Chapter Text
As the pompous entourage of King Howard Stark started its slow ascent up the hill on which the Imperial Palace had been built, you blamed the queasy feeling in your stomach on the cobblestones under the carriage’s wheels. You leaned your head back to resist the urge to peek at your new home between the purple curtains.
Ladies didn’t peek, as your governess had once reminded you when you had still been a small child. And soon, you would be much more than simply Lady Stark.
According to the maps you had seen, the Imperial Palace stood at the very center of the city of Brookside. You wondered why that name had been chosen – Brookside sounded much more like a charming riverside village than the capital city of something the size of the Centurial Empire. But you had to admit — the glimpses of the empire you had seen over the past weeks of travelling, whenever you had been allowed to look out of the windows, had had you impressed by its logistics. Everywhere, cities were being built into existence as if they had sprung directly from the earth itself. The emperor must have a good council to advise him, in addition to the army that had been able to claim half the world in his name.
A few kings had bent the knee and now served as lieges; some had believed they could achieve a victory that others hadn’t and had been put to the sword. The Kingdom of Richford had chosen a third route.
You wondered now what Lord Howard was thinking in the privacy of his own kingly carriage. Was he nervous? Relieved? Regretful? Feeling nothing at all? Lord Howard — it was impossible to call him anything like father outside of when courtesy demanded it — had not disclosed his thoughts on your betrothal to you, and you had not sought to find them out. Any appeal you might have made would have been entirely futile: he had found you a purpose that served his, and that was the end of it.
But he had to know that the match was something beyond even his vaulting ambitions. Perhaps he congratulated himself for ignoring the wagging tongues that had whispered in the court that you should have been married off as soon as you had turned twenty. Because as things had fallen, you were the trump card that would hopefully save his kingdom from being added to the long list of imperial territories. Some of those whispers had even called him sentimental, accused him of clinging to his only daughter, the last remnant of his late second wife. You knew better, of course: he had clung to you only because you were a pawn that should not be wasted.
Had he predicted years ago that the fierce conqueror from the Eastern Coast would become what he was now, listened to the first rumors of the emperor’s wars with a keen ear? Had he declined offers of lesser marriages for half a decade in the hopes that he could peddle you to him like some pretty steed to save his own title?
“I don’t believe it’s a very good impression if you faint on the lawn of your future court,” a friendly voice said from the opposite seat. “Breathe, would you?”
You shot Tony a look, not bothering to hide your disdain when it was just the two of you. These were the last moments of your life during which you would not have to show restraint. Your brother would return to your home in a few weeks, after the wedding celebrations were over, to go on with his life.
After he left for Richford again, who would be your ally? What kind of snake pit awaited at the end of this carriage journey?
“I am trying,” you replied to stop thinking about it, even for the few moments you still had left.
“For all you know, he could be perfectly pleasant,” Tony said.
Ladies didn’t scoff, either, but you did. The highest you had allowed your hopes to reach was ‘tolerable’. ‘Pleasant’ was a whole other kingdom, as far from your wishes as your home was from this place.
“And it is a fine day for House Stark,” Tony continued, his impression of Lord Howard’s cadence managing to lift your spirits just a little. “We shall rise above our station.”
And therein lay the problem.
“I still cannot help but wonder why does he want me, and why right now? He’s been faring well without an empress for the past seven years. My head is whispering to me that there’s something sinister at play here, for him to agree to marry the daughter of a lesser king.”
Tony smiled, no doubt imagining Lord Howard’s reaction if he heard you call him a lesser king, as true as it was. You smoothed an invisible wrinkle out of your red silks — your finest court dress in the red of House Stark seemed to occupy most of the carriage’s cabin. As you had entered the city, you had pulled the white satin gloves back on, all the way up to your upper arms, and fastened your cloak on your shoulders with the golden clasp gifted to you upon your betrothal. Your appearance would not give anyone at the Imperial Court a reason to dislike you, and the thought brought you the smallest hint of peace. You thanked the support of your corset, fastened around you like armor, the grounding weight of the your finest jewelry adorning your neck and your wrists, and resisted an urge to fiddle with the small diadem full of rubies that sat on your head in the fear of messing up your elaborately decorated hair. No less than seven chambermaids, two ladies-in-waiting and the house’s Mistress of Robes herself had swarmed around you this morning, before you had left your last camp for Brookside.
The chambermaids had hauled in a full-length mirror, far from the least useful trinket the king had insisted on taking with him as he had packed most of his court into twenty carriages. You hadn’t felt beautiful when the chambermaids had shown you your image. Rather, you had felt like a roast that had just been garnished before it would be carried to the high table.
“Perhaps His Imperial Majesty did not wish to take a wife while he was still fighting the wars to secure his seat,” Tony said.
Yes. You had heard the stories of his climb to power, even far in the court of Richford: Emperor Steven the Righteous, The First, was a conqueror — some even went so far as to whisper that he had been blessed by the gods of war, or one reborn into mortal flesh. The Golden Wolf, The Peril of Realms, the Swordstorm.
“Perhaps. But I find myself wondering what made him accept me for a wife. Surely the Centurial Empire has no shortage of ladies — with its vastness, it is rather improbable that he found no other that pleased him. Why me?”
It wasn’t to whine – you had known this day would come, and even as you could not yet tell how pleasant being the empress would be, the match was indeed beyond anything you had imagined for yourself.
“Our little kingdom is rich in precious metals,” Tony said. “And knowledge. I have heard that he doesn’t sneer at either.”
Something along those lines had crossed your mind, too. Even with no chance to ever ascend to the throne of House Stark, you had received rigorous schooling. Lord Howard had had very differing ambitions for you and Tony, but he had had ambitions for both of you nevertheless. As a result, you were well-versed in the art of conversation, etiquette, history, geography, even the physics and mathematics that so fascinated your brother. Lord Howard’s main motivation may have been to ensure that you didn’t embarrass the erudite name of House Stark, but he had hired you no less knowledgeable teachers than he had hired for Tony. You could hold your own on a chessboard; you knew the ins and outs of polite society.
You had your suspicions that the latter was of much greater importance in the position that awaited you than the former.
“A man who has achieved such things as he has, he must have a sharp mind,” you said mildly.
You didn’t dare to think about the alternative to what Tony had proposed: that perhaps this man, who was known as the mightiest warlord in centuries, was such a brute that no duke of his own empire would agree to give a daughter to him, not even for the title of an empress.
“And any ruler must eventually marry, if he wishes to —“
Tony cut himself off, and despite the sickness wallowing in your stomach, you managed a small smile. You would miss your brother; his lack of any kind of restraint of speech had been one of the most entertaining parts of your court.
Not your court anymore. It had never been, not really, but now more than ever, you would join another house, another lineage, leave behind the name of your father and bear the name of your husband. And his children; even as that was not precisely what Tony had meant. No, he was sorry for something else.
“My apologies,” Tony said, and he must have been quite sorry for your situation if he was willing to admit he had done something wrong. “I did not mean to remind you of our lord father’s disappointments. I’m speaking out of turn.”
“As always. You are lucky you were born the crown prince, Tones,” you smiled. “If you were a lowborn, someone would have already demanded your impudent tongue to be cut.”
Even as your children weren’t on Tony’s mind, they were on yours, as you were not oblivious to what happened in a marriage bed. Even as you had been expected to only bed your future husband, and had judged that trying to rebel against that expectation would lead to more sorrows than joys, the ladies of the Stark court talked like ladies in any other court. Your husband would wish to lie with you, at least enough to make sure his kingdom would have an heir. Such was the simple reality of all marriages of your standing. Perhaps he would want even more than that from you, but you would only find out in time; some high-born men made a clear division between conserving their lineage and seeking pleasure.
In a fortnight, you would begin to understand what it meant to be Archduchess Rogers, in public and in private. Empress Rogers.
“I assure you, my position has not prevented some people from making such claims under their breaths,” Tony replied, leaning back in his seat. “I’d rather they ask for my tongue than for my head.”
Tony said it as though the possibility of his demise didn’t much concern him. It was easy for him to be at ease — no matter how terrible the Imperial Court would be, he would go home, and you would remain. You wondered if he had knowledge beyond yours, but doubted it: not even Lord Howard had visited Brookside. When the plans of your betrothal had been made, the emperor had still been holding his temporary court that was much farther westward, closer to Richford, and as far as you knew, all correspondence since had been written.
“I’m tired of not seeing the scenery,” Tony grumbled. “You’ve always been the prettier one of us. His Imperial Majesty isn’t going to be running away screaming if he sees you.”
You were just about to reply that His Imperial Majesty might just do that if he saw Tony, when he without further ado pulled the string to draw aside the curtains — just as your carriage was about to cross the bridge leading through the gates of the Imperial Palace.
Your breath caught.
‘Imperial Palace’ had brought to your mind marble and gold, reminiscent of the ruins of the old world. What Rogers had instead was a fortress. It was beyond your understanding how such a thing could have been built only in a few years, unless the rumors of methods bordering on magic were true. Two walls, with a moat in between and another moat surrounding the outer wall, sprawled out to shield the buildings of the courtyard. The inner wall must have reached a hundred feet, if not a hundred and twenty, and the outer one was seventy feet tall easily, all built from dark grey stone that bathed in the fall afternoon sun.
It could likely shield the entire population of Brookside, if someone came knocking on the emperor’s gates. Even with your limited strategic education, you could already see that the only way to take the fortress would be to lay siege to it until the supplies inside ran out, and who knew what that behemoth had swallowed.
A warlord, you were reminded, and the uneasiness tingled on your skin. You are the bride of a warlord.
But the curtains were open, and so, you lifted your jaw and you let your face freeze into statuesque aristocracy.
The convoy of carriages passed both walls through mighty wrought iron gates and drove into a vast courtyard. The main building of the Imperial Palace stood at the center and seemed to reach to the high heavens: a castle with sharp-pointed towers, mirroring the watchtowers on the walls, fit for the seat of an emperor. Just like the outer walls, the castle had been built to withstand an attack, and to be easily defended, but there was an odd beauty to its straight, geometric lines. As the parade of carriages started slowly turning left to drive along the loop the path made through the yard, you saw other buildings: stables, kitchens, lodgings for servants, gardens. Every high point your eyes could see flew the flag of the Centurial Empire, which was also the emperor’s personal house sigil: a wedge-shaped grey shield adorned with a white star on it, sewn onto the deepest royal blue you had ever seen.
In a fortnight, you would leave behind the reds that marked your birth, and the armor helmet sigil of House Stark.
In Richford, the lady of a paramount house held the keys, responsible for organizing much of the day-to-day life of the court with the help of her extensive staff. Here, you did not know what to expect at all. The Imperial Court was a new establishment, and much that had been written of your future husband had focused on his war proficiency. You hadn’t been able to even find a picture painted of him without his armor. Would you be a precious thing locked away in a high tower? Would you stroll in this yard, followed by a small army of your own to command, only having to obey the whims of your husband as you ran his house? Would he grow bored of you soon and send you away to live in another place?
Useless guesswork. You reeled your thoughts back in to focus on the most important meeting of your life as the carriage came to a stop in front of the main castle.
Wide stairs led to the castle’s wooden doors, and out of the corner of your eye, you could see two guards walking up to your carriage and two others towards Lord Howard’s. Despite them, and the people gathered on the stairs — two neat vertical rows forming a path through which you would walk — you kept your gaze fixed forward, past Tony.
“His Majesty, King Howard Stark of Richford!” a guard announced.
His steady voice echoed through the walls even as you could not see your father exit his carriage, presumably parked directly in front of yours. As soon as the guard's voice died down, another guard opened the door of your carriage and remained to stand behind the door on your right side. Crisp fall air, complete with a warm scent of woodsmoke from the castle’s fireplaces rushed in, ramping up the tingling of your skin, but you didn’t let it show. You gave Tony a barely visible nod, and for a second, a brotherly warmth flashed in his eyes as he rose from his seat and stepped down the stairs.
“Prince Anthony Stark of Richford!” the guard that had opened the door announced.
The other guard had turned to face the door and extended a hand, palm upwards. You dared a look at him now that he was about to help you out of the carriage and thought better of your first impression: he wasn’t a guard, but a duke of the court, one that had been given the honor to escort you. A simple, well-fitting blue jacket and dark trousers, a blue cloak fastened with a clasp that bore the Imperial Military’s sigil: a sword and a scroll in the shape of an X. Based on his height and the width of his shoulders and arms, he wasn’t a soldier only by rank: he was brimming with the kind of explosive power that instantly made you be aware of his presence, some survival instinct coaxed to life in the back of your head. A heavy sword hung on his hip, and he was wearing the crown of his house — which meant that he was either the head of it or the heir apparent, and based on his age, you estimated the latter. Without a house sigil visible, you had no way of knowing which house that was. The crown sat low on his head, circling his forehead, and didn’t rise much above his carefully combed golden hair: a simple thing made of carved antique-silver-colored metal, with sparse triangular peaks and teardrop-shaped jewels so dark blue they looked almost black.
His blue eyes gleamed below the edge of the crown, and he met your gaze. A dangerous gaze, glowing with the ruthless wisdom of a wolf pack’s leader.
You took him in for a brief second as you got up from your seat. Then, you ducked your head to exit the carriage, placing your palm gracefully on the duke’s hand for support.
“Thank you, sir,” you said, satisfied with the nonchalance of your tone.
He wasn’t wearing gloves, but you were, so there was nothing indecent about it. Your other hand guided the elaborate silks of your skirt as you felt your girdle flex on the edges of the doorway and then spread back out. It was your best dress, since your arrival was meant to be a spectacle, sewn in a way that ensured that the hint of your cleavage wasn’t going to cause a debacle. The skirts spilled over the stairs around you, supported by the girdle and a pile of underskirts, effortlessly shielding you.
As you descended, you didn’t look down but forward at the group that had arrived to greet you. It was much less of a crowd than you had expected, but it was still a crowd. How should you judge this — were the most important figures of your new home the ones positioned closest to you, on the lower stairs, or the ones on the highest steps?
Before you could start deducing, your gaze landed on a silver-haired man in an elaborate blue-and-silver jacket, standing on the lowest step on the left, and the answer became clear to you. Much like the duke helping you, he stood proud and straight like a spear, his simple silver crown decorated with spirals and fleurs-de-lys gleaming in the afternoon sun. A sword rested on his hip.
Based on a battle recount you had read, the man could only be Sir Pike, the emperor’s closest military adviser, and the leader of his infamous cavalry. The Sword of the Night, they called him. Even as His Imperial Majesty was a tactical mastermind, the Sword of the Night was an unstoppable force on horseback, striking with his unit and then disappearing as if night itself had swallowed him. The sword on his hip was one of the most feared weapons on the continent, second only to the Shieldbiter, the sword of the emperor himself. Some whispers claimed that Sir Pike was a lowborn, that the horses that formed the backbone of the Imperial Cavalry were raised by his family. But the same whispers said that of Emperor Rogers: that he was an orphaned runt, taken in by a wealthy family, a man of low standing whose ambition exceeded his predetermined place in the world.
The dark-haired lady on Sir Pike’s arm was breathtakingly beautiful, and her gaze was sharper than the sword on her husband’s hip, which was really saying something. Their cloaks – house silver for her, military blue for him – carried similar silver clasps, engraved with a sigil of a lantern, and the grey tones continued in the fine court silks of Duchess Pike. An elaborately arranged mass of mahogany hair fell down her back, adorned with a tiara that bore similar decorations as her husband’s crown. You made note of her — whoever she was, she was important enough to warrant a place here, and the way her grey eyes measured you was formidable.
Your glance swept to the other side to see who was standing there. Two knights, likely from the emperor’s personal guard, dressed in blue garments and blue capes, on top of grey chainmail reaching mid-thigh. The one closer to you, the one with warm brown skin and eyes surprisingly gentle for a soldier, looked at you with his face at peace, as if hiding a smile. The other, pale, with dark hair and his left hand covered with an armor glove, looked more serious but not exactly unfriendly. Those were very likely the emperor’s trusted men, along with the duke helping you down, but they were clearly warriors first and foremost, battle brothers more than advisors. Neither of them had a crown that would have showcased their position, but subtle signs of wealth were present on both of them. Good fabrics, beautiful weapons, an easiness of posture that came from knowing they were free from much of the struggle of the lower classes.
Positioned further from you stood a collection of lesser dukes and duchesses, barons and baronesses, based on their less elaborate court dresses. You did still spot a few other crowns in the crowd and made note of their wearers – some of them might be people who had cherished hopes of seeing their own daughters on your seat. No one was showing open disdain at your arrival, but faces could hide plenty. You were smiling, after all.
Reading a crowd had been one of the most important skills taught to you, honed to perfection through repetition, and you took all that in in the space of the four steps down.
No sign of your husband-to-be — the center of the honor guard on the stairs was empty. Perhaps his indifference towards your arrival was a good sign. If he wasn’t here to ogle his prize, perhaps he would indeed be tolerable, at least when he was absent from your company. It was far from unusual for the high lords and ladies to lead entirely separate lives among the same household, but you hadn’t dared to truly hope that the emperor would leave you alone.
To not arrive to greet King Howard, however, was a different thing altogether, a calculated downplay of his importance. Perhaps your royal household would be led to a throne room where the emperor sat above the world and passed judgment. Perhaps he wanted to make you kneel in front of him, because that was in his power to ask.
The only person in half the world you would kneel for would be him.
You straightened up in front of your new court, feeling every single eye in the yard measure you, including your father from somewhere to your left. The emperor could still reject the match — until the wedding, you were on thin ice. Before Emperor Rogers gave you his name, addressing you with your new title and his surname in front of his court, you would not have a position at all, other than a high-born visitor under his roof. After that, you would gain some footing, but until the wedding, the engagement could still be undone.
“Her Imperial Highness, The Archduchess!” the duke that had helped you out announced, his voice echoing proud and clear.
The lesser of your two most important titles, gifted to you upon the announcement of your betrothal and conditional on your wedding following through. It was the familial one, much like you had been Lady Stark at your own home. Until your coronation, you would be referred to as Your Highness instead of Your Majesty, and everyone but the emperor himself would refrain from referring to you both by the name of Stark and by the name of Rogers. As you were between names – between the worlds of a maiden lady and a married one – after leaving the house of your father, tradition warranted that you were only to be addressed by your honorifics and your titles, with the exception of your betrothed.
The duke was still letting your hand rest on his upturned palm, his arm raised as he presented you to the court. As of yet, it wasn’t indecent, but the way he had met your gaze meant that you had to be wary of this man and make sure he wouldn’t get too familiar. He might be someone the emperor had sent to test you.
“Archduchess,” the people on the steps echoed, the men bowing their heads and the ladies curtsying.
For the first time, you allowed the thought of ruling this court sink in. How, that remained to be seen.
You would count the blessings given to you. Technically, you now ranked above your brother and Lord Howard, but they wouldn’t bow to you because your rank was of another realm. Here, the only word you would have to obey was that of the emperor himself. Sovereign as Lord Howard was, he was a sovereign of another kingdom, far away. The journey from Richford’s capital to Brookside had taken weeks, the vast majority of it in territory that belonged to the Centurial Empire. And Lord Howard’s claims of authority over you, based on his position as not your king but the head of your house, had ended at the moment you had been presented to your future court. Only if your marriage fell through, he would regain them.
And if you were wedded and were ever to return to visit Richford, you would no longer curtsy in front of its king or its crown prince.
If you were wedded, your sons would sit on the throne that ruled half the world. Your sons would have greater power and prestige bestowed on them than Lord Howard could dream of gaining in ten lifetimes.
The thought filled your head as if you had taken a generous sip of strong wine. From the corner of your eye, you realized that the duke holding your hand hadn’t bowed his head as the others had, and that piqued your curiosity. He was bearing the sigils of the Imperial Military, so he could not be a foreign diplomat. It was possible that he had a rank similar to your lesser rank of Archduchess, even as you had no idea what rank that might be, and would only bow to you after you had been crowned.
“Is something troubling you, Archduchess?” the duke said, noticing your eyes flickering in his direction.
He had been granted the honor of presenting you to the court, which meant that he was someone you could address even as you did not know his rank. Considering the fact that no one was moving the situation in any direction, this was likely some sort of trial from the emperor, and you needed to make a move. Was he watching from a window high up on the wall? You turned to face the duke and granted him a polite smile, using the turn as a subtle way to let your hand slip away from his palm before anyone could say that the touch was lingering.
This close, in the sun that poured down from the sky, he was simply beautiful: a knight of fairytales standing tall, wide shoulders complimented by the uniform. There was a smile gleaming in his blue eyes. Was this some sort of a test, too — the emperor throwing his prettiest guard at you to see if you had the fidelity your position would require? But why would he do such a thing in front of his court? To have witnesses? To embarrass you, in case you became flustered? He should know better than to assume you were some petulant child that still harbored fantasies of attraction. Marrying for love was a luxury for those whose shoulders hadn’t been weighed down by duty, and even they rarely succeeded at such ventures.
“Pardon my silence, sir; the Imperial Court in its magnificence simply stuns me,” you chirped. “But as it is a new world for me, I would be grateful for your help. Would you be so kind and send word to His Imperial Majesty that we are eager to meet him at his convenience?”
A smile quirked the duke’s mouth up.
“Certainly, my duchess.”
He smiled down at you, and you would have to address his unwarranted familiarity immediately, because you could feel Lord Howard’s eyes trying to burn a hole in your face. Even as you didn’t dare to look at Lord Howard, you knew him. The duke had already insulted him by not addressing him at all — in fact, no one had addressed him, which you distantly realized was very odd — and now, the duke had certainly stepped over all limits of propriety in addressing you.
“Sir, I do think that you are aware —“ you started, frosting your voice with a thick layer of ice that would shut this indecency down immediately.
You weren’t able to finish your sentence before the man stepped closer and took the hand you had just pulled away. Only the shock at the sheer unimaginable audacity of him prevented you from responding by striking his cheek with your free palm. In the space of that frozen second, you started to take a step back, hearing Tony move somewhere behind you. Foreign court or not, your brother would be obligated to challenge a man who would behave so crudely towards you.
And then the duke spoke, making you freeze all over again, his voice clear enough to be audible to everyone:
“But I won’t have to send that word very far. Welcome to your new home, Empress Rogers.”
The world came to a halt as the reality of the situation crashed into your consciousness all at once.
You heard Tony stop mid-step, just like you had, and a part of you was thankful that he was facing this direction because the look on Lord Howard’s face had to be a sight to behold, and Tony would be able to recount it to you at length. You didn’t look at either of them— they had fallen somewhere back, somewhere beyond the fact that you weren’t looking at the emperor’s trusted duke.
The man standing in front of you, the man that had helped you out of a carriage like a simple guard, was the emperor himself. His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Steven Rogers the Righteous, The First, The Archduke, The Golden Wolf, The Peril of Realms, The Swordstorm.
The man you were to marry.
And not only had he legitimized your position as his betrothed mere minutes after your arrival, but he had done so using not the title of Archduchess but Empress.
You thanked your education for the fact that your expression held in the face of all this. Without missing a beat, you continued to move the foot still in the air after you had started to step away, positioning the leg behind the other so that you could bend your knees to a curtsy. You lowered your head, letting your voice drop softer, warmer, and did not pull away the hand he had taken now that you knew who he was.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” you said. “It is an honor to be welcomed into the heart of the Centurial Empire as your bride.”
“Rise, my duchess,” he replied, and you could hear the smile in his voice.
As you did, he brought the hand he was gently holding to his lips, bowing slightly down to brush a kiss on your glove-covered fingers. Even through the satin, you could feel the warmth of his breath, and an entirely new kind of nervousness filled your stomach as he looked at you from underneath his brow.
“Archduchess Rogers, it is my utmost pleasure to welcome you to my court. I hope you shall find it satisfactory.”
Your heart fluttered. Never, not in a hundred lifetimes, could you have imagined anything like this. You had hoped for tolerable and had made peace with the likelihood that a man that could take half the world would be a sword-swinging, war-hungry brute who would at best mostly leave you alone. And yes, this was a warrior, a dangerous one: the undercurrent of demigodly power rippled just underneath his skin and the intelligence in his eyes wasn’t without a predator-like calculation to it.
But he was also much more than that, and dimly, you realized that your earlier hopes of leading separate lives were being entirely upturned.
“So far, I find it beyond even my wildest expectations, Your Imperial Majesty. Of course, I have heard stories of the might of the Centurial Empire, but it is a very different matter to experience it firsthand during the last weeks of travelling,” you said as he straightened up.
A spark flashed in his eye, but you answered only with a polite smile. It was still possible that he was testing your mettle, although that would seem to be entirely different than you had imagined. Besides, you were in front of everyone who was anyone in his court.
“I am pleased to hear that, Archduchess,” he said. “You must be tired after such a journey. Chancellor Pike, would you escort the archduchess to the bridal quarters prepared for her, so that she may rest while I discuss some practical matters with King Stark?”
Up until this point, Emperor Rogers had completely ignored the presence of Lord Howard, and there was nothing accidental about the fact. Before you could devote more thought to the matter, you were in for another surprise. Chancellor Pike wasn’t Sir Pike but his wife, the one you had thought was simply Duchess Pike.
It could be a title that had different meaning here — after all, you were far removed from Richford and its customs. But just like you doubted that Emperor Rogers had helped you out of the carriage himself simply because he couldn’t bear the thought of any other man touching even your gloved hand, you doubted that. After all, the first thing you had noticed about Chancellor Pike had been her sharpness. You had had your fair share of encounters with women who knew their perceived worth lied entirely on the titles of their husbands and their fathers — after all, that was you, too — and something about Chancellor Pike made your instincts whisper a different story.
But if such a position was held by a lady, this was a completely different court that you were used to. The thought brought some uneasiness with it, mixed into the relief that was starting to wash over you as the nervousness was passing.
You watched Chancellor Pike leave her husband’s side and start making her way towards you with a warm smile on her face. The tests weren’t over: she would evaluate you, too. But if you had been told just hours ago that Emperor Rogers separating you from not only Lord Howard and your brother but from your entire household only raised the mildest discomfort, you would have thought the speaker a lunatic.
“Archduchess,” Chancellor Pike said as she stopped to stand in front of you, bowing her head slightly. “Would you be so kind as to follow me?”
“Chancellor. Thank you for being so kind as to guide me,” you echoed her choice of addressing you, nodding a greeting before turning to the emperor. “Your Imperial Majesty, please accept my gratitude for your kindness and hospitality. It has indeed been a long journey.”
He smiled at you, not without a certain mischief. It made him look relaxed, and even as the gap between your ages hadn’t been wide to begin with, for that moment, it seemed to evaporate. First impressions weren’t everything, but even if this was just ten percent true, it was more than you had dared to hope.
“You are most welcome, Archduchess,” he said. “I look forward to seeing you at the celebration tonight.”
“Just as I look forward to attending the celebration, Your Imperial Majesty,” you replied, and it wasn’t entirely because of courtesy.
He smiled once more and then turned his head to look behind your shoulder.
“Sir Wilson, Sir Barnes, Sir Pike, would you join me for the meeting?”
Next to you, Chancellor Pike offered you her arm, and you took it so that she might lead you into the sprawling castle and into your bridal quarters. The two knights you had assumed were the emperor’s trusted men, and Sir Pike, came to stand next to Emperor Rogers, who finally turned towards Lord Howard. As he did, you dared to steal a look at the king.
To his benefit, he was swallowing his rage well. But you had long ago learned to read the forecast of his more subtle expressions, and he was seething.
You had thought that you had left silly daydreams behind as you had started to receive a more thorough education on what your future marriage would mean: your match was to be, first and foremost, a political contract. Your first duty had always been to serve your realm by accepting the arrangements Lord Howard made for your betrothal.
But for the first time in a long time, you found yourself thinking about your marriage as something other than merely duty.