Navlin glares. “Understood, Your Highness.”
As Navlin summons yet another herald, Sei leans against Marek and touches his bare forearm. “I expected her to argue.”
“She wanted to,” Marek says. “She doesn’t care that I outrank her. But she knows I’m right.”
Scalestone shimmers beneath Sei’s feet. “There’s enough pageantry already.”
“Exactly. This is the first time Silaisan royalty has entered Draskora since the Sandries took power.” Marek pauses, then corrects himself. “The first time they’veopenlyentered Draskora, anyway. None of us have met with Julien since before the war. I want to see what he’s like now for myself.”
The rest of the rehearsal goes well. Sei studied Draskoran wedding traditions at the Porcelain Guild, so all he has to remember is the choreography within Raya Central’s great hall. As overseer of Raya Keep, Warlord Navlin will conduct the ceremony. Sei and Marek just have to follow directions.
It goes well—until Navlin reads one line in particular. “Sei Mallory, will you accept this claim and join House Dire, forever bearing the name Sei Marek Dire?”
Sei is supposed to reply,I’m honored and glad to be claimed.He doesn’t get a chance before Marek demands: “What the fuck?”
Marek’s voice echoes through the great hall. The sudden anger transports Sei back to the beginning of all this—the moment Sei learned he was to be claimed by Marek Dire.
The moment he learned Marek didn’t want him.
A muscle twitches beneath Navlin’s eye. “I’m reading the vows, Your Highness. That’s what they always say.”
“I know the vows,” Marek snaps. “What the fuck did you say his name was supposed to be?”
“Stop,” Sei says, so loudly that everyone in the hall freezes. Pushing down his nerves at the sudden attention, he continues. “Everyone leave the hall. The rehearsal will resume in half an hour.”
Servants and soldiers hesitate, uncertain whether to obey. Sei has no true authority—his only title is as Marek’s claim. Ignoring everyone else, Sei stares directly into Warlord Navlin’s eyes.
Navlin nods, then strides from the room. Her acceptance gives Sei’s demand the authority he needs. The other soldiers and servants file out too.
Sei doesn’t understand Marek’s sudden fury, any more than he understood Marek’s reaction to the betrothal. But Sei isn’t scared of Marek’s anger anymore.
He’s just determined to figure out the cause of it.
“Explain the problem to me.” Sei crosses his arms. “Without shouting.”
Marek leans against the marble altar. He’s quiet for a moment, a nexus of coiled energy. Then the storm calms. “As your claimant, I’m bringing you into House Dire and giving you our family name. That’s normal. Giving you my full name isn’t normal.”
“You have a problem with the name Sei Marek Dire.”
Marek nods, and Sei still doesn’t understand. There’s a cultural difference, yes. Sei isn’t surprised Marek hasn’t studied the nuances of Fellrian naming conventions. Nobody warned Marek before saddling him with a Fellrian claim.
But Marek’s vehemence sounds deeper than that.
“It’s normal in Fellrin,” Sei says. “Grails take their mage’s full name as their last name, so everyone knows who the grail belongs to. Whether they’re married or adopted or simply claimed without another obligation.” Sei leans against the altar at Marek’s right side. Not quite close enough to touch. “Why does that bother you so much?”
“Where were you born?” Marek asks, which is a partial answer.
“The guild is in the city of Takera,” Sei says. “But we don’t use our birthplaces as middle names in Fellrin.”
Marek isn’t angry anymore—just sad. “I’m not named after my birthplace either. The place is named after the people. My name is the last part of me that still belongs to Clan Helra.”
Sei leans closer. Marek is the one who erases the last tiny distance, pressing his arm against Sei’s.
“Do you miss your clan?” Sei asks, resting his head against Marek’s arm.
“Not usually.” Marek shrugs against him. “Right now? I’m marrying you tomorrow, and nobody from my clan will be there.”
“That’s not right. The king should have invited them.”
