Chapter 203: Not Alone
Theron stopped the Lord Chancellor in the corridor just outside the throne room, his cloak stirring in the cold autumn wind as he planted himself squarely in the other man’s path.
The guards stiffened at once.
Kael emerged almost soundlessly from the shadows and took up position behind his prince, his presence so still and controlled that it made the surrounding courtiers withdraw without being told.
Curious officials who had been lingering near the hall subtly dispersed, each one suddenly finding an urgent reason to be elsewhere. The corridor emptied by degrees until only the two men remained, facing each other with all the pressure of a dispute the court would pretend not to hear.
"Release the cotton," Theron said.
His voice was level, but the rigid set of his shoulders gave him away. He had already tried diplomacy. He had tried agents, proxies, careful inquiries, and indirect pressure. Nothing had moved the noble houses an inch.
They were waiting, hoarding, calculating how much suffering could be turned into profit. So now he had come himself, because the villages could not survive another week of noble games.
"What cotton?" Chancellor Terravain asked, with an easy smirk that made it clear he understood perfectly well and had no intention of pretending otherwise.
Theron’s jaw tightened.
"You have more than enough."
"You’ve been busy," the Chancellor said mildly, as though they were discussing weather and not winter hunger.
Theron’s eyes darkened.
"The villages will not survive the winter."
"Then the Crown should have prepared better."
The answer was so glib that it struck like a slap. Theron took a slow step forward, and the air around him seemed to sharpen with him.
"The Crown is prepared to buy," he said.
"At a discount, I assume." The Chancellor’s mouth curled a little more.
He looked completely unconcerned, and that was perhaps the most infuriating thing of all. He was the father of the King’s favorite mistress, a man protected by habit, influence, and the certainty that the crown would hesitate before making an enemy of him.
"You have been very industrious," he added, his tone edged with mockery.
Theron clenched his fists. "At a fair price," he said.
"There is no fair price in a famine."
Theron drew in a breath through his nose and forced himself not to strike him. He could. That was the maddening part. He could easily do worse than punch the man in the face and be done with the conversation.
But he was Crown Prince, and the noble houses would not forgive him if he turned a public dispute into violence. Worse, the Chancellor knew it. He was baiting him, daring him to force the issue, because he knew exactly how the other houses would react if Theron openly overstepped.
The Terravain family had allies. So did the others. If the wrong line was crossed, they would all join hands in outrage and make it look as though the royal family itself had become the threat.
And if that happened, the throne would be destabilized.
Theron hated that he had to think about Aveline’s safety too, that even in anger he had to consider whether provoking his father’s faction would put her in danger. That made the whole exchange feel even uglier, because it meant his helplessness was not only political. It was personal.
"The people need your stores," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. He would not give the Chancellor the satisfaction of seeing him lose control. Not yet. "They need your cotton."
"So they do."
"Then release it."
"You ask," the Chancellor said, and this time the mockery in his face sharpened openly.
Theron pressed his lips together.
"I do."
The Chancellor chuckled, a full and contemptuous sound that made the guards along the corridor shift uneasily. "But you could command."
There it was.
Theron said nothing.
He understood exactly what game was being played.
As Crown Prince, he did have the authority to command the release of supplies in an emergency. But if he used that authority against one noble house, the others would rally. The Chancellor knew it. The court knew it.
A single harsh move could invite a coalition against the crown, and the resulting instability might do even more damage than the shortage itself. It was a trap made of law, etiquette, and public order, and the older the noble, the better he understood how to hide a blade behind procedure.
Theron hated that too.
He hated being titled and still powerless.
He hated that his rank could not force men like this to do the decent thing.
He hated, most of all, that the world still expected him to smile and tolerate it.
For days now, he had not even found Aveline in his dreams. That absence had begun to gnaw at him more than he wanted to admit.
He had asked Kael to check, and the reports had come back with one aggravating detail after another: she was spending a great deal of time with the Sylvarien bastard. Each update only sharpened his unease.
The dreams had become a place where he expected her presence, and the nights had felt wrong without her in them.
He had almost allowed himself to think that perhaps he was being ridiculous.
Then the Chancellor leaned back, reading the change in Theron’s expression with the delighted ease of a man who had spent his life learning how to smell weakness.
The prince exhaled slowly. "There must be another path."
"There always is."
"What is it?" Theron asked at once, because he already knew the answer would not be simple. He wanted to see how far the Chancellor intended to push him.
The noble stepped to the side, languid and deliberate, then folded his hands behind his back and looked at Theron as though assessing a specimen rather than speaking to a future king.
"Convince me," he said. "Convince me that one freezing winter is worth sacrificing my family’s future."
Theron’s brows drew together.
The Chancellor’s voice lowered then, but not so much that those still lingering at the edges of the corridor could not hear the shape of his meaning.
"My grandson has a claim to this kingdom," he murmured.
Theron’s expression turned colder.
The Chancellor’s smile sharpened. Then, lifting his voice again for the benefit of anyone still pretending not to listen, he said, "A weak king cannot protect it."
He stepped closer, close enough that the exchange could no longer be mistaken for polite disagreement.
"And I have yet to decide whether you are merely kind..."
He stopped just inches from Theron’s face, his tone softening into something worse than outright cruelty.
"...or simply unwilling to do what ruling requires."
Theron stood perfectly still. But the anger inside him was no longer quiet. He was left alone... even by his father.
And, unexpectedly, in his anger, he thought of Aveline.
You’ll get your cotton. The people will get the cotton.
She had said it with such certainty, as though impossible things were merely inconveniences waiting to be solved.
Theron’s eyes hardened and his lips curved to a smirk.
He truly was not alone, was he?
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