The second day dawned bright and cold. King Maris declared a fishing expedition for the men—a tradition Hadrian usually endured with stoic boredom. But this time, Maris clapped a hand on Rian's shoulder (who had arrived that morning, summoned for 'consultation') and boomed, "You too, Rian! We'll catch the big one that got away last season!"
It was a clear maneuver. Isolate the men. Observe the dynamics.
As they rowed out onto the glassy lake, the silence was heavy. Maris, at the tiller, finally broke it. "Berrick is a fool, but a persistent one. He's now whispering about the canal costs being inflated to line the pockets of 'certain advisors'." He didn't look at Rian, but the implication hung in the mist over the water.
Rian, baiting his hook with practiced ease, didn't rise to the bait. "The treasury audits every line, Your Majesty. The only pockets being lined are those of the engineers and wetland contractors. It's all quite transparently dull."
Hadrian watched his cousin. There was a new stillness to him, an acceptance. The loss of his special understanding with Seraphina had freed him in a way, but it had also left him adrift.
"And you, Hadrian?" Maris turned his gimlet eye on him. "This 'resonance' over permanence. Is that the architect talking, or the husband?"
It was the most direct personal question the King had ever asked him. Hadrian looked at the perfect, reflected mountains in the still water. "I'm not sure you can separate them anymore, Sire. The man who builds and the man who loves… they learned the same lesson. What you build has to be true to the ground it stands on, even if that ground is shifting. Otherwise, it's just a pretty lie waiting to fall."
Maris grunted, a sound that could have meant anything. He cast his line. "Pretty lies hold kingdoms together, boy."
"Until they don't,"Rian said softly, almost to himself. "And then you have a suit of armor in pieces on the floor."
Back at the lodge, Seraphina and Queen Mother Liora walked the lakeshore path. The Queen Mother was not a woman for small talk.
"The children are less anxious," she stated.
"They are,"Seraphina agreed.
"You are less…brittle."
Seraphina considered the choice of word.Brittle. Like something that could shatter under pressure. "The sea taught me to bend," she said finally. "Or break."
Liora stopped, looking out over the water. "I watched you for years. Two brilliant stars in a fixed constellation. Beautiful. Predictable. Cold." She turned her sharp gaze on Seraphina. "The cold was the problem. Not the distance. You've introduced friction. It's less aesthetically pleasing. But it generates warmth."
It was as close to a compliment as the Queen Mother would ever give. Seraphina felt a lump in her throat. "It's messy."
"Life is,"Liora said, and continued walking.
Later, Hadrian found Seraphina by the small boathouse, looking at a weathered canoe. "The children want to go out," she said. "But the nanny is nervous. The water is cold."
"We'll take them," he said.
They bundled Leo and Isla into life jackets and helped them into the unstable little craft.Hadrian took the stern, Seraphina the bow, the children wedged between them. It was comical, ungraceful. The canoe rocked alarmingly with every paddle stroke, drawing squeals of mingled terror and delight from Isla and Leo.
They didn't go far, just to a reedy cove. But for those twenty minutes, there was no kingdom, no commission, no void. There was only the slap of water on wood, the ache in their shoulders, the shared focus on balance, and the sound of their children's laughter echoing off the still water. They were a team, a clumsy, laughing, perfectly coordinated team keeping a tiny vessel afloat.
As they paddled back, the late afternoon sun warm on their backs, Seraphina looked over her shoulder at Hadrian. His hair was ruffled by the breeze, his face relaxed in a way she hadn't seen in years, focused on the simple task of steering. He caught her look and smiled—a real, unguarded, easy smile.
The romantic void had no place in a canoe. It was too small, too full of life and clumsy, joyful effort. In that moment, it wasn't just navigated or filled; it was forgotten.