The proposal struck the royal court like a rogue wave. A six-week expedition to the remote Southern Atolls, led by Princess Seraphina, was one thing. Prince Hadrian, the architect of the land, joining as lead liaison was quite another. It was seen as either a stroke of unifying genius or a catastrophic dereliction of duty.
Hadrian stood before the joint council of Lysterin and Aquilla, the air in the chamber thick with pipe smoke and skepticism. King Maris, Seraphina's father, boomed from his gilded chair.
"My daughter's expertise is unquestioned! But Hadrian, your place is here, overseeing the northern aqueducts! The sea is not your domain!"
Hadrian, dressed not in architect's casual wear but in the formal navy uniform of a Lysterin naval attaché, kept his voice level. "The crisis is not merely marine, Your Majesty. It is economic, political, architectural. If the reefs die, coastal erosion will claim villages. Trade routes will shift. My role is to assess the infrastructural implications firsthand, to liaise between the science and the state. No report can convey what the eyes can see."
He had rehearsed the practical arguments, but his real reason beat silently beneath his sternum.
From the side of the room, Seraphina watched him. She had not been consulted. Rian's suggestion, delivered to King Maris through discreet channels, had become a fait accompli presented to her just hours before the council. Her expression was unreadable, a calm surface over turbulent depths.
"And who will manage the princely duties here?" challenged Lord Orrin, Hadrian's own steward, his face pinched with concern.
"Prince Rian has graciously offered to oversee my portfolios in my absence," Hadrian said, the lie smooth as polished marble. Rian had agreed, of course, as part of the gambit. "His diplomatic acumen is well-suited to maintaining stability."
A murmur rippled through the Lysterin side. Rian was well-liked, but he was not them. It was a subtle power shift.
"I have concerns about security on such a prolonged voyage," said General Forthwind, his medals clinking.
"The Aethelwyn, our most advanced research vessel, has been fitted with the latest defensive systems," Seraphina spoke for the first time, her voice clear and cutting through the masculine rumble. "Captain Moreau commands her. I would trust him with my life." She paused, her gaze sweeping the room, finally landing on Hadrian. "And with the life of my husband. The mission is vital. If Prince Hadrian believes his skills are best applied at the source, then I, as lead scientist, welcome the perspective."
Her public endorsement was a shield, but Hadrian could hear the slight tremor beneath it—surprise, anxiety, perhaps a flicker of the same hope he felt.
The debate raged for another hour, but the alliance was sealed. The power couple would venture into the heart of the crisis together. The narrative was too perfect to resist: Land and Sea, united against a common foe. The council, sensing a potent symbol, gave its grudging approval.
Afterward, in the antechamber, Seraphina cornered him. The polite mask was gone, replaced by sharp confusion.
"What are you doing, Hadrian? This is my world. My chaos. You hate chaos."
"I am trying," he said, choosing his words with the care of a man defusing a bomb, "to understand your world. Not from a report, not from across a palace corridor. From the deck next to you."
"Rian put you up to this." It wasn't a question.
"He suggested an opportunity. I seized it."
Her eyes searched his face, looking for the architect's calculation, the hidden blueprint. "This isn't a building project. You can't design your way out of a typhoon or a political dispute with island chieftains."
"I'm not trying to," he said, and for the first time, he fully believed it. "I am trying to be present. In the mess. As you said."
She studied him a moment longer, then shook her head, a strand of pearl-bound hair coming loose. "You have no idea what you're volunteering for."
"Then teach me," he said simply.
A flash of the old, challenging spark lit her eyes. "You'll be seasick within a day."
"I'll endure."
She turned to leave, then glanced back over her shoulder. "Pack light. And for god's sake, pack practical." It was neither a welcome nor a rejection. It was an instruction. It was a start.