Chapter 7 What The Sorcery Fed

No one really knew when the court started to notice.

It crept in, almost invisible. Someone would look up from their wine, spot Lady Athalia moving through the hall, and forget what they were saying. Pages stood frozen with their trays. Old enemies stopped talking midsentence and picked up again in whispers. And by the time the royal family returned from Seatopia, the whole palace buzzed about it—whatever “it” was.

She wasn’t just beautiful. She’d always been striking, sharp-eyed, a little intimidating. But now, something glowed inside her. Her skin shone—like candlelight behind glass. Her hair looked darker, heavier, and her eyes, always big, seemed bottomless. People got lost in them. And her voice—low and careful before, nothing special—had changed too. It was warm now, like someone resting a hand on your neck for just a second.

“She’s changed,” the cook whispered to the scullery maid as they scrubbed dishes. “I couldn’t say how.”

“I saw her smile at the stable boy,” the maid said. “He walked straight into a post.”

“A post?”

“A whole post.”

In the gallery, the court ladies angled their fans and passed rumors back and forth.

“It’s the sea air,” said Lady Verena, who hoarded secrets like others collected porcelain. “Seatopia does wonders for a girl’s health.”

“Didn’t do much for me,” Lady Corwin said, sharp as ever.

“Maybe she’s in love.”

“With Prince Adrian?” Silence. “Maybe.”

Athalia heard it all. She moved through it like wading through a warm pool. The pact had changed her. She could almost sense people’s attention, feel their eyes linger, know the second a room turned toward her. A glance here, a word there, pitched just right—and she could make someone lean in, ready to listen.

It was thrilling. And honestly, it unsettled her. She never quite knew where the glamour ended and she herself began.

Only Fredric seemed immune.

She tried—not that she’d admit it. She passed him in the corridor, her chin tilted just so. She used her new voice at dinner, laughed at his jokes, leaned across the table, let her fingers rest a second too long on his sleeve.

He just smiled at her politely, the same way you’d smile at a cousin.

“You look well, Athalia,” he said. “Seatopia agreed with you.”

“Thank you.”

“Arianna says you’ve been reading more. She’s jealous. She claims you’ll wind up smarter than all of us.”

“I already am,” Athalia joked, and he laughed. That was it. No blush, no awkwardness, nothing. The glamour just slid right off him and he went back to his soup.

She sat for a while with her hands curled in her lap, staring at nothing.

Autumn brought the anniversary festival—a wild harvest fair where everyone poured into the terraces to eat, dance, and celebrate until the lanterns burned low.

It started in the palace courtyard and spilled out into the streets. Stalls cooked roasted pears and spiced wine filled the air. Fiddlers played on every staircase. Children rushed through the dances with painted faces. Banners snapped in the mountain wind—red and gold. The bells rang so much you could barely think.

Athalia stood on the royal dais, Adrian beside her, silk gown dark as pine needles, watching the crowd turn, again and again, to look at her.

It felt like standing at the edge of a tide. Heads spun around. People nudged each other. Someone hoisted a girl onto their shoulders for a better view. A man started clapping and the applause grew, rolling across the courtyard.

“They’re cheering for you,” Adrian said, almost amazed.

“They’re cheering for us.”

“For you.” He blushed, awkward and sweet at the same time. “I don’t mind. It’s strange, though—I’ve never stood next to someone people actually wanted to see.”

She slipped her arm through his. “They’ll want to see you too.”

“We’ll see.”

The dancing began. Adrian—who could barely keep a beat—led her out for one careful round, then retreated, relieved, to Lord Rowan’s wife. Athalia was swept into a golden whirl of partners, moving between them like a flame racing through dry grass, leaving flushed faces behind.

Afterward, she found Fredric leaning on a column, watching Arianna twirl around with the youngest page. Arianna laughed, hair tumbling down, cheeks pink—so happy it almost hurt to watch.

“She’ll wear herself out,” Fredric said, not looking away.

“She loves it.”

“She does. I never get tired of looking at her.” He glanced at Athalia. “You look different tonight. Brighter.”

“Do I?”

“Not just the dress.”

Athalia held her breath. Something fluttered low in her chest.

“But you won’t tell me what it is,” he said, suddenly cheerful, “so I won’t ask.”

He raised his cup and wandered off to fetch his wife. Athalia pressed back against the column. All the festival lights blurred for a moment. She swallowed—hard. It was no use. She could command a kingdom, but she’d never make him look.

She hardened then. It didn’t feel like making a choice. More like listening to a door click shut.

Later, she found Adrian in a quiet arcade, away from the noise. He stood alone, holding two cups, staring out at the festival.

“I thought you might be thirsty,” he said.

“Thanks.”

They stood together quietly. Music drifted over the walls, slow and sweet. Over the mountaintops, a gold rocket burst open in the night.

“Adrian,” she said, her voice low.

“Mm?”

“I’ve been thinking about what that lord said at the coronation. About the heir.”

He tensed. “Rowan.”

“Yes.” She rolled the cup between her palms. She’d rehearsed this, a gentle phrase meant to slip right into his thoughts. “People adore your brother. As long as he’s here, there’ll always be some who dream of another king. You know he doesn’t want the crown. That’s not the problem.”

“What is?”

“Their love.” She let the words settle. “It doesn’t need his permission. It just exists. Like a river under ice. And a river finds a way.”

He was silent.

“It would be easier,” she said, even softer, “for everyone, if he were simply farther away.”

She felt him freeze.

He didn’t gasp or protest. He just stopped breathing, his hand tightening slowly on his cup.

“Out of my way,” he echoed.

“Only in the sense of distance. A posting, maybe. Somewhere useful and pleasant, where no one compares him to you every day.”

“That’s not what you meant.”

“It’s what I said.”

“Yes.” He stared at her awhile. “It’s what you said.”

Something shifted in his face. Not agreement, not refusal. Just a worried quiet, like hearing a distant sound you can’t quite place. He lifted his cup, drank, then set it down. For the first time ever, he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

“Of course.”

“I should go back. Mother will be looking for me.”

He left. She watched him walk away under the lamps—a tall, stooped figure, his left hand loose at his side. She didn’t know then how much that silence would cost them both.