Chapter 206: His Robe
"With her..." the King’s voice lowered. "it was different. Her memories of him were not in one place, Edric. They were everywhere. Intertwined. Moulded into every part of her, as though he were threaded through the fabric of her being itself."
Edric said nothing.
He simply watched the King.
There was something almost unbearable in the way the man spoke now, something that sat uneasily between authority and guilt.
This was not the confident voice of a ruler making calculated decisions. It was the voice of a father standing at the edge of a danger he did not know how to name properly. A father who had already tried once, and now feared he would have to try again.
"If I am merely mortal, and she is a god," the King said, quieter now, "then how am I supposed to fight her and win?"
His expression hardened with a kind of grim resolve that was more painful than despair.
"I can only protect what is mine," he said. "Perhaps I should attempt it once more. Perhaps I should try to free my son from her claws before this goes any further."
The words struck Edric with a dull, unsettling force.
He swallowed.
For years, people had said the King favored his bastard son. That he indulged him, shielded him, perhaps even preferred him in the secret places where public succession and courtly etiquette meant nothing.
Yet standing here now, Edric felt the truth of it shift beneath his feet. It did not seem like favoritism. It seemed like a man trying to defend his only child from a fate he did not understand.
And if the old legend was true, then the implications were even more disturbing.
If the Dawn Hare and the Night Fox could never exist together, then either the Crown Prince was not the Night Fox... or the old stories were incomplete.
So what, then?
What did that make Aveline’s attachment to him?
What did that make the future?
Edric’s thoughts moved in tight, uneasy circles. The stories, the rumors, the fragments of old lore he had dismissed as theology and myth now stood up like living things, and none of them looked harmless anymore. Somewhere in that silence, the shape of the answer was beginning to form, and he did not like the look of it one bit.
Because if the Crown Prince was not the Night Fox, and Aveline was truly awakening into what she was meant to be, then something else was already moving into place.
Something no one in that room had yet been able to stop.
"The Crown Prince openly challenged the Chancellor earlier today," Edric said.
He had expected the King’s expression to darken. The Chancellor was not merely a powerful noble; he was the father of the King’s favored mistress and one of the pillars upon which much of the court rested. A public confrontation between the Crown Prince and the Lord Chancellor should have provoked anger, disappointment, perhaps even censure.
Instead, the King merely closed his eyes.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
"He did, did he?" he murmured at last.
There was no surprise in his voice. Only weariness.
Edric studied him in silence. The more time he spent in these private audiences, the more he felt as though he knew less about the King than he had years ago.
The King let out a slow breath.
"He was willing to burn an entire cotton reserve because that guileless Caelvaris girl insulted that Willowgrave girl," he said quietly. "He was so blinded to the consequences that he never stopped to consider what such an act would mean for the kingdom. And now..." His gaze drifted toward the window. "Now he is paying the price for that impulsiveness."
His fingers tapped once against the armrest.
"I will see how he emerges from this. If he emerges on top at all."
The King’s voice softened almost imperceptibly.
"I hope he does."
Edric stared.
The King continued, seemingly unaware of his Spymaster’s astonishment.
"Perhaps he still can," he said. "If he frees himself from her influence."
Edric blinked.
There it was again.
That strange contradiction.
The entire kingdom believed the King favored his bastard son. The court whispered that Prince Alaric was cherished while Crown Prince Vaelor was merely tolerated, valued only as an heir and political necessity.
Yet the man before him spoke not like a sovereign evaluating his successor.
He spoke like a father.
A frightened father.
A father who saw his son standing at the edge of a cliff and was willing to fight even a god to pull him back.
Edric found himself unsettled by the realization.
Because everything rested upon one assumption.
That Aveline Willowgrave was dangerous.
That she represented a threat.
That whatever bound her to Prince Vaelor would ultimately destroy him.
But was she?
Edric thought back to the girl he had observed.
She was reckless. Naïve. Far too trusting.
But dangerous?
Edric was no longer certain. And that uncertainty frightened him more than certainty ever could. Because if the King was wrong, then he was preparing to wage war against an innocent girl.
But if the King was right...
Then the fate of the Crown Prince—and perhaps the kingdom itself—might already be slipping beyond mortal hands.
Edric looked toward the ancient book resting open on the table.
The Dawn Hare.
The Night Fox.
A curse that had endured across lifetimes.
For the first time in decades, the Spymaster of Greenvale found himself wishing that legends had remained legends.
-----
Aveline wanted nothing more than to sleep. She had intended to take a short nap before sunset, just enough to gather her strength before sneaking out for the raid that night.
Her eyes had only just begun to drift shut when the soft creak of her window startled her awake.
Aveline gasped and straightened immediately.
And there he was...
Theron.
Perched effortlessly on the windowsill as though climbing into noble ladies’ bedrooms through windows was the most natural thing in the world.
Her entire face brightened.
"Theron," she said, smiling so radiantly that something inside him softened at once. "What are you doing here?"
Theron first swept his gaze across, instinctively searching for danger. He extended his senses, feeling for hidden observers, for unfamiliar presences lurking nearby.
Nothing.
Satisfied, he vaulted lightly into the room.
"If you’re tired," he said, noticing the lingering exhaustion beneath her smile, "why aren’t you lying down and sleeping?"
"Sleep?"
Aveline’s lips curved into a mischievous smile. She walked straight toward him. "How can I sleep when you’re here?"
Before Theron could even think of an answer, she wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him into a hug.
Theron froze.
Entirely.
"Ah..." Aveline sighed happily, nestling against him without the slightest hesitation. "This is better." She inhaled deeply.
"You smell so good."
Theron’s entire body stiffened. This was dangerous. Everything about this was dangerous.
The fading golden light of dusk streamed through the window, bathing the room in warm amber hues. Outside, birds sang their evening songs as servants throughout the dormitories began lighting candles one by one.
And in the middle of all that soft, intimate evening tranquility stood Aveline, pressed against him.
Very pressed against him.
Far too pressed against him.
Theron suddenly became painfully aware that she was a woman. A very beautiful woman. An absurdly beautiful woman. And she seemed entirely unconcerned by the fact that she was currently embracing him as though she had every right to do so.
No.
No, this was not good.
Not good at all.
Aveline eventually leaned back, though only enough to look up at him. Her expression shifted to one of mild confusion.
"Why are you dressed in so many layers?" she asked, genuinely puzzled.
Theron blinked. "What?"
"You’re practically wrapped like it’s the middle of winter." She frowned and poked one of the layers beneath his coat. "Why don’t you strip?"
Theron’s jaw dropped.
Completely.
But Aveline had already turned away, walking toward her dresser as though she had not just suggested something utterly scandalous.
"You can change into your nightrobe," she said casually while rummaging through a drawer.
Theron’s mouth opened even wider.
His nightrobe?
His.
Nightrobe.
He stared at her back.
In Greenvale, a man left his nightrobe with only one woman.
His wife.
Or, at the very least, the woman with whom he shared a marriage bed. It was an intensely intimate custom. A man did not simply hand such a garment to someone casually.
Slowly, very slowly, Theron’s heartbeat accelerated.
Aveline possessed his nightrobe. Inside her room. Readily available, as though this was an entirely ordinary arrangement.
His thoughts spiraled.
Had he given it to her?
Why would he have done that?
Had they...?
His face grew warm.
No.
Surely not.
But what if...
He looked at the bed. Then at Aveline. Then back at the bed. A horrifying thought struck him.
Could she be pregnant?
His heart nearly stopped.
Was that why she had been so tired lately?
Was that why she seemed so comfortable with him?
Was that why she looked at him with such certainty, such absolute confidence that he belonged here?
Theron’s mind descended into complete chaos.
Meanwhile, Aveline finally found what she was looking for and turned around, holding a neatly folded black nightrobe.
She smiled.
"Here."
Theron stared at it as though she had just handed him a royal decree announcing his immediate execution.
Because somehow, that would have been less terrifying.
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