Rather than the applause that had greeted Taegan, an icy whisper spread through the room. Ruven hesitated, then replied carefully,
“I apologize, you said your third son?”
“Yes, Zorvut is the third of seven, and an accomplished warrior. Do not let his stature fool you. We call him the Relentless, as he has never backed down from a fight,” Hrul continued, raising his own glass. His tone was still jovial, as if he had not noticed the sudden change in mood—or he was ignoring it. Now Ruven visibly paused, glancing at Taegan briefly before speaking.
“With all due respect, of course,” he started, speaking slowly as if testing each word before it left his lips. “I understand our customs differ, but it is customary for the eldest of two families to be matched, so each heir is on equal footing.”
Hrul laughed aloud, causing another chill to spread through the room. “Perhaps this is your custom, King Ruven. It is not ours. I can assure you, of all my children, Zorvut will adapt best to elven life. If you ask for my eldest, Zesh, well, I cannot promise he will be as well-behaved. He’s best off with me, where he won’t need to worry about his temper. My second is my daughter, and if I understand elves correctly, this son of yours would do just as well with another male. She would make a better peace offering to the other tribes.”
Time seemed to slow down as Taegan looked quickly between his father, who had already opened his mouth in protest, and Zorvut. The orc had averted his gaze, but looked visibly pained at the conversation. His smaller stature was less intimidating, his expressive face more relatable and understandable—his appearance did not strike fear into Taegan’s stomach the way the warlord had. The decision seemed obvious to him.
“I’m afraid I must insist—” Ruven started, but before he could continue, Taegan stood up quickly, startling him into silence.
“I accept your offer, Warlord Bonebreaker,” Taegan said, willing his voice not to tremble or break. He glanced back at his father, who was looking at him with a raised eyebrow but an otherwise unreadable expression. “Please, Father, I have no desire to create any further conflict. If the warlord deems this son his best offering, I trust his judgment and I will gladly accept.”
Slowly, King Ruven glanced away from his son and gave a single nod of acceptance.
“Ha!” the warlord exclaimed. “This one has a backbone to him. What an elf!” Taegan looked back over at the table of orcs—Hrul had a pleased, almost smug grin around his tusks, but Zorvut had a look of genuine surprise on his face. Their eyes met, and Taegan gave a terse nod of acknowledgment. After a moment, Zorvut returned the gesture with some hesitance, then looked away, his expression reminiscent of shyness. It may have just been the light, but from a distance, it looked like he might be blushing.
When Taegan sat back down, he realized the music and chatter had resumed around him. The king leaned closer to him and said quietly, “You deserve more than their runt, my son.”
“I would rather have him than a fight,” Taegan whispered. “And besides, he looks the least likely to rip me in half with his bare hands.”
King Ruven gave a single chuckle at that; Taegan knew he was not truly amused at his words, but he hoped his father understood.
“You sacrifice much,” Ruven finally sighed, lifting his own goblet of honey-wine to his lips. “I only hope it is not in vain.”
When the meal was done, Taegan went to his private quarters to prepare for the ceremony. His hand-servants bathed him in warm rosewater and lavender soap, brushing and smoothing his long, light brown hair before braiding a few sections that were then pinned to his ceremonial crown. His outfit had been laid out for him as well: a silky, high-collared tunic gilded with fanciful swirls embroidered in silver and dotted with jewels, white form-fitting breeches, his finest boots, and a long cape in the traditional silver and navy blue, dotted throughout with small gems like stars on a night sky.
As the cape was being laid over his shoulders and affixed in place, he heard the latch of his door open. Glancing back, he saw Kelvhan enter and close the door softly behind him—though he would normally be glad to see the other man, this time his appearance wracked Taegan with guilt.
“You shouldn’t have come,” Taegan said stiffly, turning away from Kelvhan to look straight ahead as his attendant pinned the cape in place, carefully averting his eyes from the unexpected visitor.
“You don’t need to do this,” Kelvhan said, stepping closer to Taegan. “Gods, I saw the brutes entering the castle—how can your father be doing this to you? Truly, Taegan, tomarryanorc—it’s absolute foolishness!”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” Taegan replied, frowning as he glanced back at him. “But it is my duty to our people to ensure this peace treaty remains in place.”
“It’s not too late. Please. Let’s just go,” Kelvhan insisted. “We can leave right now. I know a wizard in Autreth, I’m sure he would harbor us until...”
“Until what?!” Taegan snapped, finally succumbing to his anger as he whirled around. Aerik’s hands fell away from him and the cape with them. “Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I trained my whole life to lead the fight against the orcs just to be married off to one as soon as I come of age? Kelvhan, please—” At that, his voice broke, and he turned away. He sucked in a heavy breath to steady himself before continuing, “Kelvhan, we could not have been together in the long run regardless of the peace treaty. The time we had together was enjoyable, but it’s over now. I’m sorry. This is already difficult for me. Please, just go.”
He did not turn around, so for a long moment of silence he did not know how Kelvhan had reacted—but after what felt like an eternity, he finally heard more footsteps, and the door thudding shut again. Taegan breathed a sigh of relief.
“He left?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, my prince,” Aerik answered just as softly, glancing back at the door before bending down to grab the cape again. Taegan squeezed his eyes shut and took in a few deep breaths, trying to slow his pounding heart as Aerik re-affixed the cape around his shoulders.
It took a few moments, but when he opened his eyes again, the cape was pinned in place and Aerik was nearly done. With a final tug of the cord that kept it tied and a careful smoothing of the floor-length fabric, Taegan was fully dressed in the ceremonial garb.
Hardly realizing he’d been walking, he soon found himself standing in the courtyard leading into the temple tree where the ceremony was set to take place. His father had changed as well, wearing ceremonial robes similar to his own but more subdued, featuring more navy blue compared to his silver garb. The crown he wore was one of the more elaborate, formal pieces, much larger than the one Taegan had. King Ruven bowed his head in greeting and managed a small smile, though Taegan could tell it was strained.
“My son,” he said. He hesitated as if he wanted to say more, but instead simply placed a hand on Taegan’s shoulder, squeezing it firmly. Taegan did his best to smile back, though he could feel it waver.
Taegan glanced beyond the willow tree that acted as something of a curtain between the paved courtyard where they stood and the soft dirt and grass of the outdoor temple. He could see a few figures had gathered at the giant tree where the visages of the gods were carved, which served as the centerpiece of their temple; he could make out a handful of elven nobility, and the much larger orcish figures that were waiting for his arrival.
“Ready?” his father asked, noticing him glancing beyond the courtyard. Taegan took in a long, slow breath, then nodded.
Together, they walked into the temple. His father’s court bard was playing a soft tune on the harp, and the high priest stood before the giant tree, also dressed in ceremonial robes. The branches of the tree temple partially obscured the late afternoon sun, its dappled light coming through in small patches in the shaded grove. Whatever quiet chatter had been happening trailed off as Taegan and the king approached. Each of the elves lowered their heads in a slight bow upon their arrival, including the priest, who then beckoned them up to where he stood, where Zorvut was waiting as well.
