Chapter 3 The Weight No One Sees

Adrian always slipped away to the east balcony. No one else bothered with it. Out there, the whole world felt quiet and his own.

He liked that. The balcony overlooked the mountains—on crisp evenings, those peaks turned a bruised violet before fading to black. Then came the first stars over Thornmaw, sharp and sudden, like someone striking flint. Adrian stood at the stone railing, wine in hand but untouched, and tried to imagine feeling like a man about to be married.

Instead, he only felt as if he’d lost something important—couldn’t remember what or where.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

Fredric stepped out onto the balcony too, carrying a fresh bottle under his arm and a second cup dangling from his fingers. He set them both down beside Adrian and leaned on the rail, shoulder to shoulder, just like when they were boys.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you glare at the mountains like they owe you money.” Fredric poured the wine. “You always do it when you’re mad and pretending you’re not.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Right,” Fredric said, rolling his eyes. “Liar.”

Adrian almost grinned. “I’m not angry with you.”

“But you’re angry.”

The wind tugged at Adrian’s sleeve, and he pulled it back over his forearm, an old habit Fredric had long stopped noticing. Silence fell while a lamplighter far below worked his way along the Terrace of Lamps, kindling a chain of little flames that moved steadily closer.

“I’m not angry,” Adrian said again, voice a little flat. “I’m tired. Not the same thing.”

“Tired of what?”

“Of having to be the sensible one.” Adrian twisted his mouth into a sour smile. “Always cleaning up after everyone. Father didn’t even bother to ask if this is what I wanted. He just said, ‘You’re the eldest, this is your job.’ Like I’m a mop.”

“You’re not a mop.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“A mop is more useful. Plus, nobody hates a mop.” Fredric ducked away from Adrian’s elbow, laughing until the sound faded out in a sigh. “Sorry. Really, I am. If I hadn’t been such a mess, this wouldn’t be your burden.”

“It would’ve landed on someone.” Adrian turned his cup between his hands. “Do you love her?”

“Arianna? God, yes. More than I can say.”

“Then it’s worth it.” Adrian said it straight, and meant it; that was the worst part. He didn’t begrudge Fredric any happiness. He just couldn’t help feeling he’d never even had the chance to see what might’ve made him happy.

“What about Athalia?” Fredric asked softly. “What do you think of her?”

Adrian thought for a while. “She’s clever. Smarter than me, I think. Looks at a room like she’s already three moves ahead. I don’t know if that unsettles me or not.” He shrugged. “She said yes on the spot. I keep wondering why.”

“Maybe she likes you.”

“Maybe.”

“It’s possible. You’re not…awful.”

“Reassuring as ever.”

Fredric knocked his cup against Adrian’s. “To lousy husbands who somehow get loved anyway.”

Later that evening, in the royal apartments, the king and queen were talking about their sons.

Elizabeth sat at her dressing table, letting down her hair. Jeremy lounged on the couch by the fire, boots off, a report from the northern garrison in his hand and the family hound at his feet. He’d already read the report four times—was scowling at it like a personal insult.

“They’ll manage,” Elizabeth said quietly.

“The younger one acts like a goat in council.”

“Whole city loves him for it.” Elizabeth drew the brush through her hair, slow and steady. “That’s a gift, Jeremy. Not a mistake.”

“It’s a risk,” Jeremy grumbled, tossing the report aside. “They love Fredric. They don’t follow him, they just adore him. That’s not leadership. Adrian is the one they’ll follow, but he thinks they barely tolerate him. He’s determined to apologize for breathing, that boy.”

“He got that from you.”

“From you, more likely.”

Elizabeth smiled faintly at her mirror. Her face tightened, though, a shadow settling as she dropped the brush.

“If anything happened to Adrian,” she said. Her voice was different now. “If Fredric became heir…”

“Nothing’s going to happen to Adrian.”

“But if.”

“Fredric would be king. The people would fawn over him, and the whole kingdom would fall apart in ten years.” Jeremy grunted. “Enough. Stop worrying. The eldest inherits. That's law. That's how we'll keep it.”

Elizabeth stared at herself a long time, lost in her reflection. Jeremy was already ignoring her, focused again on his report. He didn’t see her face change—didn’t see the quick, private calculation flicker behind her eyes.

And somewhere else, deep in the night, Athalia stood alone in her room by a single candle, hair loose.

She was practicing.

Her maid had gone. The hall outside was silent. In the glass, a tall girl with a pale, pointed face and dark, serious eyes looked back at her—scanning her own expression like a stranger’s.

Athalia tried to smile.

It came out wrong. Too sharp. Tense at the corners. Anyone could see it in her eyes—a look like she was waiting for a slap. She brushed the expression away and tried again, this time tilting her head, aiming for softness.

Closer. Not quite. She looked like a girl pretending politeness at her own funeral.

“Again,” she breathed.

Other smiles were easy. For the king, for the queen, for court ladies—with them, it was just a matter of picking the right mask. But this new smile was tougher. It was for Adrian. It had to say, I chose you. It needed to sound so real he’d never wonder why.

She tried nine times. On the tenth, the tremor in her hands finally eased.

It wasn’t much of a victory, but she clung to it anyway. She sat on her bed, still dressed for sleep, the candle’s light flickering over her face. For the first time all day, she let herself feel the exhaustion. The sort of tiredness that sleep won’t fix—the fatigue of always being the clever one, of wanting so much she had to shape her whole face around it.

Way down the hall, muffled by stone and distance, she heard Arianna laughing in her sleep.

Athalia pressed her palms into her eyes.

“Fredric,” she said, lips forming the word but making no sound. Not even a whisper. Just the shape of the name, once, for herself, in the dark.

Then she looked up, checked her reflection one last time. The girl in the mirror was calm, composed, and ready for morning.

And morning brought the western lords.

They arrived to fanfare and clattering hooves—a line of barons and their men, bundled up for the cold, their horses steaming in clouds. The bells boomed overhead. Servants scattered. The courtyard filled with courtiers, all turned out for the occasion. Adrian stood at the front, chin high, shoulders set, expression carefully blank. Athalia stood beside him.

“Smile,” she said quietly, barely moving her lips.

“I am smiling.”

“Your face disagrees.”

He tried, though it felt forced. She slid her gloved hand into his—purposeful and gentle—and felt his surprise shiver through him.

“Better,” she whispered.

At the head of the caravan, a banner whipped in the wind—sea green, embroidered with a silver wave. The sea trade partner. Seatopia. Riding just behind it was a thin, sharp-looking man in green silk, with a look on his face that promised trouble.