The Holy Kingdom?
A spike of pure dissonance flared behind her practiced detachment. To Matthew—and to every awed eavesdropper seated along the terrace—the mention of Sanctum Regis and its divine ledgers sounded entirely organic. It was precisely what one expected from the academy's immaculate Saint: an aura of church sanction, the quiet authority of golden chapels, and an intimate familiarity with the bureaucracy of the faith.
Yet Alice knew the earth they had both stood upon before arriving at this floating citadel.
She knew the western soil; she knew the quiet, deliberate distance his household had always kept between their doorstep and the zealous reach of the Celestial Sun Church. The twins' parents had lived as wanderers and free mages, deliberately shielding their threshold from the dogma of the Northern Plains and the overbearing deacons of Sanctum Regis. Cedric had never held an ecclesiastical customs ledger in his hands, nor did he harbor the faintest interest in international tariff quotas.
It was an impossible lie. A brazen, glittering fabrication dropped casually onto the linen.
Surely he could have come up with a better lie.
Alice's eyes narrowed beneath her lowered lashes, dissecting the guileless tilt of Arthur's head. The realization settled cold and venomous: he had chosen the lie with surgical precision. To an insecure second son desperate for legitimacy, the Holy Kingdom's name tasted like unassailable prestige. Matthew was too blinded by the prospect of holy endorsement to ever realize that the boy sitting across from him had grown up avoiding the altar altogether.
The words struck Matthew like a draught of vintage wine.
The knot in his throat loosened instantly. The cold dread pressing against the base of his skull evaporated, replaced by an intoxicating, full-bodied rush of aristocratic vanity. To be singled out—not merely as another noble face in the crowd, but recognized from official Holy Kingdom ledgers by the Saint himself, lauded as an expert heir holding knowledge beyond the reach of imperial scribes.
"I would be honored!" Matthew beamed, his chest swelling so broadly the silver threads along his lapel pulled taut.
What followed was an effortless unraveling of pride. For the next thirty minutes, Matthew held court, leaning across the small table to detail the machinery of the eastern border: the precise customs tariffs levied against the Plains caravans, the seasonal choke points along the mountain passes where independent smugglers were squeezed, and the complex river transit duties negotiated between private baronies and the church's regional deacons.
Arthur listened with sublime, unwavering focus. He nodded at every calculated juncture, offering soft, encouraging interjections that prompted Matthew to dig deeper into the ledgers of his family's private clearinghouses. Arthur's posture remained relaxed, radiating the harmless, patient enlightenment of a young priest taking instruction from a master merchant.
Gradually, the prickling tension that had blanketed the terrace began to dissipate. The students at the perimeter tables, having tensed for a duel or a scathing reprimand, saw only Saint Cedric engaged in an earnest, intellectual discourse on statecraft. Cups returned to saucers. Whispers resumed their meandering cadence. The conservatory surrendered once more to the humid, rhythmic drift of conversation and clinking silver.
Throughout it all, Alice sat entirely motionless, a quiet spectator pinned between two predators—one blind, and one whose eyes saw through the skin of the world.
She tracked the slow drift of sunlight angling across the high glass facets. She tracked the final wisps of steam deserting her cup until the dark surface went completely still. Exactly thirty minutes had elapsed—an eternity of vapid aristocratic posturing, yet Arthur had sustained the fiction without a single lapse in composure.
He's bringing it to a close.
As if answering the unspoken thought, Arthur raised a gentle hand—a calm, unobtrusive motion that yielded deference rather than commanded it, yet carried the quiet finality of a prior closing a chapter. Matthew's rambling dissertation on seasonal grain markups ground to an obedient halt.
"A truly illuminating perspective," Arthur said softly, his amber eyes reflecting a profound, confiding warmth. "Parchment records only the dry tallies, Matthew, but you understand the living pulse behind them. To navigate such volatile currents requires far more than an inherited name—it demands genuine commercial acumen. House Vane will have an exceptionally bright future with you at the helm."
The air at the table froze.
Matthew's mouth remained half-parted, the next sentence dying instantly upon his tongue.
The words did not merely wash over him; they sank into his blood like liquid fire.
With you at the helm.
In the rigid ledger of House Vane, Matthew was a disposable second son—a legal spare destined for the periphery while his elder brother claimed the barony, the ledger vaults, and the customs seals. To his family, Matthew was an allowance and a nuisance. But Saint Cedric—the academy's undisputed prodigy, backed by the administrative towers and shrouded in the divine prestige of the Holy Kingdom—had looked straight past the heir.
He had spoken to him.
Blood roared in Matthew's ears in a violent, intoxicating rush, drowning out every vestige of caution.
He isn't backing my brother, the thought screamed through Matthew's skull, blinding him with euphoric vanity. He's choosing me. The Saint wants House Vane under my hand.
Scrambling to his feet so abruptly his chair legs shrieked against the stone, Matthew bent into a bow so deep and rigid his signet ring nearly struck the damp linen. His cheeks burned a feverish, triumphant crimson, his pupils blown wide as though the high towers had crowned him where he stood.
"I... I shall work tirelessly to meet your expectations, Saint Cedric," Matthew managed, his aristocratic drawl completely shattered into breathless, trembling reverence. He swallowed hard, clutching at his waistcoat with fingers that visibly quivered. "Then... if nothing else, I shall take my leave."
"May the light attend your path, Matthew," Arthur replied softly, dipping his head in a gesture of tranquil, benedictory grace. "We shall speak again soon."
With one final, fawning bow—completely overlooking Alice as though she had dissolved into the wisteria shade—Matthew spun on his heel and strode briskly toward the grand promenade, his chin thrust high, his posture vibrating with the unearned pride of an anointed heir.
Around the terrace, the murmurs smoothed back into the humid air.
Then, silence fell over the small iron table.
Arthur did not move. He remained seated across from Alice, his hands folded loosely over the edge of the linen. The afternoon sun filtered through the high glass rotunda, fracturing across the white wisteria blossoms, the dregs of cold tea, and the frayed leather cord resting against his hip—where the crude cedar amulet peeked from the midnight wool of his coat.
Alice's knuckles remained locked around the china cup.
Across the narrow expanse of linen, Arthur met her gaze. The manufactured, pastoral performance in his amber eyes did not sharpen into defensive stone; it simply dissolved.