He had gotten his wish. He would never part from her again. She was bound to stay at his side and protect him; he would take every chance to bask in the warmth and comfort she offered—something he could not, would not, let go.
He had tasted that warmth while he incubated in her shell, a heat he had longed for and finally found in her. He had been passed down through generations, cradled by others, but none had satisfied him like she did. None had brought him peace or companionship the way she did. So he chose not to lose it. Her warmth and company were his safe haven.
Aliadam had known Vesper from the day she put him into her shell. The closeness between them made it impossible for him to simply let her live a life that did not include him. To solve the problem, he made her his Hand.
The Hand of the King protected the sovereign, spoke for him, upheld the law—his shadow, his voice, his spare brain. Of all the spirits who might have been Hand, Vesper was the least likely candidate. In truth, she had not even been considered—yet he did not care. Keeping her mattered most; whether she was fit for the job was secondary to the fact that she would be by his side.
By any measured standard, succeeding Drucius, she was beneath expectation. She lacked legal knowledge, she barely knew how to comport herself as nobility, and her outlook on life was simple: eat, sleep, and be happy. She was a skilled archer—lessons from her father—and a mediocre fighter, hardened only by street brawls and scrapes. Those experiences had toughened her, and though she had no formal training, she fared well on average. She could defeat an ordinary human or a weak spirit, but her strength was nothing against a trained human warrior or an average spirit. In practice, Aliadam would be the one protecting her, not the other way around as it should. He did not mind. After Drucius, he did not think he needed a Hand in the usual sense—Vesper's appointment ensured she stayed with him.
His power was veto; no one dared contest Vesper's worthiness for the title, nor show her disrespect. They remained endlessly grateful to her for her part in the king's rebirth and agreed there was no one more suitable.
Spirits prized communal hearts and togetherness. Betrayal, envy, hate, or anger were rare among them, and that unity was their greatest strength.
"All set, Your Grace," a maid called, drawing him back from his thoughts; her voice was soft as cinnamon. The three attendants stepped back, bowed, and waited for his response.
They had just finished brushing his long golden hair and applying scented oils, preparing him for council meeting. There was nothing pressing on the docket—only reports on the restoration of the land's glory.
He breathed, rose, and made for the door. As his boots thundered down the hall, he thought of Vesper. Today was going to be her first attendance at council meetings. In addition, she was not just any official today; she was the Lady Hand.
He knew she had no experience in formal settings. He would watch over her and end the session if she grew uncomfortable. It would take time for her to adjust, and time they had. She was of the tortoise clan, with a lifespan of over five hundred years and he was ageless.
He reached the chamber quickly. At the sight of her, he felt breathless. She looked ethereal—poised, composed—more queenly than mere Hand. When the herald announced him, he banished his private thoughts and advanced with controlled majesty to his seat. He took a slow breath, steadying himself. Then he turned to where she sat at his left and received the sweetest, most radiant smile.
He was losing himself. What was happening?
Even breathing became difficult, but he forced himself to remain calm.
The session began. As one speaker after another addressed the kingdom, he settled into the cadence of council business—until she spoke. Whenever she talked, his controlled breathing failed him. She spoke with grace; her voice was clear, her points resonant. Many wondered whether she had been born to this life—her ease in the council made it seem so.
Aliadam spoke little. He was still trying to control his reactions, so whenever his view or ruling was needed he deferred to her. She performed better than he expected, proving herself worthy of the Hand's title. At least in council meetings, she could manage. Relief washed through him: he could skip sessions and trust that she had things under control. He found himself wondering how she had become so apt—was she possessed by someone else? He resolved to ask her later.
The council adjourned without much fanfare. As the members filed away, Vesper followed him to his chambers. He had asked her to accompany him, so her lingering close felt almost expected—until she stopped him with words.
"Your Grace," she said, bowing deeply. "I would like to ask a favor."
Aliadam froze. He was excited and, for a fleeting moment, stunned. She rarely asked for anything. He had wanted desperately to give her something special, to overwhelm her with gifts—but she had never asked. Now she did.
"And what might that be?" His tone was measured, though his heart thrummed with anticipation.
"I want General Oran de Lewellyn to train me in martial arts." Her eyes searched his face.
"Oran?" He frowned; worry tightened his voice. "He already leads the army. Do you think he would agree?"
"I have already spoken to him," she answered, lowering her face to hide a blush. "He said it would be no problem. He's…nice, Your Grace."
"He's nice?" She nodded. The admission tightened his chest.
"Your Grace, this would help me perform my duties as your Hand. General Oran De Lewellyn is of the Azure Lion clan is powerful and skilled. He would be the best teacher. Saskia is teaching me court conduct, and Ma Ladea is instilling the law in me. I need martial training so I can protect you better. Please grant me this favor." She bowed again, earnest.
Aliadam saw through her—saw the genuineness of her intent. She wanted to serve him properly. He had known her human best friend was of noble birth and had been taught some courtly ways, but he had not expected her teaching Vesper so well and how quickly she adapted. Ma Ladea's lessons had clearly aided her; she spoke as if well acquainted with law. Perhaps training with Oran was sensible after all. Besides, he needed distance sometimes—space to control how his body betrayed him around her. This might be the perfect solution.
"Granted," he said, exhaling.
"Thank you so much, Your Grace." She smiled like the sun.
"When do you wish to begin?" he asked.
"Immediately!" she cried and bolted from his chambers before he could say another word.
He stood there for a few seconds, trying to shake an intrusive thought: Why did she seem so eager to see Oran? Could she—No. It couldn't be. Arghh! what was wrong with him?!