Page 58 of Oath
“Do forgive me,” he drawled, settling onto his father’s vacant throne as if it were a chaise in his bedchamber. “I was busy admiring myself in the mirror. But let’s not waste time—present these men who would be shackled to me.”
The southern duke’s son stepped forward, broad-shouldered and bronzed, with hair like burnished copper. He knelt, presenting a coffer of gilded trinkets: pearls, rare silks, a dagger hilted in ivory.
“My lord,” he said, voice resonant, trained for halls like this. “My father sends these gifts as tokens of peace and prosperity. He asks you to join our houses in marriage, to unite north and south under one bond stronger than blood.”
The courtiers sighed, nodding approval. It was sensible. It was profitable.
Aerion leaned forward, sipped his wine, and let silence coil before he spoke.
“Your father wants my land, not my love.”
The words rang, sharp as a sword unsheathed.
Gasps rippled through the room. The suitor’s face coloured, but Aerion only smiled faintly and flicked his hand. “Next.”
The emissary stepped forward: slight, doe-eyed, with a voice like spun silk. He carried no treasure, only parchment in hand. He bowed low, then began reciting poetry in a tongue foreign and sweet, his words painting skies and rivers, stars and blossoms. He spoke of devotion, of beauty unmatched, of a love that would honour and elevate.
A few ladies dabbed their eyes. Some whispered of romance, of softness.
Aerion tipped his head, bored.
When the emissary finally finished, flushing with earnest pride, Aerion’s laugh cut through the hush like shattered glass.
“I can recite prettier things to my own mirror.”
The emissary’s lips parted, stricken. Aerion tilted his goblet, spilling a single crimson drop onto the stone floor. “And my mirror would not bore me half as long. Next.”
The hall’s attention shifted as a man strode forward in armour chased with silver, every step ringing against the marble. He was stern, older than the others, his cloak embroidered with sigils that boasted of heritage traced back through five kings. Behind him, a retainer unfurled a parchment boasting of a warship—a vessel armed to carve seas and cow nations.
He bowed stiffly, chin raised. “My lord, I offer not trinkets nor verse, but legacy. Together, we would stand as crown to crown. Your lands secured, your reign made unshakable.”
Murmurs surged, hungry with approval. Security. Power.
Aerion studied him, eyes narrowing. Slowly, he stood, his emerald robe pooling at his feet, his silhouette a flame against the cold light.
“If I wanted a crown without affection,” he said, voice soft but cutting, “I’d marry my title.”
The silence that followed was thunderous. The suitor stiffened, jaw tight. Aerion only lifted his goblet, drank deep, and sank lazily back into his throne.
The suitors departed, their pride bruised, their gifts spurned.
The courtiers whispered like sparrows, their murmurs flitting from ear to ear:He’s mad. He’s brilliant. He’s reckless. He’s untouchable.
But Aerion heard none of it.
His gaze drifted east, beyond marble walls and painted ceilings, beyond suitors with crowns and poems. His fingers tightened around the goblet until the stem creaked.
What good were silks, ships, or crowns when the only man he wanted had already given him an oath? When the only presence he craved stood somewhere in the snow, far from his reach?
Aerion swallowed the last of his wine and whispered into the rim, unheard by anyone but himself:
“You stupid, silent, wonderful bastard.”
Then he smiled again, sharp as ever, and rose to leave the hall—velvet trailing, courtiers scattering before him like leaves before the wind.
The council chamber smelled of beeswax and ink, heavy with the weight of too many eyes fixed on him. Aerion had barely left the great hall before the vassals closed in, shepherding him back into the chamber like wolves circling prey.
Lord Baedwin, his father’s oldest advisor, stepped forward first, his white beard trembling with the effort of calm. “My lord, you are of age. Your position is secure—for now—but without an heir—”
