and the annulment of their permit,” Arvel said. “And…”
Myth looked expectantly up at him. “Yes?”
“If Sir Arion, Ben, and I can find enough evidence, we’ll drag them back into court again for the fires, and Father will wallop them all over again!”
“I hope you find the evidence—I still can’t believe Lord Julyan sought to ruin a symbol of our countries’ union that has stood for centuries.”
“It shows how twisted the Fultons are, I’m afraid.” Arvel sighed, and his hands slipped from Myth’s upper back to her waist.
The sensation made Myth blink, and she realized she and Arvel hadn’t stopped hugging. Rather, they’d been grinning at each other and still loosely embracing.
Oh my. I haven’t read a rule that says it’s improper to embrace the crown prince for so long, but I’m almost certain it must be some variation of a faux pas. How do I extract myself from this? Never mind why Arvel hasn’t corrected me. He’d go around breaking every social rule dictated by his title if he could.
“Are you satisfied with their punishment?” Arvel asked.
“Hm?” Myth refocused on the prince.
“Do you think Father was hard enough in their punishment?”
Myth thought for a moment. “For the crime they’re currently accused of, yes. I imagine when you do find evidence of arson and bring them forward again, their punishment will be even more harsh. But I believe even this sentence alone will accomplish what you wanted, and that is to break their power beyond mending.”
Recalling the house stuffed with elven goods—and that some of them, like the High Elf sword, were most likely illegal—Myth saw the simple elegance of King Petyrr’s decision. “I don’t know the Fultons will be able to survive without access to elven goods given that they seemed to make the majority of their fortune from it. And barring them from luxury goods—even only temporarily—will make it that much more difficult for them,” she said. “Given several years, I suspect they will self-destruct from lack of funds.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought, too.” Satisfied with her answer, Arvel pulled her closer.
Myth felt her cheeks heat and tried to lean back a little, but it was near impossible given the embrace.
No—no. This isn’t the Prince of Seduction. I’m not going to get flustered.
“Thank you for everything you’ve done, Myth. I couldn’t have done it without you—we wouldn’t have had this hearing if not for you.” Arvel’s voice didn’t drop—a sure sign of Him—but he was quieter than usual as he lowered his head to murmur in her ear.
“You were the one who found all the connections,” Myth said. “I just copied your findings.”
Arvel chuckled. “And then found them again with your fellow translators. You underestimate yourself, you know.”
“I could say the same of you.”
Arvel was so close, she felt his warm breath fan across her temples. “Isn’t it a lucky thing, then, that we have each other?”
Myth swallowed, and found all she could do was stare up at Arvel like a bedazzled woodland creature.
He drew closer and closer, and his breath was on her lips. Just a hair closer and they would—
The parlor door was thrown open without ceremony. “Arvel—well done!”
Myth ripped herself out of Arvel’s hug, her cheeks burning.
“Sorry, did I interrupt something?” Princess Gwendafyn smirked a little as she strolled deeper into the room. Today she was dressed for battle, wearing a leather doublet, fitted breeches, leather bracers, and a lightweight breastplate.
Behind her lurked a Calnorian man. He was a little grizzled looking—or perhaps wild was a better word—and wore a tunic with Gwendafyn and Benjimir’s emblem emblazoned on it.
Arvel groaned and let his shoulders slump. “Fyn, are you and Ben coordinating your attacks? Because—oof!”
Myth almost ran Arvel over as she greeted Princess Gwendafyn. “My Princess Gwendafyn,” she chirped, magnifying the genuine happiness that came with seeing her personal hero by about ten in hopes of covering up the awkward interlude. “It is a pleasure to see you again!”
Princess Gwendafyn had been looking thoughtfully from Arvel to Myth and raised her eyebrows. “Is it?”
“No!” Arvel sourly called.
“Yes,” Myth firmly said. “It is always a pleasure to see you.”
Princess Gwendafyn smirked, resembling her husband with the expression. “I’m not sure I believe you, Myth. Ahh, but I am here to congratulate you regardless. Both of you, that is.” She bowed first to Arvel and then to Myth. “You have my eternal thanks.”
“My Princess.” Myth bowed, just on principle—because someone she esteemed as much as Princess Gwendafyn should never lower herself to Myth in this way. “I only followed