Breakfast Gambit

Dawn crept through the arched windows of Feron's palace, painting the stone corridors in hues of frost and gold. Valencia awoke to the clatter of armored footsteps outside her door—guards, no doubt stationed by Xyrus to monitor her. As if iron and steel could cage a hurricane, she thought, flinging off the silk sheets. She dressed deliberately in a crimson gown, its neckline daring and sleeves slit to the elbow, a silent rebellion against Feron's austere fashion. The sapphires of her crown were replaced with rubies, smuggled in her luggage from Pherr. Let the court gossip.

Xyrus was already in the sunlit breakfast hall when she arrived, his posture rigid as he scanned documents over a plate of untouched smoked fish. Valencia noted the shadows beneath his eyes—sleepless night, then? Good. She swept into the room, her laughter echoing off the vaulted ceilings as she greeted the servants by name, memorized from hushed introductions the night before.

"Sleep well, husband?" she asked, sliding into the seat beside him. The word dripped with mockery.

He didn't look up. "Well enough. You'll find Feron's walls thicker than Pherr's."

"Oh, I'm sure. They'd need to be, to contain all this joy." She plucked a grape from his plate, her fingers brushing his. He stiffened.

A servant approached, bowing. "Your Highnesses, the Council of Lords requests your presence. The Harvest Accord with Pherr… there's disagreement over the grain tariffs."

Valencia's smirk faded. The Accord was her kingdom's lifeline, renegotiated every five years. Xyrus set down his papers, his gaze slicing to her. "Your father's delegates insist on a 20% increase. Ours find it… excessive."

"Excessive?" She leaned forward. "While Feron hoards its silver mines?"

"Pherr's droughts aren't our doing."

"No, but your tariffs could starve villages to fill your coffers."

The air crackled. Xyrus's knuckles whitened on the table. "We'll settle this in council."

"We'll settle nothing if you're intent on playing tyrant."

He stood abruptly, chair screeching. "You speak of tyranny while wearing a kingdom's ransom in jewels?"

Valencia rose to meet him, close enough to see the flecks of storm-blue in his gray eyes. "At least my people see their wealth worn, not locked in vaults to rot."

The servant coughed. "The Council…?"

"Tell them we're coming," Xyrus bit out, never breaking eye contact.

The council chamber was a cavern of marble and murmured alliances. Valencia claimed a seat at the head of the table, ignoring the scowls of Feron's lords. Xyrus stood at the opposite end, a general reporting troop movements along the southern border—a region Pherr had long contested.

"Bandits?" Valencia interrupted, feigning boredom. "Or rebels tired of Feron's grip?"

Xyrus's jaw twitched. "The distinction matters little. They'll be dealt with."

"How vigorous of you."

A lord with a serpentine pin sneered. "Perhaps Princess Valencia would prefer we send flowers to traitors?"

The room rippled with laughter. Valencia smiled sweetly. "Flowers? No. But a crown that listens might avoid daggers in the dark." She paused, relishing the silence. "Then again, Feron's rulers have always favored force over wit. A shame it leaves so many heirs… short-lived."

The allusion to Feron's bloody succession wars hung in the air. Xyrus's voice cut like a blade. "Enough. We'll adjourn until tempers cool."

As the lords filed out, he cornered her in an alcove. "Undermine me again, and I'll have you barred from council."

She tilted her head. "Or what? You'll lock me in a tower? Try."

His hand braced against the wall above her shoulder, caging her in. "You think this is a game?"

"Everything's a game. You're just losing."

For a heartbeat, his mask slipped—frustration, yes, but something hotter, fiercer. Then he pushed off, straightening his tunic. "The Harvest Accord. You want leverage? Earn it. Convince me your counsel is worth more than chaos."

She blinked. Earn it? Since when did princes bargain with pests?

"And how would I do that?"

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Surprise me."

He left her there, the challenge hanging like a gauntlet. Valencia scowled at his retreating back. Oh, I'll surprise you, Prince Silver-Plated Pain. But not the way you expect.

That night, Valencia didn't barricade her door. Instead, she pilfered a bottle of Feron's finest wine and slipped into the study where Xyrus worked, the firelight gilding his frown.

"Truce?" she offered, waving the bottle.

He eyed her. "Poisoned?"

"Only if you're boring enough to deserve it."

A beat. Then he gestured to a chair.

They drank in silence, the wine bitter on her tongue. Finally, he spoke. "Why rubies today?"

She swirled her glass. "Red's the color of war. And weddings, apparently."

"It suits you," he said, so quietly she almost didn't hear.

When she glanced up, he was staring into the flames, his face unreadable.

Damn him.

The game had just gotten interesting.