Fated Eclipse: The Illegitimate Princess And Her Alpha Suitors

Chapter 196: Two Streets, One Kingdom

The broadcast had ended.

The scrying veil had gone dark above Mercer’s Row, fading from the bright, detailed image of the hall to nothing, and for a moment the street had simply stared at the space where it had been.

Then everyone started talking at once.

”Why ain’t the Duke of Blackmere in the top three?”

”His poem weren’t that good...”

”What d’you mean it weren’t that good? Did you hear it?”

”I heard it fine...”

”Then how can you stand there and say...”

”I’m just sayin’ what I think...”

”Well, what you think is wrong.”

Jacob had his arms folded and his jaw set.

”It don’t make sense,” he said. ”That’s all I’m sayin’. It don’t make sense.”

”Course it don’t make sense,” the grey-haired woman said. She hadn’t moved from her bench. ”But since when does anything they do up there make sense?”

”The Baron’s poem was good,” a man near the back said. ”I ain’t takin’ that away from him.”

”Nobody’s takin’ it away...”

”I’m just sayin’ the Duke’s was better.”

”His poem was different,” another said. ”It weren’t just about people or buildings. It asked you somethin’. Made you think.”

”Aye, made me think alright. Made me think about why he ain’t in the top three.”

That got a few sounds of agreement.

A younger man near the edge shook his head.

”His poem weren’t as strong,” he said. ”The Baron’s was more...”

”More what?” Jacob turned on him immediately.

The younger man opened his mouth.

”More what?” Jacob repeated. ”Go on. Finish it.”

”I just think...”

”His poem asked you what your home was,” Jacob said. ”Right at the end. Asked you directly. Nobody else did that. Nobody. They all told you what home was. He asked you.”

”That don’t automatically make it the best...”

”Then what does? Tell me. What does?”

The argument split then, voices rising across one another, people turning to their neighbours, gesturing at the space where the veil had been, some standing from their benches entirely.

”The Duke wrote about everything. People. Objects. Places. Buildings. He didn’t leave anything out...”

”Baron Redwick wrote about sound. That were different...”

”Both of them were different...”

”Then why is one in the top three and not the other?”

Nobody had a clean answer to that.

Olly had been sitting quietly through most of it, watching.

He waited until the loudest of the voices had said their piece and the argument had settled into the slightly breathless pause that followed when everyone had spoken and no one had won.

Then he said, ”The royal family decided.”

Everyone looked at him then.

”That’s why,” he said simply. ”Weren’t about the poems. Were about who they wanted.”

The street went a little quieter.

”And they didn’t want him,” Olly continued. ”Don’t matter what he wrote. Don’t matter if it were the best thing anyone wrote today. They’d already decided before the competition started, I think.”

Helen, who had been standing near the entrance of the Tallow and Tide, said nothing.

But she nodded once.

The grey-haired woman exhaled.

”That ain’t right,” she said.

”No,” Olly agreed. ”It ain’t.”

Brianna had been following the argument with wide eyes, her head turning between speakers like she was watching something move very fast.

Helen looked at her.

”Inside,” she said.

Brianna blinked. ”But I want to—”

”Inside, Brianna.”

The argument was getting too heated for a child, and Helen had decided that some time ago. Brianna looked at Olly, who gave her a small apologetic shrug, and then she went inside without further protest, though she cast one last longing look at the group before the door closed behind her.

The argument resumed almost immediately.

”You can’t just say the royal family rigged it...”

”Nobody said rigged...”

”That’s what you’re implying....”

”I’m implying they chose who they wanted and the poems had very little to do with it,” Olly said. ”That ain’t the same as rigging.”

”It’s close enough.”

”Aye, it is,” Jacob said. ”And even if you don’t want to call it that, you can’t look me in the eye and tell me his poem weren’t among the best. You can’t.”

The younger man who had argued earlier was quiet now.

After a moment he said, ”Alright. It were good.”

”Good?” Jacob raised his eyebrows.

”Very good,” the man amended.

”Thank you,” Jacob said.

”Still don’t mean...”

”He should’ve been in the top three,” Jacob said. ”That’s it. That’s where I stand. Anyone who heard that poem and says otherwise is lying to themselves.”

A ripple of agreement moved through what remained of the crowd.

Even the ones who had argued against it had gone quiet.

Because at the end of it, when every argument had been made and every counter had been offered, the conclusion that kept returning was the same one.

His poem had been the best.

And he wasn’t in the top three.

---

Far from Mercer’s Row, in a territory that sat beneath a wide and generous sky, the streets were lined with green.

It crept up the sides of buildings and wound along the low stone walls that bordered the roads. The air here was different, heavier with the smell of rain and earth, cooler at the edges.

Most of the people in the streets held books.

Not all of them. But enough that it was noticeable—tucked under arms, held loosely at the side, occasionally open in someone’s hand even as they watched the scrying veil above the main square with their necks tilted back and their eyes bright.

The veil had gone dark moments ago.

And they had erupted.

”He did it!”

”Our lord did it, first place, did ye hear? First place!”

”I heard it, I heard it...”

”Lord Redwick! First!”

A woman near the centre of the square pressed both hands to her mouth, her eyes bright and wet above them. She was not the only one. Several people around her had the same look on their faces.

”He wrote about us,” a man said quietly, but the people nearest him heard it and went still.

”Did ye hear what he wrote?” the man continued. ”The sound of home. The voices. The children. The rebuilding.”

He shook his head slowly.

”He wrote about us.”

The woman with her hands over her mouth made a sound that was not quite a word.

An older man beside her put a hand briefly on her shoulder.

”Aye,” he said gruffly. ”He did.”

A group of younger men near the edge of the square were considerably louder about it.

”First place! Our lord took first place!”

”Told ye! Told all of ye!”

”You told us nothing, you were nervous as anything...”

”I were not nervous...”

”Ye were pale as milk...”

”That’s just my complexion...”

Laughter burst through the group, warm and easy.

A woman with a book tucked under her arm turned to the man beside her.

”The poem was genuinely extraordinary,” she said. ”The air comparison alone... I don’t think anyone in that hall fully appreciated what he did with it.”

The man beside her nodded, adjusting his own book under his arm.

”The rebuilding stanzas,” he said. ”That’s what got me. He didn’t romanticise it. He acknowledged what was lost and then wrote about what continued despite it.”

”That’s Stoneford,” the woman said simply.

”Aye,” he agreed. ”That’s exactly what it is. Our home.”