Chapter 9: The Grumpy King
The eastern watchtower smelled of damp stone and old iron. William had walked here after leaving the corridor outside Markus’s chamber, the climb a blunt punishment for his own frustration. Now he stood at an arrow slit, watching the thin ribbon of the road far below where the Eltherian contingent was forming up, a slow mill of color and confusion. Their departure had been suddenly, awkwardly postponed.
Imoria found him there. Her steps on the spiral stairs were quiet, but he heard the shift in the air. He didn’t turn.
“Please don’t be grumpy about it,” she said, her voice cutting through the cold, still air.
He barked a short, humorless laugh, pushing off from the cold stone. “Grumpy? I’m not grumpy. I’m realistic.” He finally looked at her. She was still in yesterday’s dress, wrinkled and touched with creek-mud at the hem. Her silver hair was a tangled cascade, her face bare of any courtly pretense. She looked more real than he’d ever seen her, and it terrified him. “You’ve just become queen of a kingdom that’s one insult away from open war, married in a secret that won’t stay secret for a day, and my brother looks at you like you single-handedly rebuilt the world at dawn. That’s not grumpy. That’s profoundly, gut-wrenchingly concerned.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, the muscle there tight as knotted rope. “He’s my brother. I’ve spent my life making sure his choices don’t get him killed. This choice? It paints a target on your back bigger than the damned sun.”
Imoria didn’t flinch. She walked closer, the wind from the slit catching stray strands of her hair. “I know what it is to live with a target. The one my family painted was just quieter.” She stopped beside him, following his gaze to the courtyard. “I saw your face in the corridor. You weren’t judging. You were calculating. The risks.”
“Someone has to,” William muttered.
“He does. He calculates them every second. It’s what keeps him awake. It’s what the nightmares are about.” She turned to face him fully. “Last night, for a few hours, he stopped. I did that. Not a treaty, not a victory. Me. That’s the calculation you’re missing.”
William stared at her, the simple truth of it disarming his anger. He saw it then, not just Markus’s need for her, but hers for him. A mutual salvage operation. He exhaled, a long, weary stream of breath that fogged in the chilly air. “I’m not your enemy, Imoria. I never was.”
“I know.” She reached out, placing a hand on his forearm. The touch was firm, sisterly. “And I will need you. I don’t have a brother of my own. The one I have… is Kathryn’s.”
William’s scowl finally cracked, crumbling into something rueful and soft. He looked down at her hand, then back at her face. “Then I suppose I’ll have to teach you how to be a proper sibling. It’s mostly thankless work. First lesson: never let Markus win at cards. He cheats. Subtly. But he cheats.”
A faint, genuine smile touched her lips. “Noted.”
They stood in silence for a moment, watching the activity below. A cart had overturned near the gates, adding to the chaos. Servants scrambled.
“They’ll know something’s wrong,” William said, nodding toward the Eltherian pavilion. “Your parents. Kathryn. A delayed departure, Markus sequestered, you missing… They’ll poke.”
“Let them,” Imoria said, and the steel in her voice was new. It wasn’t the brittle defiance of a neglected daughter. It was the calm authority of someone who had made a decision and accepted every consequence. “The truth is a fact now. How they hear it is a problem for them.”
William eyed her with newfound respect. “You’re going to be terrifying.”
“Good.”
The moment of solidarity was pierced by the sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs. Both turned as one of Markus’s personal guards, Lew, appeared, his face grim. He bowed quickly. “My lord. My lady. The King requests you in the solar. Immediately. The Queen of Eltheria is there. She’s… insistent.”
Imoria’s posture didn’t change, but William saw the minute tightening along her jaw. “Alone?” she asked.
“The King is with her. Princess Kathryn is not present.”
Ophelia had come without her favorite shield. This was deliberate.
“We’ll be right down,” William said, his voice assuming the easy command of a prince. Lew bowed again and retreated.
The walk down from the tower was made
The walk down from the tower was made in a shared, focused silence. Each step echoed off the curving stone, a drumbeat marching them toward the confrontation. Imoria adjusted the fall of her skirts, a pointless, nervous gesture she immediately despised.
William matched her stride. “You know she’ll go for the throat first,” he said quietly, his voice neutral. “It’s her only move.”
“I’m familiar with her playbook,” Imoria replied. “Appeal to propriety. Innuendo about my character. A weeping finale about disappointing Kathryn.” She sounded bored, which was the greatest lie she’d ever told. Her heart was a frantic bird in her ribs.
“And you’ll?”
“Nothing,” Imoria said, pushing open the door to the main corridor. The warmer air of the keep rushed in, carrying the smell of baking bread and anxiety. “I won’t play. The game’s over.”
The doors to the solar were shut, two guards stationed outside. They opened them without a word. The room was bright, morning sun glaring off the polished map table. Markus stood at the window, his back to the room, a silhouette of contained power. Queen Ophelia stood opposite, perfect and glacial in emerald silk.
She didn’t wait. “There you are. We have been waiting.” Her eyes swept over Imoria’s disheveled state, a flicker of cold triumph in them. “Your sister is quite distressed. She believes you may be unwell, sequestered in your room. I assured her you were merely… attending to duties.”
Her emphasis on the word was a masterclass in contempt. Imoria said nothing. She walked to the sideboard, poured a cup of water, and drank it slowly. The action—so mundane, so utterly dismissive—froze the room.
Ophelia’s smile tightened. “King Markus has been explaining the delay in our departure. Vague concerns about bandits on the eastern road. A curious suddenness, given yesterday the roads were deemed safe for a princess.” She turned her gaze, sharp as a dagger, on Imoria. “Perhaps you have insight, daughter? You seem to have been… underfoot here quite a bit.”
William leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “She’s been helping, Your Grace. We value competence here.”
“Competence,” Ophelia echoed, as if tasting a rotten word. “Yes. My Imoria is very competent at the mundane. Fetching, carrying, blending. It is why we felt she was the ideal companion for her sister on this trip. To handle the tedious details.”
Markus turned from the window. His face was calm, but his eyes were the dark, flat stone of a riverbed. “Nothing about your daughter is mundane, Ophelia.”
The use of her name, without title, was a slap. The queen stiffened. “Be that as it may, my king, this delay is causing talk. Kathryn’s prospects—”
“Are of no interest to this kingdom,” Markus finished, his voice low. “Your party will leave after noon. The roads will be safe by then.”
“And my daughter?” Ophelia asked, her gaze locking back on Imoria. “She will, of course, be ready to attend her sister.”
Imoria set the cup down. The click of ceramic on wood was final. “No.”
The room seemed to hold its breath. Ophelia blinked. “No?”
“I am not attending Kathryn. I am not fetching her shawls or rehearsing her compliments or lying to suitors about her accomplishments anymore.” Imoria’s voice was clear, without heat. It was a simple statement of fact. “I am staying here.”
A brittle laugh escaped the queen. “Staying? To do what? Pursue some fantasy of being a soldier? This is a court, child, not a garrison. You have no place here.”
CARDS REVEALED.
Imoria looked at her mother, truly looked at her, for the first time in years. She saw the fear beneath the fury, the terrible understanding dawning that her most useful tool was breaking in her hands. “My place,” Imoria said, “is wherever my husband is.”
The word dropped into the silence like a stone into a still pond. Ophelia’s face went perfectly blank, then slowly reconfigured into horrified comprehension. Her eyes darting to Markus, who had not moved, who was watching Imoria with a pride so fierce it was like a physical heat in the room.
“You…” Ophelia whispered. “You reckless little fool. What have you done?”
“What you never could,” Imoria said. “I made a choice for myself. Last night. In the eyes of gods and witness.” She didn’t look at William, but she felt his steady, supportive presence at her back. “I am Queen of Thayne.”
Ophelia staggered a half-step, her hand groping for the back of a chair. The horror turned to raw, strategic panic. “This is an absurdity. A secret… dalliance twisted into… Rhys will never recognize this. The alliance—”
“The alliance,” Markus’s voice cut through, “is seated beside me. It is cemented. It requires no recognition from a man who discards his own blood like rubbish.” He finally moved, coming to stand beside Imoria, not touching her, but their solidarity a palpable force. “Your king will be informed by formal raven today. You may deliver the news to him personally, in whatever flattering light you can manage.”
The queen stared, her mind racing behind her eyes, calculating the ruin of all her plans. Kathryn, sidelined. Their leverage, gone. Their ignored, utilitarian daughter, now a rival queen on a throne higher than their own. The injustice of it choked her.
“You spiteful creature,” she hissed, all pretense of civility incinerated. “After all we did to secure a future for your sister, for our line, you would steal it for your own vanity? You are nothing. You were born to be nothing!”
Before Imoria could speak, William pushed off the doorframe. “Funny,” he said, his tone conversational, light. “Looks a lot like something from where I’m standing. A queen. The Queen.” He smiled, a cold, pleasant thing. “You should probably get used to curtseying.”
Ophelia’s composure shattered. She looked at Markus, a desperate plea. “You cannot want this. This… awkward, hard thing instead of a true princess. You are jeopardizing your kingdom for a shadow!”
Markus’s smile was slow and utterly devoid of warmth. “You have it backwards. I’ve finally brought my kingdom into the light.” He gestured toward the door. “Your escort will be ready at noon. Say your farewells to your daughter. The Queen.”
The dismissal was absolute. Ophelia, white with fury, swept her gaze over them—Markus unyielding, William defiant, Imoria tranquil as settled stone. She saw no purchase here, no weakness to exploit. Only a united front that had just redrawn the map of power in a single morning.
She left without another word, the slam of the door a punctuation mark of her defeat.
The silence she left behind was vast and ringing. Imoria let out a slow, shaky breath she hadn’t known she was holding. Her hands trembled.
“Well,” William said, clapping his hands together once. “That was bracing. I give her a day before she tries to have you poisoned.”
Imoria gave a weak laugh, the tension bleeding out of her shoulders. Markus finally turned to her, his hand coming up to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin. “Alright?”
She leaned into his touch, her black eyes meeting his. “I think,” she said, “I just started a war.”
“Good,” he murmured, pulling her close, his voice a vibration against her temple. “Let it burn. We’ll build something better from the ashes.”
Outside, the sun climbed higher, blazing across the courtyard where servants now scrambled not for a departing princess, but for a queen who had just claimed her home.