I drift there after Kaelis and I part ways — not intentionally, but my feet know the path better than I do. 

No guards follow. 

No one bothers to announce me. 

I don’t wear the kind of face they bow to here. 

In the corner, seated on a low stool with a wooden spoon in both hands like it’s a sword, is a boy of maybe seven. There is flour on his face, his boots are too big, and his sleeves are rolled twice over his elbows. Someone’s let him taste the stew — his mouth is smeared with something orange, and he’s clearly proud of it. 

When he sees me, he jumps up too fast and nearly drops the spoon. “Your—!” he begins, then falters. “Um. My lady.” 

I blink, caught off-guard. “Just Elira,” I say, crouching beside the hearth. 

He frowns like that’s a trick answer. “But you’re the princess.” 

“Only when it matters.” 

He considers that, then sits back down beside me like we’ve been having this conversation for years. 

“What’re you making?” I ask, nodding toward the bubbling pot. 

“Stew,” he says. “I helped cut the carrots.” 

“Dangerous work.” 

He grins, gap-toothed and earnest. “The knife was bigger than my hand.” 

“I know the feeling.” 

He stirs again, more confident now. “My mum says people are coming from far away. With carriages and silk.” “They are.” 

“Do they like carrots?” 

I smile. “I hope so. Or they’ll miss the best part.” 

The boy beams like I’ve handed him a crown. 

A woman in a flour-dusted apron calls his name from across the room — Bran. He gives me a quick wave and scrambles off, his spoon forgotten on the stone. 

I stay a minute longer, just listening to the rhythm of real life — the scrape of pans, the murmured laughter, the clatter of knives not meant for war. 

Here, I am only Elira. 

No crown. 

No weight. 

It’s a short breath of peace. 

And then it’s gone.

By the time I return to the upper halls, the silks have arrived. 

Three attendants wait for me outside my chambers, each one armed with a measuring cord, pins, and overly cheerful expectations. They bow in unison the moment they see me — too practiced, too deep. It sets my teeth on edge. 

“Your Highness,” says the eldest, a man with ink-stained fingers and a voice like honey left too long in the sun. “We have your selections for the envoy reception.” 

“Selections,” I echo flatly. 

“Of course. All made in the court tailor’s workshop to reflect our diplomatic priorities. Gold to match the Evasian trim. Crimson for continuity. Green for prosperity—” 

“And if I wear black?” I interrupt, stepping past them into my chamber. 

There’s a pause. 

I don’t look at them. 

I busy myself with removing my outer coat, my wrist aching as I tug at the sleeve. 

“Black,” the man says delicately, “would be a statement.” 

I toss the coat onto the bed. “Then perhaps it’s the only thing I get to choose.” 

Another silence. 

This one heavier. 

Still, they follow. 

That’s what attendants do — they adjust. 

One begins wrapping my bruised wrist without asking. His touch is careful, but the pressure still stings. 

“Training?” he asks softly. 

I glance at him. 

His expression is neutral. Respectful. 

“Better that than rotting behind a desk,” I murmur. 

They continue their work. Measuring. Folding. Pinning embroidery samples to my shoulder. I stand there like a mannequin in my own skin. 

Eventually, I’m left alone again — half-dressed, half-armored — draped in something soft and expensive I didn’t choose. The mirror across the room reflects a version of me I barely recognize. Gold thread glinting at the collar, the crest of Valenor stitched like fire across my chest. 

I look like a princess. 

I don’t feel like one.

The corridor outside the receiving hall is too quiet. Even the guards don’t speak. Just the shuffle of polished boots on stone and the occasional creak of a tapestry-laden wall catching the draft. 

I lean against one of the carved pillars, arms crossed over the gold-threaded burgundy dress they forced me into. I don’t know if I look like royalty or a dressed-up lie. 

I hear him before I see him — Kaelis’s boots, steady and unhurried. 

He rounds the corner and stops when he sees me. His eyes flick briefly over the embroidery on my shoulders, then down to the bandage wrapped tight around my wrist. 

“You clean up,” he says, “uncomfortably well.” 

I huff a breath through my nose. “They told me it was diplomacy. I think it’s camouflage.” 

Kaelis steps beside me, close enough that our arms could brush if I relaxed into the space. I don’t. Neither does he. “They’ll want him to see you before he sees the court,” he says. “So he knows who he’s marrying.” 

“Mmm. I hope he enjoys disappointment.” 

Kaelis doesn’t smile. He doesn’t tease. Instead, he speaks low, voice even. “You can still walk away.” 

I look at him. 

And there it is—disappointment, but no judgment. 

No pressure. 

Just that steady presence of his. 

Like a door that’s never been open, but somehow you know it wouldn’t close if you tried to enter. 

“I’m not ready to burn it down yet,” I say quietly. “But I think I’m getting close.” 

Kaelis nods. “You’ll know when it’s time.” 

We stand in silence a moment longer, both of us staring at the double doors ahead — carved lions and ivy curling around the edges, waiting to part. 

Then a steward appears. “He’s arrived.” 

Kaelis steps back without a word. 

And I walk forward.