"Father, you asked for me?"
Edrien stepped into the king's study, a dark space despite the large size and number of candles that burned. It was as if the very walls soaked the light from the room, leaving one's eyes to adjust if they had any hope of making out details. He never remembered it being this dark when grandfather used this room—but memories have a way of distorting.
"Yes, come in," King Alestan boomed, waving him in as if he was just another servant.
Edrien's eyes ran over his father's desk, parchment and letters lining the surface in patchwork fashion, a disorder of requests and demands. Then his eyes caught on a name—Lady Rhosyn Valewyn—and he lingered.
"I wanted to—"
"You're not going to accept this, are you father?" Edrien questioned, leaning over the polished wood and inked paper.
Alestan grumbled under his breath, irritated from being interrupted. "Why shouldn't I?" the words, cutting and sharp.
"Because, Rhosyn deserves a better match than Lord Merrow," Edrien argued, something hot coiling within him at his father's laxed expression.
The king hummed as he contemplated the letter, but there was no humour or pleasantries behind it. His fingers curled around the parchment, crinkling it in a fist.
"Better?" he asked simply. "Like who, Edrien—you?"
Edrien hadn't expected his father's hostility, though he didn't expect his father to rejoice happily and fawn over himself either. But Alestan was unhinged, and Edrien needed to tread carefully not to start a battle—his father loved a war.
"Father, it's—"
"Bed her, get her out of your system or take her as your mistress, boy. But whatever you do, don't marry her," his father warned.
The words crawled uncomfortably over him, and Edrien couldn't help the shocked expression he wore. To even suggest taking his Rhos as a lover in name only, his hand fisted.
"And why shouldn't I marry her?" he fired back, rage simmering just beneath the surface, but he tried to stay logical. "We'll keep your precious hold on the Ravelocke Duchy—"
"I already have the duchy," his father cut him off swiftly.
"Only until she marries, and when she does, it goes to her husband."
"I'm the king and her guardian, I choose who she marries and if she even does!"
"She's nearly twenty-one, father, even you can't hold back one of Aramor's oldest laws," Edrien retorted.
"I can do anything, son, this is my kingdom," Alestan seethed. "It's like arguing with her uncle all over again…" he half muttered. "With the girl, we'll gain nothing new. But with a Celandre Princess we'll gain the Corsta Isles."
His father hadn't changed. He didn't care for Edrien's desires—he was just one more piece on the board that he could play with.
"You'll be visiting Celandre in a few weeks—prepare yourself."