Megan Derr

Son sang se réchauffa et bouillonna sous l’effet de la cigarette, calmant ses nerfs tendus et mettant agréablement le monde à une distance trouble, étouffée, comme somnoler dans un hamac un jour de grande chaleur, sans personne à des kilomètres

Despite all the languages he knew, Allen could not find words adequate to describe how he felt. If tears had not been beaten out of him at a young age he would have been a sobbing mess. Years of preparation for nothing. Sent to Harken to become the second most powerful man in the empire and he'd been thrown out of court like a child. If not for Commander Lesto, he suspected he would already be on his way home.

How in the Pantheon was he going to explain his abysmal failure to his mother? Explaining it to the rest of his family would be bad enough. His brother Larren would be disappointed, his brothers Chass and Manda would be sneering know-it-alls who claimed not to be surprised. His father would be crushed, and his dame heartbroken for him. His mother was by far the worst, though. All he could see was her disappointment, the way she would lift her chin higher, fold her hands, and be every stitch the stately queen because it had been she who taught him to hide his emotions, and she would not falter even in the face of such a devastating blow.

High King he might be, but that didn't mean much behind closed doors. Despite his best efforts, and with years of history and love behind him, he hadn't been good enough reason for Nyle to stay. Why would he be enough for a young, beautiful prince who had the whole of Harkenesten Palace to choose from? A prince nine years his junior, new to the court, and primed to finally enjoy the life he'd already spent so many years training for? Who'd just survived a terrible ordeal that Sarrica's behavior had driven him toward, and was probably more eager than ever for the chance to enjoy the High Court and all it offered.

Why would a man like that settle for an aging, mercurial man with two children and a dead husband already to his name?

The term silver tongue came from the early days when the empire was little more than a bunch of scattered, bickering kingdoms and Harken only just beginning to grow in power, and silver was slowly becoming the monetary standard across the continent. Finding people who could speak two languages was an easy feat, but those who could speak three or more were rare—and it was even more difficult to find one who could be trusted to translate honestly. An honest linguist was worth their weight in silver, and in demand enough they could earn a sizeable fortune for their work. The term 'silver tongue' had stuck.

He would never forget the way Nyle had burned right through him on first sighting, that low, hot feeling that had only grown stronger, fiercer, the more time they spent together. He had never wanted anyone but Nyle. He'd only been twenty-one and Nyle just eighteen, but Sarrica had not been able to tear his eyes away. They'd married just two years later, and despite the doubts of the courts that it was youthful folly, all the disagreements and challenges, the marriage had held strong.

How was he supposed to go from a marriage like that to something that felt like a cold and empty imitation?

"Sarrica is a fool. He should already have you wedded and bedded."

"His loss," Allen replied and drank the last of his wine, bending over to set it on the floor—and nearly toppling, breath seizing, head spinning, and found himself staring at the ceiling, Rene hovering at his periphery, too close and too tempting. He turned and met Rene's gaze, sighing softly to see his own frustration and despair reflected.

Who moved first, he could never recall.

Pendant ce temps, il était facile de prétendre que son monde était tout ce qu’il voulait et non un bazar croissant qu’il ne savait comment ranger sans tout gâcher.

He was Prince Allen Telmis of Gaulden and High Consort Presumptive. He would not fall apart now. He was going to figure out how to survive this, and when he got home he would shove this entire wretched affair in Sarrica's face and order the stubborn ass to marry him.

Though by the time Cartha and Benta were done with him, there might not be enough of him left to be worth marrying.

Two years of correspondence and training, two fucking years of preparation, and instead of arriving to finalize matters, Allen was a complete stranger to the man he was meant to be marrying. No one had told Sarrica that he had been tentatively bound to a diplomat rather than a soldier. Or warned Allen that they'd left the High King clueless.

Let me put it this way: two days ago your fiancé left the palace; yesterday Rene informed me he had found a silver tongue fluent in Bentan; they left this morning at dawn; Prince Allen is nowhere to be found.