean more than love; it would mean armies, wealth, and influence.
Athelric's eyes followed her like a hawk's. He measured her beauty not only with desire but with ambition. She would be the jewel of his crown, proof that fate favored him. Caedmon, however, felt something deeper stir within him. When her gaze lingered on him, soft yet questioning, it was not politics he saw—it was humanity.
That night, whispers spread through the court. Some said Elswyth would be queen soon, others speculated which prince she would favor. Servants carried gossip like wildfire, unaware that every word stoked embers of rivalry.
Elswyth herself was silent, her thoughts guarded. But in the privacy of her chamber, she pressed a hand against her breast and wondered why her heart beat faster when the younger prince's eyes met hers.