"I finally meet you."
King Valquiterre of Oberon was remarkably tall. Though Irena was not a short woman, she had to raise her head to meet his eyes.
His face resembled the late Queen Sylvia's portraits. Despite his feminine beauty—fair complexion, blue eyes, delicate mouth, and the royal family's signature lemon-blonde hair—he possessed unmistakable strength.
Though Irena had never seen the actual Queen, the Duchess of Vermont's strict education had included viewing portraits of Oberon's leading figures. She'd become familiar with Queen Sylvia's face through these images, and now understood the common claim that Valquiterre was the Queen reborn.
*They definitely look alike.*
There was also something vaguely familiar in his appearance—a distant similarity to Kaian, perhaps because they shared a royal aunt as their mother. Both were tall with intimidating, thoroughly trained physiques.
Yet Valquiterre was entirely different from her brother-in-law. Where Kaian had greeted her with furrowed brows—as though she were an invader from an enemy family—Valquiterre radiated warmth. His smile was genuinely welcoming, making him seem almost angelic.
Irena executed a graceful curtsy. "Greetings to His Majesty. I am Irena of Vermont."
"Your journey from the north was long. Thank you for coming."
"It was an honor to accept your invitation," she replied politely.
A man of Valquiterre's status treating a woman of Irena's rank with such respect carried significant meaning. It suggested genuine interest beyond mere courtesy. Irena was momentarily taken aback, though she maintained her composure. His beauty was remarkable, and she found herself not displeased by his respectful attention.
The Duke of Vermont, recognizing the King's interest, gestured to his attendants. They presented a large ornate box.
"What is this?" Valquiterre asked.
"A gift befitting the King of Oberon," the Duke replied.
Inside was armor forged from platinum, embedded with diamonds throughout its seams. It gleamed like a work of art rather than practical military wear. The dazzling craftsmanship was extraordinary.
"This is remarkable," Valquiterre said, genuine admiration in his eyes. "I've never seen anything comparable."
Vermont's isolation from the capital was partly deliberate, protecting the territory's resource wealth. The Duke had brought the finest treasure from Valmonde's vaults—something that couldn't be purchased with money, regardless of price.
"We shall dine in the Hanging Gardens," Valquiterre announced.
Irena's eyes widened slightly. The Hanging Gardens were legendary—an exclusive artificial garden built atop the royal castle's highest point, known as the continent's peak. Only the King possessed keys to its entrance, traditionally given as gifts to Queens upon marriage.
The King personally escorted them. The Duke of Vermont barely concealed his delight, already envisioning the wedding ceremony. Irena followed, feeling both burden and anticipation.
---
In the Hanging Gardens, Irena understood why this location had been chosen.
Rare delicacies, a breathtaking night view of the capital, flowers that never slept—the experience transcended mere luxury. Night-blooming flowers surrounded them, attended by butterflies and nocturnal birds.
Wealth was more than jewelry. The Hanging Gardens possessed immeasurable value.
Irena, accustomed to never lacking anything, found herself awed. She understood why rumors of this place circulated among those privileged enough to visit with royal invitation.
Valquiterre's gentle demeanor persisted throughout the meal. The Duke and Irena maintained appropriate social discourse. He personally escorted them to their carriage at evening's end.
"I enjoyed today immensely," Valquiterre said warmly.
"Thank you for the invitation," Irena replied politely.
"I was pleased to finally meet the famous Princess in person."
The Duke intervened. "Will there be opportunity to see you again?"
"Perhaps," Valquiterre answered ambiguously.
The Duke's eyes widened. Though he considered himself clever—as Kaian often noted—Valquiterre was unusual even in his estimation. Both Kaian and this younger King exuded an authority that made even Vermont's Duke feel their pressure.
*The King leaves room for possibility,* the Duke thought. *For Irena's future, this couldn't be better. Perhaps additional meetings could be arranged...*
His excitement was palpable. Irena withdrew with mixed feelings—burden and anticipation intertwined.
Valquiterre watched silently as the carriage descended the hill and disappeared into the capital's darkness.
When he turned back inside, his expression transformed completely. The angelic smile—that radiant, divinely-favored countenance—vanished in an instant, replaced by cold calculation.
"She's not the one. She couldn't possibly be the woman I saw at the lake..."
---
## At Rowan Castle
The day before the territorial autumn festival, Claudel was consumed with preparation.
For the first time since arriving at Rowan, she practiced outside the castle as the southern sun set slowly. The festival required festive dress—enormous layered skirts so residents could see her clearly from afar.
*This is heavy. I can barely walk properly,* she thought, practicing the final dance in the town square.
Tomorrow's actual gown would have even more layers—an embarrassing prospect. Yet she practiced diligently, determined to avoid mistakes before the assembled crowds.
The rumors surrounding her were contradictory. Some called her a "withered flower," others claimed she was a beauty. Without having attended the post-wedding banquet—she'd been recovering from her illness—she'd never met most of the estate's residents.
The heavy skirt made dancing almost invisible. She joked to herself that she could simply bend and straighten her knees without anyone noticing. No one would distinguish real dancing from pretense.
*Could this heavy garment be designed to hide imperfect dancing?*
The thought was both hilarious and disheartening. Her dedicated practice seemed pointless.
A tall, thin middle-aged man approached, carrying a large basket of shiny red apples.
"My Lady. My first time greeting you," he said respectfully. "I'm Burbrook Kanden, orchard manager for the Rowan estate. I was delivering this year's first harvest when I heard you were practicing here."
"Thank you for coming to say hello," Claudel replied warmly.
"Would you like to try one?" he offered.
The fresh apples looked inviting. As Claudel selected one, Hannah immediately cleaned and halved it, presenting it with care.
Claudel bit into the crisp fruit. "It tastes wonderful."
"I'll ensure you receive the finest fruit from our orchards," Burbrook said earnestly.
She'd encountered few estate vassals during her recovery. Burbrook's polite attention touched her deeply. She gratefully consumed the apples he offered, unaware of the longing in his gaze beneath his hat.
"How progresses your dancing?" Kaian's voice interrupted.
Burbrook immediately bowed and stepped back, then quietly departed with his basket.
"Well," Claudel admitted honestly, "I've discovered no one can tell if I'm truly dancing or just moving within this massive skirt. I could bend and straighten my knees all evening without anyone knowing."
Kaian's eyebrows rose, then he laughed—a genuine laugh he rarely showed others.
Claudel watched his rare smile fade. "But you can't fool me."
He extended his hand to help her rise. Her cheeks flushed a beautiful pink as she accepted, acutely aware of his attention.
---