Page 85 of A War of Crowns

No doubt the poor viscount had planned for this portion of the summit to be a rather dry and boring affair. An event in which the Elmorian and Drakmori lawyers nitpicked each other’s proposed clauses while she and King Edmund stared off into the ether until it came time for them to sign the new treaty.

But Seraphina had other plans.

“Your Majesties,” she suddenly called to King Edmund and his mother, earning for herself a startled glance from the former and open suspicion from the latter. The Crow, seated on the king’s right, didn’t so much as blink, though.

He kept his attention fixed on his lap, still not looking her way.

“My lords and ladies,” Seraphina addressed the rest of the assembly next as she rose from her chair. “Oracle Tsukiko.” The Kunishi woman dipped her head in acknowledgment. “Your Highness.” She saved her address for the Crow last, though she only spared the man the briefest of glances with the words. “I wished to offer my most sincere apologies.”

“Apologies?” her Master of Ceremonies echoed, his eyes darting this way and that. “Your Majesty, forgive me—”

“What is this?” King Edmund asked, speaking over the viscount’s confusion. “What is going on?”

“I acted in haste when I broke my original marriage contract with His Majesty, King Edmund Hargrave of Drakmor,” Seraphina further declared, with a glance flicked toward Edmund himself.

When their eyes met, a frown etched itself between the king’s eyebrows.

At last, she let her lips curve into a little smile.

“And that haste has led to an unfortunate strain between our two kingdoms,” Seraphina announced to the room.

The king jolted to his feet and stalked toward her. “What are you doing?” he hissed in her ear.

But Seraphina ignored him. She had a captive audience, and she played to it. “Which is why it is with great pleasure and humility that Elmoria presents new terms of peace to Drakmor.”

Her lawyers had been up all night with her, drafting new terms for said treaty as dictated by her in the wee hours of the morning. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the disheveled pack of men scrambling to draw out that lengthy scroll now.

But it was to the Crow she directed her full attention next, her eyes fixed on his scarred visage. Where the King of Drakmor was ever so easy to read—as transparent as a pane of glass—his older brother was infuriatingly opaque. Where she couldfeelEdmund seething beside her, his barely continued rage roiling off of him in hot waves, the still-seated prince was another story.

She could have gleaned more from a pitch-black room than from his blank expression.

“I hereby offer my hand in marriage to His Highness, Prince Aldric Hargrave,” Seraphina announced, earning a chorus of gasps from all sides of the pavilion—both Elmorian and Drakmori. “Ina binding betrothal,” she continued, speaking over the rising cacophony, “before all these witnesses.”

Lifting her chin, Seraphina did her best to raise her voice further, though at that point, she had to shout at the Crow over the noise, “Ade factobetrothal.”

At last, the elder Hargrave looked at her, and her breath caught in her throat at all the raw malice that crackled within the depths of his eye when his gaze hooked with her own.

Other than that, the Crow had little reaction to her proposal. He did not balk. He did not so much as frown.

King Edmund was another story.

“You cannot do this,” he hissed again, his hot breath caressing her skin in a way that made her skin crawl. “You cannot just…takemy idea and make it your own.”

“And yet,” Seraphina whispered, cutting off his tirade before it could progress further, “I just did.” Peeking up at King Edmund, she softly advised, “Next time, might I suggest not showing me your cards before you play them,my dear?”

The assembly descended into pure chaos. Excitement, confusion, and trepidation mingled. Murmurs rose and fell.

Her Master of Ceremonies visibly sweated. The dowager queen’s lips pursed so tightly, Seraphina would have believed it if someone told her the other woman had just consumed an entire lemon.

And her poor godfather looked as if someone had just tossed a varhound puppy off a cliff. Duke Percival had spent a good portion of the night begging her to reconsider. But King Edmund had left her with little choice. This was the strongest card she had to play.

Herself.

Had she allowed Edmund to present his terms first, she would have been backed into a corner—forced to concede a good portion of her power to secure the aid her people sodesperately needed.

And that aid still wouldn’t have arrived for several months to come.

Weddings and coronations took time they couldn’t afford.

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